When I think back to meals eaten in the muggy, mysterious state of Florida, a few crystalline memories come to mind, most of them bubbling up from from the distant past: a Burger King Kids Meal with a vanilla milkshake, enjoyed with relish in the back of a rental car during a torrential downpour; a similarly arrayed, differently proportioned burger at Cosmic Ray’s Cafe in TomorrowLand, where I sat puzzled by the retro-chic conglomeration of past with future; another Burger King meal, eaten 20 years later, this one delayed by a comical series of highway misadventures, most notably my reflux-stricken father forgetting to take his pre-meal acid blockers, forcing us to drive 40 miles down 95 in search of a second Burger King, apparently the only highway restaurant capable of catering to his affliction. I’ve also had Einstein Bagels, Florida Oranges, alligator nuggets, and those little Key Lime Chocolate Coconut bars (actually pretty good, I must say). For some reason, however, I immediately associate this state with sub-par burgers, which I think is less related to an actual dearth of food options and more about how easy it is to eat badly while on the road, especially when traveling with those who prefer the safe option rather over the untested one. The above visits all occurred in the pre-enlightenment days of my youth, when food was mean sustenance rather than a singular obsession and joy. Now, any occasion to travel serves as an excuse to dig into local specialties, and thus improve my composite picture of what Floridian fare is actually like, which I did on a recent trip to Fort Myers Beach. This once-quiet area, whose occupation by beach bums and novelty t-shirt clad daytrippers is recent enough that locals still grumble about the crowds, is pretty far from the historical center of “Old Florida,” both chronologically and in terms of distance. Sitting on the Gulf of Mexico, it's a coast away from the Southeastern section of the peninsula, where early emigrants adjacent Bahamian islands imported a distinctly Caribbean sense of dealing with seafood. Still, this nearby area makes use of the same native species, and I was able to dig a bit into history with a platter of Cracked Conch at Key Lime Conch Shack. Cracked Conch doesn’t get the same avid attention down here as fried clams do up north (my local relatives had never eaten it in this form, familiar only with the vinegary preparation favored by our Italian forefathers) but it proves a worthy competitor in terms of flavor, breading, and subtle chew. The version served here was a nice introduction to the overgrown sea snail, which I’ve tasted in various forms but never had fried. It managed to outshine a pretty nice skewer of grilled shrimp, even if my basket was a bit short on actual conch, littered with fry tags and pebbles, which I ate with the desperate, pathetic gusto of a child fishing sweet cereal fragments from the bottom of the bag. While we’re on the subject of shortcomings, it’s also worth noting that I only learned recently, after 30 benighted years (but before placing this lunch order, thankfully) that it’s pronounced “Conk,” not “Con-ch”. I’d gotten my first hints at the pleasures of Old Florida in Helen Muir’s fascinating, sadly out-of-print history of Miami, after being initially turned on to the Bahama/Florida connection via this Lucky Peach article, which also makes mention of the book. While my food obsession hasn’t always been as intense as it is now, I have always been fascinated by outmoded methods of eating, ever since a regional report on the Carolina Low Country in 7th grade, the delayed delivery of which caused a pecan pie (beautifully baked by my long-suffering mother) to fester in my locker for four days, before being tossed in the classroom garbage bin uneaten. Besides conch, Muir also digs into the history of Coontie, a staple starch of the Indians who gave the city its name. The state’s rich history also contains items as lavish as turtle steaks, and the rich, globular eggs of those same sea turtles, remnants of the times before the intrusion of railroads opened the state up to hungry outsiders like myself. Those times are sadly gone forever, and while I don’t expect to eat sea turtle anytime soon, I’ve still gained some respect for Florida as something more than a festering, burger-filled party pit. I’m especially excited to return this January, when I plan to conduct an extensive eating tour of Miami, the Everglades, and the Keys.
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