After too many posts with titles longer than the post itself, I’ve decided to keep this one simple. The inspiration? Brasserie BC Central. I should be home enjoying a Lean Cuisine Turkey Tenderloin dinner, but nothing screams Canadian Thanksgiving more than Moules & Frites in a French Brasserie in the heart of Miami.
I’ve picked the right place because even though there are likely no Canadians here, there are people next to me speaking French. One of the men has slicked back hair, a petite moustache and a blazer. No one is fat. They may even be mainlining butter. If I listen carefully they’re singing a jaunty French tune.
I order the mussels and they’re amazing. Not too big, not too small and served with a broth that’s to die for. Winey, salty and delicious. They’ve likely used shallots. Warm French bread appears in a little brown bag with a glass of Chablis. Even though I’ve ordered the appetizer portion, there is more than enough to fill me (especially when you eat a bag of bread slathered in butter, dredged in broth).
Dining solo is empowering. I become a Russian spy, a nuclear physicist, a journalist. I take pictures and pound on my keyboard— jot down the weekly specials and smile, assure concerned servers I’m fine—really. Uncomfortable with my contentment, they hover, suspect I’m a food critic sent to ruin their reputation, toy with their livelihoods.
But I am merely a hungry Canadian hell bent on enjoying a Saturday Thanksgiving eve in Miami. Brasserie BC doesn’t disappoint.