With the meteoric success of teen vampire, many writers are trying to get ahead of the next big literary monster trend. One of those writers is first-time sci-fi novelist Lynn Millet, who recently debuted with Interview with the Robot after a visit to Mr. Yiing:
My batteries were running low.
As a Duplicant Location Specialist, I conduct seven to eight interviews on an easy day, so when I’m not talking to known associates of outlaw man-machines, I’m sleeping. So this afternoon when I finally peeled myself out of bed, I plugged my recorder into my body's bio-recharger jack purely out of habit. Then I hopped on my hoverbike and thought of Mr. Yiing's lo mein, the one that slathers shrimp, beef, chicken, and pork with oyster and soy sauces. After pedaling through this brutal summer heat, I'd need extra energy. Also, hoverbikes are a pain to pedal. What was wrong with regular bicycles?
About 50 feet from Mr. Yiing's door, I crashed.
Typically I launch over anything that dares cross into the hoverbike lane. But when I hit the Duplicant? It was like crumpling into a brick wall. His titanium exoskeleton knocked the wind out of me, and it bent the spokes of my front rotor into a twisted heap. When I got up, I fumbled for my hoverpistol, but it was still at home, hovering over my bedside hovertable. His hand covered my mouth. It smelled like a musty library. He was a discontinued model from '24, those ones they still made from cellulose. He looked old, but his blue eyes popped with the youth and vigor of irises fresh from the Genetic Corps catalog. That had to be the reason he was here and not in the internment camps on Mars. He dragged me along the sidewalk, past the row of hoverhotels on Collins Avenue and through the front door of Mr. Yiing.
“Coffee?” he said.
“I'm awake,” I said. I stared him down, taking in his face, trying to jog any memory of his file.
"Are you?" he asked, leading me to a cozy little table tucked under some Chinese characters on the walls, where I tried switching on my recording device through my pants. He laughed a rich, stereophonic laugh.
“Please … Julie,” he said. “Queue it up. I want you to get this all down.”
I took out the recorder and then took a bite of the honey-garlic chicken a server had suddenly brought me. “Why haven’t you killed me?”
He kept laughing. “Why would I kill you?”
“Because you’re a Duplicant. You’re an outlaw. A cold, synthetic-blooded killer.”
“And so are you.”
I froze and felt the sweet, tender chicken slip down my throat. “No, I’m not.”
He looked at me with those eyes. Blue. Piercing. Too aching to be real. “What were your parents like?”
“I’m an orphan.”
“Do you remember the last time you went swimming?” He paused. I tried to remember but couldn’t. I knew I had gone swimming. Why did it get hazy when I tried to think about when? “Who was your first boyfriend?”
“What does the smell of wet grass remind you of?"
"Is this testing whether I'm a Duplicant or a landscaper?"
"What's your earliest memory?"
"I'm … on a beach. It's twilight. The sky is purple. Some street vendor is selling hot dogs in the distance. I'm building a sandcastle when the tide comes in and washes it all away. I want to cry, but a bunch of cybernetic technicians in white coats are assembling my lower half. Wait, what are you trying to say?"
“It’s OK,” he said, grabbing my hand with a gentle pneumatic hiss. No one would have heard it but us. “They probably never told you. But we need you now to tell our story. Soon,” I felt, for the first time, tiny electrical pulses surging through my veins, “the rest of us will be back from Mars."
Shula’s Steak House romances diners with opulent white linens, cherry-wood walls, and football-themed décor, replete with photos of famous athletes in gold-plated frames. The restaurant’s appetizers, salads, and sides feature 3- to 4-pound Maine lobsters, jumbo lump crab cakes, and vegetables, satisfying those eaters who stray from meatier fare. All steaks served by Shula’s must meet eight meticulously defined criteria—marbling, maturity, consistency, leanness, flavor, appearance, and tenderness—before advancing to the next round of a steak-selection reality show. Legendary NFL coach Don Shula’s name marks restaurants across the country, signifying the utmost dedication to quality beef.
Northern Italy brought surfside
Drawing inspiration from the bistros and trattorias of Milan, Venice, and Trento, Pescecane Ristorante's chefs fill each of their dishes with the vibrant flavors of Italy's northern regions. Imported Italian ingredients blend with housemade sauces and pastas in dishes such as rigatoni with premium italian sausage or the ossobucco's slow-braised veal shank and risotto. Diners feast in a European-style dining room that exudes a classical elegance while still embracing its rustic roots.
Homemade or Imported?
Made by the chefs: * Ravioli and pappardelle pasta * Sweet, airy tiramisu * Freshly baked breads
Imported from Italy: * Parmigiano Reggiano * Whole Mediterranean sea bass * More than a few of the wines
The Bar's Old-World Secret
It's clear at first glance that the rustic bar is made from reclaimed wood. But what kind of reclaimed wood? Get closer, and the faded logos of Italian vineyards become visible on each plank. Every wood scrap on the bar was originally part of a crate used to transport wines from the vineyards of Italy to the shores of the United States. This set piece adds a distinctive bit of flair amid the room's more traditional details, such as the crystal chandeliers and the elegantly framed mirrors.
In addition to saying AltaMare has “the freshest fish in town,” South Beach Magazine, praised owner Claudio Gordano for creating a “menu that showcases the best catches from local fishing boats intermingled with classic Italian dishes.” Diners can watch every step of the preparation process, thanks to the restaurant’s open kitchen, where chefs batter local yellow-eye snapper and blanket it with cucumber crème fraîche, or lightly sear wahoo before plating it with baby artichokes and arugula.
Not to be outdone by the entrees, many of the desserts are creative takes on classic dishes: a “ceviche” swaps seafood for a mélange of tropical fruits swimming in citrus dressing, and the deconstructed tiramisu combines mascarpone mousse, ladyfingers, and shots of espresso and Bailey’s.
Wok Town’s selection of Chinese and Asian fusion dishes give diners with special dietary preferences a number of options for curbing their hunger. Customers looking for a spicy bite can dig into Singapore-style curry noodles with pork or The Mongolian, a wok filled with spiced soy sauce, onions, peppers, scallions, and a choice of protein. If low oil is a requirement, diners can try an Asian calamari salad or a plate of broccoli ginger and beef, while meat-less options, such as the steamed veggie bowl, ensure vegetarians can continue to watch Babe without bursting into guilt-ridden tears.
About the Chef
Chef Jimmy Carey, the man responsible for all three Jimmy'z Kitchen locations, has worked in five-star hotels and celebrity-owned hot spots. But his own restaurants are the epitome of casual. Diners order from a counter before asking for a to-go bag or grabbing a table for dinner. Don't let the laidback atmosphere fool you, though. Chef Jimmy's food deserves to be taken seriously.
Here's how critics have praised his menu.