Well. I returned from the Blue Flamingo in Key West last Tuesday with a tan, two grievances, and a renewed appreciation for the Lord’s small mercies.
Let me begin with what was good, because my mother raised me to lead with grace. The breakfast courtyard — oh, take the shackles off my feet, because I danced. Cuban coffee strong enough to raise the dead, key lime muffins still warm from the oven, and a rooster strutting past our table like he held the deed to the property. Reginald laughed for the first time since his retirement party. The housekeeping staff were saints. I would write each of them into my will if my husband would permit it.
Now. The concierge. He informed me, unprompted, that he was “the best on Duval.” Said he was, but he was not. I asked for a sunset sail at six; he booked us for a glass-bottom snorkel tour at dawn. He carried himself like a man who had been on the cover of something, and I couldn’t tell you what. A superstar in his own mind, dear, and nowhere else. The poolside bar suffers from a similar affliction — eighteen dollars for a frozen daiquiri served in what I can only describe as a souvenir beaker shaped like a flamingo.
Would I return? Possibly. The Mallory Square sunset alone nearly had me speaking in tongues, and I am Anglican. But pack your patience, mind your wallet, and do not — I repeat, do not — allow the concierge to book a single thing on your behalf.
Three stars. Two of them for the pastry chef. The third for the rooster