Suddenly, it hit me:
Mario’s!
Remember Mario? I asked my wife.
It was a couple of years ago.
We were in Fort Lauderdale to get some warm weather between Christmas and New Year’s.
And I’d decided that a trip to South Florida required dinner at a Cuban restaurant.
So, I turned to the internet.
Which was rolling the dice, of course.
The web is as likely to get it wrong as it is to get it right.
I did a quick search for Cuban restaurants.
Many looked promising.
But one stood out.
It had pages and pages of gushing reviews.
Which, again, could have all been bullshit.
But, with no other source of intel, what was I going to do?
It was a Monday night.
Most people were chilling out for the holidays.
The restaurants in the immediate vicinity of our hotel were doing a steady business but were far from overwhelmed.
The same was true of Mario’s Cubano.
At first.
The restaurant sat two and a half miles inland from the beach on a road that paralleled the interstate.
Frankly, it wasn’t much to look at on the outside.
The entire area was nothing but strip malls and ten-minute oil change shops.
Mario’s façade was equally unremarkable.
My wife, daughter, and I pulled into the mostly empty parking lot wondering if we—I—had made a bad call.
That all changed as soon as we walked in the door.
For starters, the place looked and felt as though you were walking into someone’s home.
Not in a creepy, intrusive sort of way.
Rather, it gave you a comfortable, familiar sort of feeling.
And that feeling was magnified as soon as Mario noticed you.
“Ah, yes!” he said. “There you are.”
He’d been expecting us, he said.
Which may or may not have been true.
Yes, I’d called to make a reservation.
But a reservation, I quickly observed, was a loose concept for Mario.
He’d find room for anyone who wanted to be there.
As we walked through the restaurant to the table Mario had saved especially for us—so he claimed—people called out to him from all directions.
“Mario! Hey, Mario . . .”
And he’d wave, blow them kisses, and say, “Be right there.”
What in the hell is all this? I thought.
Who is this guy?
He finally sat us at our table in the back part of the restaurant.
We had our own little corner with views of the bar, which was all decked out in Christmas lights.
Even though Mario acted like he’d known us for years, he still took the time to get our entire story.
Where were we from? How long were we in town? Where were we staying?
And then he disappeared.
I assumed he was grabbing us menus and a round of ice waters.
Instead, he came back with drinks:
Mojitos, his signature cocktail.
And a Shirley Temple for my daughter.
We hadn’t asked for any of it.
Mario just brought it.
And kept bringing it for the remainder of the night.
We eventually received our menus, but only after Mario had delivered another round of mojitos and a plate of these incredible dried plantains, accompanied by pickled peppers and onions.
The place continued to fill up.
And, despite Mario’s being pulled in a thousand different directions, he intuitively sensed the precise moments to arrive back at our table to answer a question or deliver another dish or drink.
He appeared to do the same for all the other patrons, even when the place became completely full.
The entire experience was unlike anything we’d ever had.
And it had everything to do with Mario.
We were old friends by the time my wife, daughter, and I stood to leave.
He kissed the girls on their cheeks, gave me a hug, and then presented us with a bottle of wine and a gift card for a future visit.
And, despite my having lost count of the number of rounds of mojitos he’d brought to our table, our bill revealed that he hadn’t charged us for any of them.
I mean . . . who does that?
Mario, that’s who.
So, you can understand why I’d want to return to Mario’s Cubano if I were anywhere within five hundred miles of the place.
As my wife and I were recently.
We’d headed to Boca Raton for spring break.
I’d carefully planned the week’s activities and had made dinner reservations at various restaurants.
But I hadn’t done so for the day of arrival.
Once we got settled into our hotel room, we turned to the question of dinner.
What sounds good? I asked my wife.
“I dunno,” she said. “What sounds good to you?”
And we went back and forth like that for a while before I remembered Mario’s.
I gave him a call.
Hey, Mario! I said. You don’t remember me, but I’d like to make a reservation.
“Wonderful!” he replied. “So, you’ve visited me before?”
Yes, I said. And my family and I had thoroughly enjoyed the experience.
He then pointed out that he was in a new location under a different name:
Mario’s Catalina.
But he assured me I would enjoy the experience just as I had before.
Terrific, I said. We’re coming.
Oh, and about the reservation, I said. Is six o’clock okay?
“It doesn’t matter,” Mario replied. “Just come.”
Ah, Mario . . .
My wife and I arrived an hour later.
The new restaurant was in the same general location as the last.
But, frankly, it was even less inviting-looking on the outside.
Which, as I’d learned before, didn’t mean anything.
There appeared to be two entrances in front, and it wasn’t entirely clear which we were supposed to use.
My wife and I started in the direction of one of the doors, only to have Mario come running out of the other one and into the parking lot to usher us in.
“There you are!” he said once again.
And, again, he treated us as though he’d known us for decades.
Even though I seriously doubted he remembered us.
The interior of the new restaurant resembled the former location, but lacked the same homey feel.
It seemed Mario was still breaking the place in.
And that was fine.
Mario sat my wife and me at a linen-draped table in the front window.
And, almost immediately, he began delivering drinks and dishes to our table.
There would be no menus this time.
Mojitos. Dried plantains. Empanadas. Tamal with pork.
It just kept coming.
The main course was plantain-encrusted snapper with rice and beans.
It was incredible.
By the time it arrived, I’d already consumed three days’ worth of calories.
But I didn’t care.
I’m just going with it, I told my wife.
And, when I thought I couldn’t manage another bite, Mario brought us the most incredible tres leches cake I’d ever had.
When I asked for a simple cup of coffee to go with it, I instead received an immaculate, barista-quality cappuccino.
Mario was pulling out all the stops.
Nearly three hours after we’d walked in, I began to mull the experience in my mind.
It was extraordinary.
Just as I expected the check to be.
But, again, Mario charged us for only a fraction of what we’d consumed.
I mean . . . why?
Why us?
Mario walked us to the door as we prepared to leave.
And, along the way, he kept kissing my wife on the cheek, saying, “I just love you.”
Which, strangely, didn’t bother me at all.
It didn’t bother my wife, either.
It was Mario, after all.
One of the most incredible human beings I’d ever encountered.
It is just so damn refreshing—and life-affirming—to find someone in exactly the right place, doing exactly what they were put on this planet to do.
I couldn’t imagine Mario in any other setting.
And, I suspect, neither could he.
As I turned to shake Mario’s hand one last time, he slid me another gift card.
A very generous one.
“For next time,” he said.
Thank you, Mario.
Yes, I will see you again.
And you may or may not remember me.
But I know you’ll treat me like family.
Or even better.
Because you’re Mario.
And you wouldn’t do it any other way.