Review: The Joyce Miami Beach
For my first review on things I have no authority to comment on, I found myself sober at The Joyce.
I do not drink alcohol nor do I feel particularly comfortable chewing food in front of strangers so I must admit the level of audacity I am exercising writing a review on one of the hottest, new(ish) restaurants in Miami is yes, also hilarious to me.
But here’s the pulsing little secret, the real Miami heat: The Joyce is the clubhouse you always prayed this city would grow up and get. It is probably the only restaurant in Miami that feels genuinely sexy and cool AND intimate— was it the waitress who was sort of a bitch to my cousin? The Joe Columbo barstools? The desert menu with no prices? The glass encased Picasso? The cute Venezuelan collector I slid passed to get to my seat? The couple at the bar making out so deliciously and proceeded to make their way to the bathroom that remained inaccessible for the rest of the evening??— I never saw them again.
A kaleidoscope of the who’s-who, the almost-someones, and the “don’t-you-know-me-yet?”—all lacquered in good light, lounging on Gio Ponti, with Gaetano Pesci sculptures winking by the bar (spotted while I fumbled my Apple Pay, my actual card appropriately MIA). For all the attitude and price tags, it’s a salon, an anchor, a living room for the city’s hungry, creative heart.
I have been to The Joyce twice before, tucked off Espanola way in the periphery of the very cute Esmé Hotel. The art has been different on both occasions which I’m assuming is on view from one of the owners (Andre Sakhai?) personal collection and the restaurant serves as a sort of rotating gallery. I went on a date with Chef James Taylor after my first visit in July (we were both mutually coerced into going on this date and throughout it were vocal about our lack of time and interest for one another— he is fully committed to being America’s next top Chef and I was too busy nursing my recent separation depression. It was awkward but it was mutual and I left thinking, I think he’ll make it.
As for the food, it’s varied for me. Some things are fantastic and some things have left me wanting... Consistent star players : the hamachi crudo (silken, oceanic, ALIVE!), the chopped iceberg(cold, crisp), the schnitzel (CRUNCH! CRACKLE! BOOM!), the chicken wings, the Joyce burger, the charred Brussel sprouts, the Chicago cut ribeye (perfect). Wait, so maybe the majority of the menu is great but last night, well honestly last night I think blame may fall squarely on Dania’s shoulders —DANIAAAA, oh Christ— who ordered with the culinary vision of a blindfolded toddler. The mains arrived—Madai! Brick chicken! My beloved Schnitzel! Cauliflower!—and everything kinda morphed into a singular taste of Calabrian chile. Mental note: Dania’s ordering privileges? Revoked…forever.
Noticeably absent from last night’s visit to The Joyce was Chef James and I gotta say- his presence adds a bit of magic to the scene. Especially when he comes with some surprise dish or dessert he’s been earnestly laboring over—really, who doesn’t like a little feigned special treatment??? When the bill came I winced, and was annoyed at the amount of chicken that had been ordered. But I say as a non consumer of alcohol I generally feel slighted when it comes to ‘splitting the bill time’ and the general temperament of The Joyce —the art and the people behind it—make me feel like I’d happily get fucked (again!)
