Casa Tua, Miami: A Comedy of Errors in Culinary Pretension

One approaches Casa Tua in Miami with the sort of trepidation usually reserved for a blind date arranged by an overzealous aunt. The promise is there, certainly, but so too is the potential for an evening of regret and indigestion.

Upon entry, one is lulled into a false sense of security. The interior, I must begrudgingly admit, is rather fetching. The lighting manages the miraculous feat of being both atmospheric and functional – a rarity in establishments that often confuse mood with myopia. Here, at least, one can read the menu without resorting to the undignified use of a mobile phone torch.

The initial dance of hospitality is performed with adequate grace. Drinks appear promptly, and we order our starters with cautious optimism. The Prime Beef Tenderloin Carpaccio and Watercress Salad arrive, both pleasant enough, though hardly revolutionary. One begins to think, "Perhaps this won't be a total disaster after all."

But oh, dear reader, how naive we were.

The first act of our culinary tragedy unfolds with the overzealous clearing of plates. Our waiter, seemingly trained in the art of premature evacuation, whisks away side plates with the enthusiasm of a magician's assistant. One half expects to find them reappear beneath a silk handkerchief at the meal's end.

Then comes the interminable wait. Ninety minutes stretch before us like a culinary Sahara, devoid of sustenance or explanation. Our waiter, having perfected his vanishing act, is nowhere to be found. One begins to wonder if he's been abducted by aliens or simply decided to pursue a different career mid-shift.

When our antipasti finally arrive – fashionably late by about an hour and a half – they do so with all the fanfare of a deflating balloon. The Eggplant Parmigiana resembles nothing so much as a cheese swamp, where any hint of aubergine has long since drowned. The Fettuccine ai Funghi, promising wild mushrooms and black truffle, delivers instead a salt lick drenched in truffle oil – a combination about as subtle as a tap-dancing elephant. The Spaghetti Chitarra alla Nerano proves that yes, it is indeed possible to oversalt pasta to the point of inedibility. A quite remarkable achievement, really.

By this point, the Pappardelle Bolognese sits untouched, a lone survivor in a battlefield of culinary carnage. One fears to approach it, lest it too disappoints.

In a valiant, if misguided, attempt at recovery, the staff offer complimentary offerings. A digestif is proffered – Fernet Branca, that most masochistic of after-dinner drinks, seems oddly appropriate for the occasion. When this too proves elusive, an alternative is suggested. One begins to suspect that the bar, much like the kitchen, is operating on a principle of mystery and misdirection.

As the evening draws to its merciful close, the manager appears – no doubt summoned by the psychic weight of our collective disappointment. With practised contrition, she alludes to "kitchen problems" and magnanimously waives the bill. A gesture appreciated, certainly, but one that feels rather like being offered a parachute after one's plane has already crashed.

In conclusion, dear readers, Casa Tua presents itself as a gastronomic haven in Miami's culinary landscape. The reality, however, is more akin to a beautifully wrapped gift containing nothing but packing peanuts and broken promises. One leaves with a lighter wallet (despite the comped meal – taxi fares in Miami are nothing to sniff at), a heavier heart, and a newfound appreciation for the simple joy of a home-cooked meal.

For those still tempted to venture into Casa Tua's deceptively charming embrace, I offer this advice: bring snacks, patience, and perhaps a small salt-testing kit. You'll need all three.