MIAMI SPICE / FOODNBULLSHIT

IT'S A CRUEL,
CRUEL SUMMER.

Yes, it’s the Bananarama song, but don’t worry, this is not an article about 80’s hits, although it might be a good idea. Wait a minute, who the fuck did you think I was referring to?
Taylor Swift?
Give me a fucking break.

For those of my generation, this song will bring back memories; for everyone else, if it doesn’t mean shit to you or doesn’t ring any bells, well, consider this 1983 hit the soundtrack to this article.

Speaking of which, I had fun using titles of 80’s songs in the article here and there. Let’s see if you can spot them. You know what? Let's go crazy. When you finish the article, send me a message on Insta or an email telling me which ones you have spotted. I'll give you a hint; if I counted correctly, there are twenty-five or twenty-six. I don't remember exactly.

And here we are again: another Miami summer. The three-month period that carries its usual load of bad news: scorching heat, unbearable humidity, the infamous Miami Spice, and the beginning of the hurricane season.

Financially, it’s the most treacherous and lethal time of the year for all retailers, except of course if you sell sandbags, batteries, canned food, and toilet paper. But for the hospitality industry, every year this ninety-day clusterfuck is a pure survival game.

July is the starting shot.

The fancy crowd of Miami has disappeared to the Hamptons, Europe, Nantucket, the Caribbean, or wherever the happy few migrate when Miami becomes a suffocating steamer. All that’s left for restaurants are customers who are tourists, fellow hospitality workers, and regular folks.

But as it’s way too hot to have dinner on the terraces, reality settles into the dining room. Reservations become scarce, and revenue shrinks. Yet the usual suspects still line up: rent, suppliers, insurance, and electricity—all those bills continue to pile up as pancakes on fucking brunch. So does payroll.

But there is still a thread of hope that lingers but gets thinner and thinner every year. And restaurant owners hang onto it like a lifeline.

That’s when August creeps in with every chef’s nightmare… The now notorious and infamous Miami Spice. The city’s annual culinary celebration, when Miami loves to brag and convince itself it is one of the major culinary hot spots of the U.S. That’s a funny one. But even if most restaurants' staff get panic attacks as soon as someone mentions Miami spice, influencers and food bloggers love it.

After all, what’s not to like? It gives them something to talk about besides themselves, and for once they can post about actual talent—not theirs; they don’t have any—but the talent of the chefs making these menus possible.
Everyday kinda people enjoy it, too, because they finally get an opportunity to get a bite of this overestimated, overpriced Miami dining scene.

So, all restaurants enlist in this prix-fixe menu merry-go-round, hoping it will fight the seasonal lethargy and bring back enough dough to these flashy, marbled establishments to pay the real star of the place. No, not the food, the guy in the booth… The DJ. And trust me, those aren’t cheap.

On the surface, it bumps the numbers, sure, but in reality, it’s the coup de grace on already small margins due to the unstoppable inflation of goods. And as those profit margins become microscopic, you just hope sheer volume and covers will compensate for the cheaper menus.
For some, it will be of some help; they will live to fight another day.

For others who are under pressure, it might just delay the inevitable.

And for the rest, it’s just the last dance.

Because here comes September: the graveyard month. That's what I call it, but not because it’s quieter, but because when summer ends, it’s the final countdown to audit time. The financial reserves are entirely gone, but the landlord still wants rent, the suppliers still want payment, and payroll still exists.

Reality finally catches up and slaps everyone in the face because the number of guests isn’t going to pick up yet. That’s usually the time of the year where people have different priorities; school just started again, and between summer vacations and school supplies, the credit cards are maxed out.

And as business fails to return, that’s when you count the dead.

That’s when you find out who survived or if another bites the dust.

And this year won’t be any different from the others; in fact, it looks like it might be even worse. Even though we are only mid-July, the heat is already on.

We are used to seeing restaurant closures. This isn’t new, especially in Miami. That’s the rule of business. But the 2026 summer squeeze came with a sledgehammer, and the danger zone was reached earlier than usual; even the big guns are getting jammed.

It worries me because it used to be the little neighborhood places that disappeared, but now we’re watching massive restaurant groups, celebrity chefs, and big players backed by millions of dollars struggling to make the math work.  Just lately, landmarks of Brickell, like Dirty French and Ch’i, closed. Baby Jane couldn’t survive another lease negotiation. And in Wynwood, it’s the exact same thing; restaurants like Shizo, or even Black Tap—which barely lasted eight months—just gave up and decided to turn off the lights. And these are only the restaurants people actually talk about.
But when the big guys start bleeding, you know the walls come tumbling down, and in this land of confusion, you get to wonder what chance the independents ever had.

Year after year, it becomes harder and harder to open and operate a neighborhood restaurant, mostly because it's getting complicated to keep it alive with astronomical rents and skyrocketing insurance costs. It’s getting tough to compete with corporate groups buying every fucking square foot on every goddamn block because they have deep pockets and massive PR firms. So none of them can’t make it through the barricades.

Time after time Miami loses another piece of its identity, and every block starts looking like an open-air corporate food court. Sure, they're different names and different logos, but it’s the same investors, the same concepts and the same formulas.

You are going to tell me that’s a good thing because the city gains restaurants, well, in a way, but on the other hand, somehow, the town loses its character.

But this was the plan all along; Miami wanted to become a Las Vegas on the beach. But the more the neon restaurant life glows in the dark, the more it will continue to attract all kinds of investments—some more kosher than others, and when you are digging in the dirt, some are not kosher at all. But when you have a look at the breakneck speed of this city’s financial, cultural, and demographic evolution, we skipped Sin City entirely. It looks more and more like Dubai is just around the corner.

Then there’s the question nobody wants to ask, and as usual I'll be the bad guy and do the dirty work: Do we simply have too many restaurants?

I know, I know, that’s almost sacrilegious to say in a city completely obsessed with openings.

Fuck it, I’ll say it anyway; yes, we do. And I can tell you why we have reached complete saturation: Everywhere I look, every single month, there is another steakhouse or another rooftop opening, another omakase or another Mediterranean concept, and another fucking overpriced “chef-driven experience.”

Apparently, every empty commercial space now is destined to become a restaurant. The problem is that the customer pool isn’t growing at the same speed. Even though Miami’s population has exploded over the past five years, there are only so many customers to go around, especially during the summer. So all this is just money for nothing because we reach marketing's limits and math is taking over.

Let’s talk about something nobody even mentions because it stains Miami’s glamorous image. Are you ready?

Every single restaurant closure throws dozens of people back onto one of the most volatile job markets of the year. Meanwhile, living in Miami keeps becoming more expensive, and to be honest, everything is getting unaffordable; housing, insurance, groceries, and utilities—everything goes up except salaries, so the casualties are always the same.

The staff.

Dishwashers and prep cooks. Bartenders and hostesses. Line cooks and servers. Sous chefs and managers. When they are laid off, they are left out in the cold, while the big wheels just keep on turning. They will eventually find another job, but not necessarily quickly. Meanwhile, their rent doesn’t disappear, their children’s expenses don’t go away, and their bills certainly don’t vanish. Yet somehow, they remain the invisible victims of the system.

There is a darker side to this story; the chefs and general managers are the more aged employees with the biggest salaries in a city completely obsessed with youth and glitz, so what happens to them?
We all know how this business operates in this town: after forty-five, whether front-of-house or back-of-house, you just don’t fit the narrative anymore. Youngsters are knocking at the door, willing to work for cheaper. So, you are fucked. You are pushed on the sideline of the field like a washed-up quarterback.

And I’ve seen it with my own eyes, even if nobody wants to say it out loud: Miami is losing its most experienced workforce. We desperately need to address this because it explains why so many professionals are leaving Miami for cities that are perhaps less attractive but far more secure to make a living or raise a family, just because they know they won’t get laid off the second July shows up.

Which leads us directly to the hiring crisis—the famous labor shortage that is on everyone’s lips in this industry nowadays. All the signs point to it, right?
Just check the staggering number of positions available online.
But I am wondering, and keep that for your eyes only…is there really a shortage?
Maybe the problem isn’t that people don’t want to work. Maybe people simply can’t afford to work here anymore.
Or, as I have a suspicious mind, are we watching something else entirely, and is there a very different conversation to be put on the table?
Maybe this shortage is not a reality but a well-designed, orchestrated smoke screen. It’s fake. It’s just an illusion.

We’ll talk about that in the next article.
See you next week.

6/15/26

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Yes, it’s the Bananarama song, but don’t worry, this is not an article about 80’s hits, although it might be a good idea. Wait a minute, who the fuck did you think I was referring to?
Taylor Swift?
Give me a fucking break.

For those of my generation, this song will bring back memories; for everyone else, if it doesn’t mean shit to you or doesn’t ring any bells, well, consider this 1983 hit the soundtrack to this article.

Speaking of which, I had fun using titles of 80’s songs in the article here and there. Let’s see if you can spot them. You know what? Let's go crazy. When you finish the article, send me a message on Insta or an email telling me which ones you have spotted. I'll give you a hint; if I counted correctly, there are twenty five.

And here we are again: another Miami summer. The three-month period that carries its usual load of bad news: scorching heat, unbearable humidity, the infamous Miami Spice, and the beginning of the hurricane season.

Financially, it’s the most treacherous and lethal time of the year for all retailers, except of course if you sell sandbags, batteries, canned food, and toilet paper. But for the hospitality industry, every year this ninety-day clusterfuck is a pure survival game.

July is the starting shot.

The fancy crowd of Miami has disappeared to the Hamptons, Europe, Nantucket, the Caribbean, or wherever the happy few migrate when Miami becomes a suffocating steamer. All that’s left for restaurants are customers who are tourists, fellow hospitality workers, and regular folks.

But as it’s way too hot to have dinner on the terraces, reality settles into the dining room. Reservations become scarce, and revenue shrinks. Yet the usual suspects still line up: rent, suppliers, insurance, and electricity—all those bills continue to pile up as pancakes on fucking brunch. So does payroll.

But there is still a thread of hope that lingers but gets thinner and thinner every year. And restaurant owners hang onto it like a lifeline.

That’s when August creeps in with every chef’s nightmare… The now notorious and infamous Miami Spice. The city’s annual culinary celebration, when Miami loves to brag and convince itself it is one of the major culinary hot spots of the U.S. That’s a funny one. 
But even if most restaurants' staff get panic attacks as soon as someone mentions Miami spice, influencers and food bloggers love it.

After all, what’s not to like? It gives them something to talk about besides themselves, and for once they can post about actual talent—not theirs; they don’t have any—but the talent of the chefs making these menus possible.
Every kinda people enjoy it, too, because they finally get an opportunity to get a bite of this overestimated, overpriced Miami dining scene.

So, all restaurants enlist in this prix-fixe menu merry-go-round, hoping it will fight the seasonal lethargy and bring back enough dough to these flashy, marbled establishments to pay the real star of the place. No, not the food, the guy in the booth… The DJ. And trust me, those aren’t cheap.

On the surface, it bumps the numbers, sure, but in reality, it’s the coup de grace on already small margins due to the unstoppable inflation of goods. And as those profit margins become microscopic, you just hope sheer volume and covers will compensate for the cheaper menus.
For some, it will be of some help; they will live to fight another day.

For others who are under pressure, it might just delay the inevitable.

And for the rest, it’s just the last dance.

Because here comes September: the graveyard month. That's what I call it, but not because it’s quieter, but because when summer ends, it’s the final countdown to audit time. The financial reserves are entirely gone, but the landlord still wants rent, the suppliers still want payment, and payroll still exists.

Reality finally catches up and slaps everyone in the face because the number of guests isn’t going to pick up yet. That’s usually the time of the year where people have different priorities; school just started again, and between summer vacations and school supplies, the credit cards are maxed out.

And as business fails to return, that’s when you count the dead.

That’s when you find out who survived or if another bites the dust.

And this year won’t be any different from the others; in fact, it looks like it might be even worse. Even though we are only mid-July, the heat is already on.

We are used to seeing restaurant closures. This isn’t new, especially in Miami. That’s the rule of business. But the 2026 summer squeeze came with a sledgehammer, and the danger zone was reached earlier than usual; even the big guns are getting jammed.

It worries me because it used to be the little neighborhood places that disappeared, but now we’re watching massive restaurant groups, celebrity chefs, and big players backed by millions of dollars struggling to make the math work.
 Just lately, landmarks of Brickell, like Dirty French and Ch’i, closed. Baby Jane couldn’t survive another lease negotiation. And in Wynwood, it’s the exact same thing; restaurants like Shizo, or even Black Tap—which barely lasted eight months—just gave up and decided to turn off the lights. And these are only the restaurants people actually talk about.
But when the big guys start bleeding, you know the walls come tumbling down, and in this land of confusion, you get to wonder what chance the independents ever had.