Sunday night and the place is packed like a can of sardines. I feel like I've hopped onto a friend's fishing boat since I'm surrounded by kitchy fishing mementos. Trout hang from the walls next to the obligatory, giant blue marlin trophy, and I worry they might sing and dance for me. But themes are cool and I can dig this vibe. I'm perched at the bar like a pelican, and I've got a nice bird's eye view of the dishes served at the communal table below. I don't envy those diners their uncomfortable wooden stools, but I'm def ready to chow down on some fresh seafood.
I order the lobster roll and the shrimp toast to start.
The bread is buttery and soft and the lobster balancing on top is covered in mayonnaise. It's gone in 2 bites and I feel let down by the portion size. At the 'Lobsta Truck' I can get a giant, buttered bun filled with lobster for 12 bucks and so shelling out $7 for this tease of a dish aint easy.
The shrimp toast sandwich arrives not a moment too soon, and it's a deep fried, golden color. The dish scores high points for flavor and the sriracha mayo gives a nice kick to this deliciously dangerous, heart attack of a snack. Beginning to see a trend towards the greasy, mayo slathered food choices of drunken men on the high seas, I try to diversify my order.
Feeling ambitious, I go for the uni and burrata. Having never tried these ingredients together, I didn't want to miss out on some sensational, life-altering experience. Turns out there is a reason nobody else is doing this combination.
The burrata did nothing to enhance the complexity of the sea urchin. In fact, together they were a texture nightmare of mush. The lemon on the bottom of the plate helped a little, but I was dumbfounded as to who on earth approved this on the menu?!
Looking at the picture even now, I'm still offended by the senselessness. Has anything ever looked so unappetizing? The presentation itself was amateur as the bite-sized servings were brought out on an unimaginably large, beige plate that made it look all the more depressing.
Still feeling vulnerable after this culinary coup, I welcomed the sight of the fried chicken sandwich. I would take the comforts of fried food over an imposter's attempts at fine dining any day. The fried chicken sandwich was straight up goodness. The coleslaw was spilling over with the sweetness of pickles and spicy jalapenos and the chicken had a peppery crisp that knew just how to reel in the creaminess of the rooster aioli.
Both filling and tasty, and anchoring multiple flavor notes with each bite, this sammer is what most likely keeps this business afloat. If you catch my drift, I enjoy puns.
The octopus confit salad with mirepoix was mostly a pursed mouthful of vinegar but the octopus tendrils had charred edges for that hint of well, char.
I couldn't resist the urge to order the alligator schnitzel, if only just to say that I had eaten wild gator. They're wild caught in the swamps of New Orleans and so to eat one is to take on Crocodile Dundee status.
The schnitzel was as chewy as octopus but tasted like chicken. Finely sliced heart of palm and orange segments accompanied it and a warm syrup drizzle on the plate. I wasn't feeling all of the creamy sauce on the heart of palm, and so I wouldn't recommend it unless you're just interested in trying a bite, or the bragging rights.
When the bill came, it showed up on a vintage anchovies lid and with a seashell. Both of these stylish, personal touches didn't go unnoticed. But the overall presentation was sloppy and the food was not impressive. If you're looking for a hip crowd and some kitchy decor, I'd say this place is for you. Or Swingers on Beverly Blvd. Same target audience, in my opinion.
Come for the fried chicken sammer or a couple of lobster rolls while you down a pirate's rum and coke. Then take your sea legs and mosey on over to the Churchill next door, for a night of drinking and cavorting, life's simplest of pleasures.