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.
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?!
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.
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.
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.