Downstairs, Aqua Bella is almost empty. Except for a few staff members listlessly moving about the abandoned bar area, no one is stirring. No surprise, really. Although the side of the building that faces Gulfport's waterfront is lined with windows, Aqua Bella's real selling point is the view from above. Up a winding steel staircase is a "tiki bar" that seems transplanted from the Florida Keys.
If you've ever been to the Keys, you know what I mean. It has that delicate combination of breathtaking scenery, cheap plastic furniture, colorful characters, and copious advertising from Bud and Miller. Static-laced music from a local classic rock station blasts from speakers mounted above the bar, and the whole area smells like salt air, cheap beer and cigarette smoke. It's an hour before sunset and the roof deck is only half full.
That could be because it's Monday, but the meager turnout might also be due to the complete failure of the service staff. A bartender listlessly takes our order, then skulks away to the strident tune of complaints from a nearby table. Drinks arrive in an almost timely fashion, and then we wait, wait, wait for appetizers to make an appearance.
First up is a gray sphere of fish spread ($6.95), unceremoniously dropped on the table by the bartender. You can almost hear the whining complaint running in a loop in his mind — "I'm a bartender, this isn't my job!" That's obvious, darling, especially to the guy in the corner, who is still hurling complaints.
We don't have any utensils, so I surreptitiously run a finger through the mushy paste. Not bad, but it lacks the intense smoked quality that makes the combination of mayo and cheap fish worth spreading on crackers. If we had some crackers, that is.
In time that feels like it could be measured in geologic eras, a basket of saltines is brought to the table along with a few pieces of silverware, carried by an uncomfortable guy who has the same refrain cycling through his head as the bartender, but is willing to give it the old college try. He manages to locate our lost appetizers, another round of drinks and the rest of our utensils, all in less than 15 minutes. We even manage to order dinner, almost an hour after originally sitting down.
At first glance, we might have been happier letting the kitchen work on these starters for another hour or so — if that extra time showed improvement on the plate. The crab cake ($8.95) is pale and gummy, the outside almost devoid of sear and the inside gooey and cold, while coconut shrimp ($8.95) leave sizable puddles of glistening fry oil on their beds of green lettuce.
Still, there is some promise.
Although undercooked, that crab cake is packed with more hefty chunks of lump meat than most you'll find around town, so I pick them out and eat the buttery, pale shellfish separately. Crab and corn chowder ($4.95) is too peppery to let the crab have any say, but it's hearty and sweet and worth a couple of spoonfuls. Even the rubbery shrimp manage to eke a few positive points with their thick coating of unsweetened coconut shreds. I begin to admit to myself that something might be salvaged from this debacle.
Perhaps that's because the sun is almost under the horizon, filling the western sky with a fiery orange glow reflected off the bay. The badly tuned radio music is replaced with tropical resort rock and a cool breeze kicks up. With practiced timing, Aqua Bella's roof deck has come alive — just in time for the sunset's big show — populated mostly with denizens of Gulfport.
It's nice to see the locals represent: Next to us is a lesbian birthday party punctuated by boisterous greetings every time a new person shows up; at the bar are working-class former hippies who managed to stake a claim before prices climbed beyond them; at other tables are tattooed families drinking beer from pitchers, a congregation of pudgy Gen X guys wearing pop culture T-shirts, and even a few handholding couples here for the view.
We dig in to food that arrives in a shockingly timely and efficient fashion and share surprised looks across the table. It's, well, pretty damn tasty. A thick filet of sea bass ($21.95), visibly seasoned with simple salt and pepper, is so moist that the flesh falls apart at the touch of a fork, held together only by crisply seared crust. Each buttery bite is so tender it almost slides down my throat.
I was worried about the broiled scallops ($16.95), but these aren't the pale baked shellfish I expected. Quickly browned over intense heat, the insides are still quivering and translucent, luscious and ideally cooked. Thickly breaded fried oysters ($12.95) are balls of crunch and salt, with the wet pop of a warm, plump oyster hidden at the center. Good stuff, if you like the taste of Cape Cod summers down by the Atlantic shore.
The one dish that I thought Aqua Bella would excel at — a typical blackened grouper sandwich ($8.95) — is nowhere near the best thing on the table. Thinner than most filets, with a doughy bun, it's still better than expected considering the first half of the meal. So is the adequate coleslaw, fries and mashed potatoes laced with a bright, incongruous splash of vinegar that sit on the sides of our plates.
Like the people packed in around us, we spend more time talking after the meal than we spent eating it. Enjoying the last vestiges of temperate weather before the scorching summer heat sets in, no one is in a rush to leave the roof deck. With the sun down, we can still make out the blocky shape of the Gulfport Casino off to the right, the glinting metal railing of the pier to the left, and the twinkling lights of St. Pete Beach developments curving along the far shoreline.
I can see why the place is filled with a local crowd. Even with decent dinner fare and the natural beauty of Gulfport's shoreline, Aqua Bella has a lot of issues to overcome before people will flock from outside the neighborhood. Considering the location, it will be a shame if the restaurant can't make that leap.
Brian Ries is a former restaurant general manager with an advanced diploma from the Court of Master Sommeliers. He can be reached at brian.ries@weeklyplanet.com. Planet food critics dine anonymously, and the paper pays for the meals. Restaurants chosen for review are not related to advertising.
This article appears in May 3-9, 2006.