Someone had a smart idea. As we step up to the front door of Coconut Bay, we notice that the exterior walls are covered in wood… well, planks. It's a simple and inexpensive bit of exterior design that matches the restaurant's island theme and goes a long way toward adding a touch of character to this typical square stucco building on Fowler Avenue. Right now, the planks look fresh from Home Depot. In a few years, though, the raw wood will have a weathered, lived-in feel.
Every new proto-chain restaurant has to have a hook these days, a bit of faux history to add some Disneyfied pizzazz to food and atmosphere that caters to the lowest common denominator. Coconut Bay's thematic conceit is a bit muddled — Key West via Jamaica, with some pirates thrown in for laughs — but it boils down to a Caribbean beach bar for the masses. The published backstory refers to a Florida Keys fish camp owned by a character named "Chappy."
Sadly, most of the dishes at the first of several planned Coconut Bay Bar & Grills taste less like fresh fish camp fare and more like the ill-designed and poorly executed food found at dozens of anonymous restaurants that fail every year in the Bay area. Coconut Bay offers a bit more spice than the rest, but I doubt that it will last long enough to reap the benefits of its attractively aged wood siding.
On this particular Thursday night, the staff outnumbers the few customers sitting in booths made from the same raw wood featured outside, lacquered for our comfort. Some of the wall space is cleverly covered with sections of corrugated fiberglass siding, adding to the "fish camp" homage. The rest of the place is strewn with flags emblazoned with various equatorial beers and the necessary nods toward Tampa's sports teams. Go Bucs!
Coconut Bay's peppery jerk sauce is exceptionally sweet, which works well on the wings ($6.99). When the menu says hot, believe it — soon enough, we are reaching for drinks and veggies between the tiny drumsticks, seeking a quick remedy so we can eat more. I consider drinking the crab dip ($8.99) to soothe my smoking tongue. It's really just a giant bowl of milk, so runny it barely coats the toast and entirely devoid of crabby flavor, even when we dredge a few shreds of meat hidden at the bottom. When the server takes away the still full bowl of "dip," he asks if there was a problem. Save your breath, dude, you'll be asking that a few more times this evening.
Conch balls ($7.99) are over-fried and under-conched hushpuppies, suitable only for tongue-soothing intermission between fiery wings. At least the Caesar salad ($2.99) is fresh and crisp.
When we ask what the soup of the day is, our waiter describes it as a "turkey and beer cheese chowder sort of thing" ($3.25). Mmmm, sounds scrumptious, doesn't it? I'm at a loss when I put the first spoonful in my mouth, the look of alarm on my face causing concern among my companions. Grainy cream, rubbery meat and an aftertaste like that day-old Sam Adams someone left on the patio after my last party. Didn't anyone in the kitchen try this nasty piece of work?
The conch chowder ($3.25) is a total contrast, with a steamy tomato base laced with just enough spicy heat. It's the best thing I've eaten at Coconut Bay, and the only thing I would ever return for.
We order a few pints of Coconut Bay's home brew to wash the flavor of mystery soup out of our mouths. The restaurant contracts with Dunedin Brewery for two special beers on tap — an innocuous watery lager and an ale with good fruity undertones. The beer fortifies us for what's to come.
The arrival of our entrees is heralded by a coughing fit from one of the servers. It's not his fault — as soon as the sizzling skillet of "tropical sunburn" ($12.99) — a fajita clone — is set in front of me, my eyes start watering and I have to turn my head. See, sautéed onion, peppers and pulled pork are piled onto the plate and doused with "Paradise Spice" sauce. Hot pan + hot pepper sauce = instant tear gas, more suited to controlling anti-globalist protesters than serving tableside. It's a shame, really, since it turns out to be pretty good, except for the thin, dried-out tortillas served alongside.
I set the toxic fajitas aside, under a napkin, and jab my fork at the less immediately painful dishes in front of my companions. Spinach and habañero tilapia "pasta Rasta" ($11.99) looked like soup, a tangle of linguini and a few filets of white fish barely peeking out from a deep pool of white sauce. Each bite tainted by the sauce is the same — a blast of raw garlic that immediately fades into moderate habañero heat. That's it. No flavor in the middle, just some texture from the moist, tender fish and slippery pasta.
Thankfully, our other fish dish isn't as bad. A thick slab of mahi mahi is rubbed with dried herbs ($12.99), seared to just past done, then doused with a little lemon butter. It's a respectable dish for a chain restaurant, and better than almost everything but the conch chowder.
Tampa is a breeding ground for chain restaurants, as if our proximity to the Outback HQ makes us the ideal proving ground for the future of America's casual dining. We get to see the cookie-cutter trends before the rest of the country, passing judgment with our cash and credit cards. It's a noble calling. Sometimes, though, as is the case with Coconut Bay Bar & Grill, it's hard, thankless work.
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 Dec 14-20, 2005.