Black Rock Bar + Grill
2 out of 5 stars
11702 N. Dale Mabry Highway, Tampa. Appetizers: $5-$13; entrees: $11-$36; desserts: $7-$12; wines by the glass: $5-$14. 813-321-3577; blackrockrestaurants.com.
After having such a splendid time on my last trek to Carrollwood, I wonder if the hype over the innovative Black Rock Bar + Grill, with its theatrical tabletop presentations on 755-degree volcanic stone, will pan out.
As we enter, I’m struck by the welcoming decor, but when we’re seated in a booth-filled cul de sac, what’s surprising is that the upper walls are lined with 11 huge big-screen TVs in a four-three-four U-shape. It’s like dining at the TV showroom at Sears. The vibe doesn’t read sports bar; it seems as though the goal is a steakhouse with a twist. However, there are so many screens, one of my group quips that “each table should have it’s own remote.” What’s even stranger is that there’s no closed captions to follow the action, and the soundtrack is totally divorced from the image. It’s all rock, all the time — not the ambiance conducive to dinner conversation. Perhaps if your group prefers to stare at their cellphones between courses for the stimulation of a million pixels in any direction, this is an inviting dining environment. It’s the odd cousin of a sports bar, but the ambition of the menu doesn’t match.
Nevertheless, we begin on a positive note with two tasty starters using the hot stone: soft pretzels and nacho cheese, dueling with bubbling garlic cream, and sizzling sausage and peppers. The table is happy.
Monster French Onion Soup is, indeed, huge. It’s a deep, circular ceramic ramekin loaded to the brim with broth and topped with multiple slices of cello-wrapped processed mozzarella (you can see the staggered corners around the edge). It makes for a gooey cap on top of the onion-filled soup that has a prominent, unintegrated red wine component.
Both the house and Caesar salads are fresh, but boring. The Caesar is typical of most versions that bear no resemblance to the real deal. There’s torn romaine, packaged croutons and shredded Parm with a light dressing lacking much taste. It’s the bland afterthought I expect nowadays.
Although sweet potato fries are large and chunky, someone thinks that serving this savory tuber with caramel that belongs on the dessert menu is a good idea. It’s just weird. And the asparagus are buried in garlic.
Our three four-once lobster tails look nice on the black rock, yet are totally ruined by the salt designed to keep them from sticking. To say they’re too salty is an understatement; they’re also overdone. I am almost in tears, for I adore lobster, and this is tantamount to crustacean abuse.
One companion selects the steak and iron skillet lasagna in anticipation of an imaginative presentation. Out comes the oval-shaped skillet with a huge double serving of lasagna covered in dark brown sauce. Where’s the steak? A few minutes later a filet arrives on the signature stone. There’s no connection; it’s like ordering two entrees. The lasagna, whose herbs are all you can taste, is an oregano bomb disaster. It’s inedible.
The 755-degree volcanic stone is an interesting idea in theory, but if your proteins aren’t perfect, what’s the point? At least in our case, the theatrics worked for the appetizers, then tanked. The instructions from the server were certainly inadequate.
The rock-less miso salmon cooked in the kitchen is buried in salty glaze with rice pilaf that’s warm in the center but cold around the edges, which indicates it’s not made to order. The green beans with it are OK. With a mound of decent potato mash, chicken marsala is tough and needs to be cut with a steak knife. The basic flavor is fine, but tough chicken can’t be juicy and disappoints.
Our server seems preoccupied. While all the right questions are asked, the attitude is perfunctory. Servers should at least pretend to care and have a good time. It’s a hard job, often taken for granted and not given the respect it deserves. However, when servers are engaged, it’s a joy. Diners then feel special, and the experience at a restaurant implants in the memory. You want to return when the food seduces, the decor enchants and the server holds your table in a tender embrace. You feel welcome and at home. The experience is far greater than sustenance. If only.
As is true in most establishments, bussers work in tandem with servers to clear dishes, which also needs coordination here. As we’re finishing our entrees, the server asks if I’d like more water rather than just filling my half-empty glass. “No, I’m fine,” is my reply. The remaining water and sips of chardonnay will suffice. I turn to address a member of my party, and when I turn back, both my water and wine have been whisked away by the busser intent on clearing dishes as efficiently as possible. Maybe the remaining wine was hard to see, but at $14 a glass, a buck-50 of my wine has eloped with water that I also planned to drink.
And then our check appears without any mention of dessert, though I always order sweets to report on. I don’t recall waving an all-clear flag, or in any way declaring that our meal was done. But after a quick glance at my companions, we decide it’s just as well. For even if the Killer Key Lime Pie delivers as promised, it can’t rescue our evening.
Black Rock claims “this service model results in greater guest satisfaction and more frequent visits… it’s an experience.” Despite managing to avoid touching hot stone, we just feel burned.
Jon Palmer Claridge dines anonymously when reviewing. Check out the explanation of his rating system.
This article appears in Sep 8-15, 2016.