The opening act was almost comic. The setup: waiting at the sparsely attended bar for a dinner companion to arrive, ordering vodka martini up with a twist, "a martini, please." The improv take: After searching for a couple minutes the bartender decides they've run out of Monopolowa. How 'bout Stoli? Another fruitless search--out of that, as well. Fine, just pick anything. Eventually we ended up with a tumbler full of ice drizzled with a little bit of the stinging spirit. Then we crossed over to the near-empty restaurant side and asked for calamari to start. A few minutes passed before the waiter returned and informed us the kitchen ran out. Hmmm...out of Mono, out of Stoli, out of calamari--but no crowd.
Not for the calorie-conscious: Metro Grill burgers are worth a taste.
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Chile-roasted shrimp $9.95
Crab cakes $10.95
Shrimp and chorizo quesadillas $7.95
Crab and spinach dip $6.95
Tomato corn bisque $4.95
White chili $5.95
Wedge salad $7.95
Stuffed burger $7.95 (plus .50 per item)
Loaded burger $10.95
Salmon BLT $9.95
Chicken-fried steak $9.95
Texas catfish $9.95
Pork chop $12.95
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Our second visit introduced an almost tragic twist. An appetizer order of chile-roasted shrimp was not fully cooked. Oh, the outer layer appeared firm and white. Inside, however, was a chewy, opaque gray, disturbing mass.
Before our third trip to the Knox-Henderson strip mall, we decided a little Vaudevillean buffoonery trumped the possibility of a gut-wrenching near-death experience. In other words, we opted to start our evening once again at the bar. True to form, staff members poked around for our request, uncertain of stock. We cut off their search and just ordered beer--Duvel, to be exact. The bartender handed it to us without a glass, which isn't a problem to fans of smooth domestic longneck brands. Belgian ales, however, generally require a vessel to curb the sting of carbonation and open up the flavors. Some of the brews are so finicky as to demand glasses of peculiar shapes and sizes. Now at our table on the restaurant side, we called for another round. The waiter began dumping our Duvel into a common pint glass with gusto. The first drops splashed against the bottom and began to foam up furiously. He apologized, disappeared for a moment, then let us know new drinks were on the way and that the bartender told him Duvel should be poured into a tulip-shaped glass. Shortly after that announcement, he brought the replacement...in another common pint glass.
Bah-dah-bum.
The denouement is strangely anticlimactic, even misleading. Clouseau-esque errors don't extend too far into the experience. And the dining crowd missed out on little failures common to a restaurant's opening, for the most part. Only one other four-top graced the dining room during our stay on a Thursday night. Saturday evening welcomed a modest group as well. The following Wednesday, everyone at the bar appeared to be friends of staff members. Considering the unintentional tragicomic events greeting us on each of three visits, one would expect a dinner memorable for clumsy service or woeful meals--something to explain the empty tables.
Ah, but here's the feel-good plot twist: In the end, Metro Grill is nothing like the bumbling, stumbling place we just described.
Remember Jaden's? Mark and Dirk Kelcher's fancy, overhyped bar/restaurant/VIP club flopped. The new iteration was downscaled to a "grill" concept. The menu reads like one of those something-for-everyone diners--you know, burgers and chicken-fried steak, soups and sandwiches, rib eye steaks and chicken breasts. No more paid memberships, no more cool door guys. More flat screen TVs. It's as if Robert Johnson tried to play intricate blues, failed to catch on and disappeared for a while to learn "Chopsticks" on a piano.
Transformations such as this take a little time. The slapstick routines we encountered at the bar represent growing pains or incomplete training. We attribute the near-empty dining room more to the previous fiasco than any current failing. Indeed, considering price points and the "average Joe" menu, there are some welcome surprises at Metro Grill. The burger, for instance, balances the robust char and meaty comfort of the perfect all-American patty. But these burgers are stuffed, meaning patrons select from a list of ingredients--bacon, roasted garlic, sautéed mushrooms and the like--which end up as a thin strata molded inside the burger. The result is an intricate medley of flavors hiding like a shy child behind the bold taste of ground beef, catching your attention momentarily, enticing you. The child becomes a focal point, even while dodging your gaze. For instance, a burger enhanced with bacon and jalapeño with a topping of blue cheese first struck us as nothing more than a great piece of meat just flicked from the backyard grill onto a squishy bun. Then a little waft of smokiness and sharper notes from the other selections strolled lightly across the palate. Finally the varying textures came into play. It was a great experience. Even the loaded version, a seemingly frightening mélange of everything on their list, presented subdued taps of must, smoke and a subtle bitter/sweet/vegetal essence poking through. The only flaw is the medley of cheeses, which melt into a blob of indistinguishable flavors. Better to stick with a single topping rather than harm an otherwise great burger.
Texans in our group raved over the chicken-fried steak. According to the waiter, kitchen staff marinate hunks of red meat for a few weeks before pounding all the character out of it. The shell, however, was good and crunchy, with an easy little kick of spice. Instead of the usual pasty white gravy, Metro Grill ladles out a rich, tangy pool resembling buttermilk. It's a sharp accompaniment. Three forms of potato flashed in oil were equally surprising. Natural cut fries approach excellence--crisp but not greasy. Although most restaurants serve the other all-American dish, one rarely finds French fries so, well, right. The so-called Metro fries are little medallions fried up and doused with enough spicy seasoning that they take on a rusty hue. A deft hand slices house-cut potato chips so thin they almost appear transparent. Again, they're brittle and sprinkled with just the right amount of salt.
