"Ahoy, Starfish!" McCoy says into the phone when you call a few days later to ask if the blackberry cobbler is on the menu again (hope that it is, matey). And if you come back soon after your first visit, he'll remember what entrées you all got before and cheerfully ask if you want them again or are in the mood to try something new. Try anything he suggests. You could trust this guy with your wallet and your car keys. He's American Graffiti nice. He's Mayberry nice.
Hardly any new restaurant has this authentic a y'all-come-back-now vibe anymore. It's a sweet blast from diners past. And the food? Big yums. And cheap. No entrée more than $13.95, which beats some of the Greenville Avenue you-peel-'em emporia all to heck.
Remember those lazy days of summer when Mom pulled the hot station wagon over after a day at the pool and made everybody climb out in clammy swimsuits to get sandwiches? On a recent sultry Saturday evening at Starfish, we watch a family clamber out of a honking huge SUV, not a woody. The mom is all Carol Brady in yellow terrycloth shorts, and the dad has on a white polo shirt and the kind of short drawstring pants that back in the surfer era we used to call "jammers." The adorably sunburned kids in little stretchy pink and blue bathing suits scooch their flowered flip-flops across the restaurant's cool linoleum. They pile into a booth and load up: fat shrimp po' boy sandwiches on hunks of fresh baguette wrapped in tissue paper, nestled in plastic baskets next to hot tangles of fries and little golden nuggets of cornmeal hushpuppies dotted with flecks of green onion. The kids eat every bite, giggling and pulling each other's pigtails.
We don't have to wait long for our order, so we make use of people-watching time. At the next table, sitting knee to knee in the smooth, pale green vinyl booth, an older couple methodically work their way through a plate of cold boiled shrimp--puffy pink little babies served on an oval platter of ice with tails all turned in the same direction. "Going to bingo tonight?" McCoy asks as he delivers to the couple two plates of grilled catfish and rice. They nod in unison.
That there already are regulars at this spot, open just since March, is a good sign. Cops crowd the tables at lunch. A quartet of ink-armed young men wearing those "yeah, we're in a band" scowls share a booth and devour baskets of catfish, fried shrimp and fried cod. Four well-sandaled ladies stop in on their way back from book club.
Starfish attracts a diverse and hungry crowd, drawn by good, basic Cajun staples and an unprepossessing, welcoming atmosphere.
And man, is this place clean. "You could do eye surgery in here," says my dining companion, pointing out the shiny beige tile walls that bear nary a smudge or a smear. The floor is immaculate. The faux chrome café chairs gleam. They make a lot of fried food here--we loved the cod and chips basket and the sweet, crisp coconut shrimp appetizer--but there's no residual greasy film in the air or on any surface. (That's a step up, in my experience at least, from Dairy Queens of days gone by.)
We nibble our way through the menu in two long visits. Six slim spears of fried pickle still crunch crisp and green under their delicate coats of batter. Shoestring-thin sweet potato fries lose none of their creamy, earthy flavor in their quick dip in hot grease. Dowsing them in ketchup is unnecessary, maybe even potentially insulting.
A spiced-just-right meatloaf po' boy is a thick and tender slice with lettuce and tomato on soft, fresh bread. A generous plank of grilled salmon arrives blackened just at the edges. Fluffy rice pilaf is good, but the strips of grilled zucchini and squash seem too bland for much attention. Next to those coconut shrimp is a dollop of sauce made with orange marmalade, Cajun mustard and a hot hint of horseradish. We borrow some of it for the salmon, which arrives without condiments (as does the slightly too-dry grilled rainbow trout). Boiled snow crab legs offer lots of sweet white meat to pick. There are so many stacked on the plate, we have to leave a couple untouched. Ditto the roly-poly rosemary potatoes. (All servings are generous here, so sharing is encouraged.)
Starfish is B.Y.O.B. We wag in a Pinot Grigio and Tom McCoy quickly accommodates with plastic wineglasses, a bucket of ice and corkscrew. He checks on us throughout the meal, juggling his duties as paper-hat-wearing counter guy and attentive host. He'll refill iced tea glasses or fetch more of anything asked for. If he had the time and the place wasn't crowded, he'd probably balance your checkbook or give advice to the lovelorn. We like this guy.
With the sun setting behind the prairie mansions on Windomere Avenue, we sip our wine and stare out the big glass windows at the fruit stand across the street where watermelons are lined up with such precision that it looks like art. The neighborhood is mixed, with dollar stores and shabby auto-repair shops sharing blocks near impeccably restored old homes. (McCoy and Branstetter, who also own the O.C. Mercantile shop, live in one of those houses just blocks away.)
Desserts are next. It's a tough job, but somebody...you know how it goes. The blackberry cobbler--not oversweet and not overpowered by the rich, thick, warm crust--is spooned into a parfait glass (a nod to the DQ, says McCoy) and topped with a perfectly scooped ball of vanilla ice cream. We share it a spoonful at a time, trying to make it last as long as possible. On our next visit, the hot fudge and peanut butter sundae doesn't come close to the cobbler experience. And the Key lime pie (also served in the parfait glass) is creamy but thin and lacks the jaw-biting tartness we like.
McCoy won't let us leave until he shakes our hands and invites us back. We're not getting special treatment. He does this with everyone in the place.
More than the plump shrimp, more than the savory sweet potato fries, more than the cobbler we'd like to gobble every day for the rest of summer, we'll come back for the easy gentility of Starfish. And for the big hello from McCoy. For real.
1417 W. Davis St., 214-042-8100. Open 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. Tuesday-Thursday, 11 a.m. to 10 p.m. Friday-Saturday and 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. Sunday. $-$$
