Last Call for Gibson's Grill
Let me start with an appeal to Richmond wait staff: Will the professionals please stand up? In the 10 years I’ve dined in Richmond, good service has been so infrequent, that I remember the name of every attentive, knowledgeable, professional server I have encountered.
And I can count those names on two hands.
The servers at Gibson’s Grill, well, let’s just say I don’t know them by name. To be fair, I’ve only been three times, but each time the service did not deserve a standing ovation.
I’ll begin with my first visit. We walked into Gibson’s on a Saturday night and the hostess appeared absent. That is, until she sprang up from behind the host stand, where she had been seated, undetected, with her head hanging over her waist while touching her toes, to lead us to our table. She would return to this seated yoga pose again and again during the course of our meal, popping up for air and to seat the occasional table.
Our waiter arrived and read us the dinner specials from a tattered note card pulled from the inside of his shirt. The sheet was wet with perspiration and it dangled close to my ear as he perched on the booth behind us and leaned over my head to recite, in a monotone voice, the four dinner and two appetizer specials, mispronouncing several of them. Aioli became "Eye-oh-la" in his patois.
While scootching toward the wall to escape his cigarette breath, I looked over my shoulder and saw the same hostess twirling around a column in the dining room as if it were a stripper pole.
Our martinis arrived quickly, in a thick-walled highball glass, not nearly cold enough and they weren’t going to get any colder without a stem to prevent our hands from warming the glass.
I had a Gibson and my companion had something called "One night in Bangkok"-- a mandarin Cosmopolitan. It was sweeter and more commercial tasting than a Debbie Gibson tune. We should have ordered from the wine list. Gibson’s has 15 choices of wines by the glass, mostly fruity, nicely chosen New World wines that complement their cuisine.
While our server answered our questions about the menu, he compulsively reached under his shirt to rub his chest and scratch his pecs. I had a difficult time maintaining eye contact with him. His frenetic grooming made me feel as if I had walked in on him in the bathroom. It was at this point I took in Gibson’s décor, which reminded me of a VIP bar in a small-town Civic Center planned with the color swatches from the defunct men’s clothing store Chess King.
White tiles, black and brown tiles, black and brown portraits of musicians, heavy-duty fabric covered booths, tacky purple candle holders, dashes of red – the only things missing were the rooks and queens and roadies sipping PBR and throwing back shots.
Too bad, they would have given the empty restaurant some life. As it was, we were one of only two tables at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night.
For appetizers we chose the fried green tomatoes $7.95 and the fried oysters, $8.25. Yup, that’s a lot of fried, but then most of the appetizer choices were fried. Or nachos. Basic bar fare.
The fried green tomatoes came over yellowed romaine with a balsamic vinegar glaze that competed with the natural acidity of the tomatoes. It would have been better left off the plate. The Asian slaw garnishing this starter would have been appetizing had not the sesame oil in its dressing been rancid.
The fried oysters were delicious – plump, tender and slightly feral tasting, the way good East Coast oysters are wont to be, but the cocktail sauce was too sweet for my taste, even with its healthy horseradish kick. Give me a couple of lemon wedges please, not doctored ketchup in a soufflé cup.
In between courses, I walked downstairs to check out the lounge. Though empty, it was cozy and I imagined it a chill little hideaway to imbibe after a show. I also noticed several filthy brooms and crusty dustpans, left in the upstairs dining room, which is tiny, and also in the downstairs lounge.
Was Gibson’s expecting a rowdy crowd of messy eaters? Or was this a modern version of "Fantasia," albeit with the dirtiest brooms outside of ODC?
Then, the best thing happened that could of. I went back upstairs and dinner was on the table. My lamb burger, $8.95 was incredible; completely living up to the high expectations I’ve had of it since Gibson’s lamb sliders won the best dish at this year’s Broad Apetit.
What I wrapped my lips around was a warm, Gyro-seasoned patty of ground lamb on a thick pita, topped with feta, roasted tomatoes, whole cloves of garlic and translucent warm red onions. The side of new potato salad it came with was crunchy with celery and onion and tangy with mustard. There was no question it was house-made.
My friend had the much touted Lobster Mac & Cheese, $21.95, served with a house salad. The small salad had the appeal of an afterthought; wilted lettuce, cucumber slices that tasted like the inside of a dirty refrigerator and croutons that the kitchen should not confess to making, though I doubt these were homemade.
As for the lobster mac & cheese, it was … hmmm … what is the word?
Revolting. The orecchiette pasta was limper than Andy Dick’s handshake and the cheese was rubbery and blobbed in the center of a cream sauce so heavily laden with wine that I wondered if it had been poured profusely to cover up the taste of bad seafood. But, I don’t think this was the case. The lobster was tasty, and plentiful, but putting lobster in this dish was like shaving truffles over a box of Velveeta shells. A total waste.
After our server asked how things were going (fine, we said) he returned to the host stand to rub the hostess’ back. I guess she had finished her yoga set.
Gibson’s Grill *1/2
700 E. Broad St.
(804) 644-2637
What’s in the Stars:
0—don’t go
*-average
** above average
*** very good
**** excellent dining experience
Imagine learning to process caviar in Russia after a childhood of Cup-a-Soup. Needless to say, Varmit Pickeral was inspired. Thus began 20 years of restaurant gypsy-hood, beginning with Varmit’s first job as a dishwasher in an institutional kitchen and then trying out most any job Varmit could get in the hospitality industry, including; NC BBQ pit line-cook, cheese steward at Artisanal in Manhattan, grape picker, and specialty buyer for Balducci’s Food Lover’s Market in Northern Virginia.
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