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CHRIS SHERMANA Florida clone of the Palm, a Big Apple landmark, looks and feels like the real thing, but tastes like this side of paradise.
To me, it was dicey from the start to duplicate the Palm, a unique New York steakhouse, around the country. Sure everyone likes big steaks, maybe Tampa folks more than most, but the ink-stained tradition of cartoonists scribbling caricatures of the famous on the walls seems out of time and place in the postmodern "reality" era where everyone's a celebrity even in the mid-market malls of the Sun Belt.
Yet every chain has to have a theme, and as a newspaper old-timer and a child of the funnies since Major Hoople, a big-city cartoon hangout beats a cowboy bunk house (or Dolphin pen) as a decor gimmick.
In two years, the Palm has won a place in Tampa's cattle chute of big-bucks steakhouses. On its own turf, it may lose the shopping center battle of dueling valets (WestShore Plaza has separate valets for the Palm, Maggiano's and P.F. Chang's) to its more affordable neighbors, but the Palm crew at least gets a few more Jags.
If today's Tampa can't fill it nightly with big spenders, the Palm is clearly a place for top-dollar celebrations and big dates on weekend nights. The more affordable weekday lunch draws a mix of dealmakers and slicksters with too-cool specs and cells, plus ordinary office workers, shopping pals and retiree buddies out for a treat. Among them are dedicated fans who come daily, price be damned, as a power exercise. (Remember, Florida's a state of leisure, so power diners can come in Hawaiian shirts and shorts with shopping bags instead of attaches.)
As to the meat of the matter, however, the Palm still doesn't wow me on food. At these prices, with such a simple menu, that's shameful.
I did have one good steak, a very sweet, juicy prime ribeye, and a few nice old-fashioned touches on the side, chiefly the half and half of onion straws and potato chips, a fiesta of frying that should be shared by four (and no more than once a year).
But the Palm's other famous specialty, monster lobsters at 3 pounds and up at the scary price of $22 a pound, was a washout. Mine was a big one that took up a large tray, but having been par-cooked, then split and broiled, the meat had shriveled and $66 never looked so puny. Broiling makes the tomalley - liver - more appealing, but the flesh tasted dry. Having the waiter's assistant snap the precracked claws inside a napkin added only ceremony.
I don't mind working a bit for the sweet indulgence, so I'll stick to an occasional treat from the tank at the supermarket.
The business lunch is designed as a deal for folks who can pop for a $14 lunch (or write it off); I hope they make better choices than we did. Veal picatta, supposedly from the Palm's Italian heritage, delivered a plate of two escalopes with too much breading. If you have good veal, show it off.
A salad of filet mignon on arugula and radicchio was what the doctor (Atkins that is) ordered, nary a carb in sight, but as dull as such a dish could be. I wanted freshly tossed sparkling greens topped with a steak fresh off the grill - that's dieting. Instead, the salad tasted as it had sat in the fridge and the filet had been sliced earlier, too, rare but not juicy and lacking any edge to the crust. A wad of smushed gorgonzola on top seemed old too.
Many trimmings add nothing but cost. Asparagus fritti are made by treating fresh spears as if they were mozzarella sticks. (This does not count as eating your veggies.) Homefries are said to be cooked skin-on potatoes that are then fried; what came to our table looked like the world's largest potato pancake, almost entirely one piece of soft, buttery near-mashed potatoes.
Desserts are the usual suspects, but at least the classic cheesecake is from S&S Bakery in the Bronx. Chocolate pecan pie was as overdone as it sounds, and actually sticky in the mouth.
Service may make up for the food depending on the luck of the draw; the white-jacketed corps here includes some bright young pros, and many have loyal regulars. On one visit, a waiter offered a chilly diner a chef's jacket and my server knew enough to make an informed pitch for the wine on special.
Not so informed on foods. He said the ribeye was not on the bone (it was, to my pleasure). Told to make it "Pittsburghed," he asked if the temperature should be medium (no, as the kitchen knew, that's crusty black outside, rare red inside). He described the Gigi salad, one of many Palm signatures, as a green bean salad with tomatoes and onion; that may be the company line, but I counted about seven green beans and a bowlful of tomatoes (good ripe ones, I must applaud) with bacon.
Weird. The Palm has done better at replicating the decor and mood of its namesake than the food. That's a case of the marketing getting way ahead of the herd; all brand, no cattle.
A steakhouse, famous or fresh out of the box, only has to make good on simple meat and potatoes, but to do that the food needs to taste crisp and fresh off the fire.
When dinner can hit $150 or $200 for two, I want the food, not the memories, to have edge. Edge I can sink my teeth into.
The Palm Restaurant
205 WestShore Plaza Drive, Tampa
Phone: (813) 849-7256
Hours: 11:30 a.m. to 11 p.m. Monday-Friday; 5 to 11 p.m. Saturday; 5 to 10 p.m. Sunday
Reservations: Recommended
Details: Most credit cards accepted; full bar; no smoking inside; wheelchair access good
Features: Outdoor seating
Prices: Lunch, $8 to $18; dinner, entrees, $24 and up, side dishes $6 and up