Audio By Carbonatix
Every little ripple in the landscape bears a name, such as Walton’s Mountain. Good example, really, because some people revered the sappy ’70s family drama while others despised the show. Naturally, the characters suffered through various plot twists the likes of which we can’t describe. We’d rather eat microwave pizza than watch reruns of John Boy and company. Walnut Hill Grill reminds us that undulating terrain, like prime-time television, is a series of relatively high and noticeably low points.
Let’s start down in a dell. While awaiting the arrival of a guest, we overheard a telltale conversation between bartenders. Someone out in the big square space that makes up the dining room returned a drink, and the guys pouring alcohol resolved to follow “the book” when mixing future cocktails. Such complaints must surface quite often. Then we ordered a Chopin martini. (They don’t carry Monopolowa, which seems a bit pretentious.) True to his word, the bartender dumped an overpowering amount of vermouth into the glass. Now, vodka martinis work best when clean or freshened only with fruit rinds. Potato vodkas, in particular, react poorly to the introduction of grape spirits, so we sent the offending thing back. Yet the dry smack of vermouth lingered in replacement martinis, suggesting the bartender reused our stemware without rinsing.
Not a good start.
By then we were immersed in muddy monotony. Brown rug, brown walls, brown chairs, brown ceiling, brown ceiling fans–the place is brown. Painfully brown. The only exceptions are brick wall sections splashed with a thrilling shade of off-brown, meaning a vaguely oatmeal tint, and a couple of different-hued vases displayed behind glass in the wall separating the dining area from the kitchen. A brown wall, mind you.
This tepid décor must wear on the staff. Service here is uninspired and a bit clumsy. While clearing our appetizer on one visit, a waiter spilled greasy brie remnants in a guest’s lap. Another staff member bobbled her tray when delivering the same dish. During a second visit, we ordered a side of fries. For some reason, the waiter failed to mention our entrée included a goodly portion of the same.
Maybe it’s a training issue.
But then a bit of high ground: Mediocre smoked salmon, an appetizer offering on a plate bearing traditional elements such as capers, red onions and toast, arrived with a heaping mound of seasoned cream cheese. A bit disconcerting to see a pile of melon-ball-size objects as a centerpiece for salmon, but it’s the best part of the plate. The kitchen staff tosses just about everything into this pile of curdled milk–thyme, parsley, basil, pepper, garlic–and it works. Ignore the thin-sliced suspiciously red fish and just spread this dinner-party staple on slices of toast. We even kept it to accompany an order of kettle chips. Walnut Hill Grill’s kettle chips are a revelation, by the way. Bulk presliced potatoes somehow emerge from their frying vats as crisp but not oily, lightly salted and irresistible chips.
Curiously, these same line cooks turn mashed potatoes into a salty mush with almost no texture, and the twice-baked version collapsed when hit with a fork, revealing a watery porridge. The kitchen should never be allowed to perform any act with a potato other than dumping it into the fryer.
Well, what they do with spuds on their own time, that’s none of our business.
Such inconsistencies fade when they turn to red meat. The filet mignon, in particular, stands out. Well, our first portion was a puny, twisted Quasimodo of a steak. When a manager overheard a guest’s scatological comparison, the staff sent out a second, beautifully charred and well-proportioned. The inside glowed bright pink-red under a contrasting dark surface crisp with grill marks, and under the dense brown ceiling, etc. The whole is more tender than one expects from a choice grade cut. Even the gnarled outtake steak met the same standard, discounting appearances. But why did they bother to deliver such an ugly piece? Unfortunately the hunk of beef arrives drenched in a sauce of caramelized portobello mushrooms, shallots and peppercorns that conveys an over-reduced bitterness. They shouldn’t mask a well-prepared steak.
There’s not much to the restaurant’s prime rib sandwich, just bits of beef sliced thin and wedged en masse between hunks of decent crusty bread. But this simple presentation allows the beef to stand out. Avoid the jus, and ask for a side of horseradish dressing. The former is merely a bowl of brown liquid sodium that leaves you gasping for water.
This place can cook red meat; just skimp on the sauces if you know what’s good for you.
Things were strangely reversed on other dishes we sampled. A special of bacon-wrapped shrimp featured rather blah seafood sitting in a shallow puddle of green chile sauce. Make that outstanding green chile sauce, viscous and seedy with a fresh, mild vegetal flavor–perhaps a bit too mild to hang with smoky bacon. Little things seem to undercut so many dishes. A sweet and fruity Espanol sauce served as a perfect foil for pork, but they overcooked the chop.
By the way, they stole the Espanol sauce recipe from Hofstetter’s Spargel Café. Acquired, really. Walnut Hill Grill is part of Davis Dining Concepts, a Phoenix-based group that bristles at the word “chain.” The chefs–Juan Diaz, in this case–retain independence when designing the menu, or so they claim. For some reason the register printed “brie plate” as “almond brie,” apparently because another Davis establishment lists the later. Anyway, the group gained control of the former Hofstetter’s location (hence the Espanol sauce) and plans a late-fall reopening as Park Cities Grill.
Non-almond brie was coated in bread crumbs and heated beyond the point of easy recognition, to a consistency resembling a substance commonly evident in great abundance at grade schools during cold and flu season. That’s the way it always ends up when we buy store-brand cheese and pop it in the oven ourselves, which is pretty much the reason we never bake a brie at home.
But restaurants should, in general, outperform the general public. At Walnut Hill Grill the scorecard reads: potatoes, split decision; sauces, yes and no; red meat, yes; white meat, no; décor…well, that depends on your threshold for HGTV. That just leaves dessert. We tried a Grand Marnier crème brûlée, a sizable portion with third-degree burn marks lending a burnt orange peel taste. Not something to relish. The blackened sugar crust shattered easily and tipped into the custard, leaving Titanic-like shards poking from the pale yellow sea. Actually, the disaster reference is apt, for the custard was cold, despite evidence of heavy torching.
When you think about it, any place that conjures up The Waltons and Titanic, well, approach it with trepidation. And for now, stick with red meat and a pile of kettle chips. 8141 Walnut Hill Lane, 214-750-5348. Open 11 a.m.-10 p.m. Sunday-Thursday, 11 a.m.-11 p.m. Friday and Saturday.
