George S.
Yelp
I've been half a dozen times, and there's always something to enjoy - and to vex.
The team behind Bungalow 44 have an apparently insatiable appetite for opening restaurants in Mill Valley, and whilst I don't hold any of them in particularly high regard, a lovely commonality between all of the restaurants in the group, including Bungalow 44, is that they unfailingly recruit and, more importantly, *empower* talented bar staff. Service at the bars is always friendly, the pours are generous, and the cocktails are invariably a delight. This isn't happenstance: the ownership team either has real chops in this area, or delegates it to someone who does.
And happily, unlike their other joints, Bungalow 44 has some dishes I've genuinely enjoyed eating. Perhaps the best example is the fried chicken - which is so-so, but elevated enormously by the phenomenal accompanying mashed potato. I sincerely consider it to be second only to Joël Robuchon's, anywhere in the world.
Alas, the service here is turgid. During one visit, a member of our party ordered a medium rare steak, only to be served a dense brick of seemingly roasted beef. When he politely showed the waitress and reminded her that he had ordered it medium rare, she - in front of six other people at the table - flatly told him that he was mistaken, and that he had asked for it to be well done. After some back and forth (during which everyone else at the table was exchanging puzzled looks at the open hostility on display), she returned with a better attempt, and threw in a sarcastic jibe for good measure. Not for the first time at a restaurant in the Playa/Buckeye Roadhouse/Corner Bar/Bungalow 44 quadrifecta, I had to be talked out of simply leaving immediately.
On another visit, I was served bone marrow without the marrow: a solid piece of bone, overcooked to the point of being impenetrable: the medullary cavity as solid as the bone surrounding it, where instead there ought to be gelatinous oozing marrow. Despite the inarguable evidence in front of her, a waitress squinted at my plate and wondered aloud how she would know if I had simply eaten the marrow, before reluctantly bringing me something Fergus Henderson would recognize as bone marrow.
It's so strange. Each time I've been, without fail, I've encountered a member of staff who says something oddly sharp to our party, or their colleague, or another patron. And then each time I've had a good drink, and some decent food, and almost - but not quite - forgotten about the hostility.
All of which is a shame, because there are signs of something worthwhile here: the new patio area is much improved, there's a coherence of brand and menu and ambience not seen at other outposts from the same team, and the dishes occasionally impress. Maybe Bungalow 45 or 46 will be the one?
