Darren W.
Yelp
"...good times" may be Jamison's slogan, but they're also about good, good food, and as a non-drinker, unless a bar has food, I ain't interested.
Jamison's has been around too long for me to remember when they came about yet I didn't know that dinner could be had here despite zipping past it a thousand times over the years, often forgetting it existed. Last night, after a quirk in our schedules caused us to meet unexpectedly on the way home, Kay and I decided to give this low-key bar & grill a shot.
Jamison's describes their signature Bacon Stix as "life changing," and while I might not concur completely, they were amply tasty. Drizzled with an inky balsamic glaze, each "stick" (2 to an order) is merely a prodigiously thick cut of fatty, salty bacon that makes ye want to lift pints after eatin' 'em. Bacon Stix can be had on pizza, burgers, and assorted sandwiches, and man, does Jamison's worship bacon.
Dumbbells, our second appetizer, are morsels of chicken breast wrapped in bacon (what else?) and skewered with a toothpick to make them look like weight-room equipment. The lard and salt of the bacon were successfully imparted into each chunk of poultry, which we dipped into a cupful of ranch dressing for maximum enjoyment.
As hip-hop, classic rock, pop, and honky-tonk tunes wafted through the gloomy, sedate environs, I challenged Steak Mountain. A 12 ounce New York Strip steak (I always have my steaks and burgers cooked medium-rare) atop a pile of beer-battered fries, mozzarella, and gravy, Steak Mountain is a test of wills.
The Canadians call it "poutine" and use cheese curds. Us yanks use mozzarella with that gravy and those spuds and call them "disco fries." Regardless, this was a diner-worthy dinner, the gravy savory, the fries crisp, the cheese oozing and stretching, that slab of succulent, charred beef with rose-colored insides bleeding like Abdullah The Butcher.
Also munched on prior to the main event was a Wedge Salad featuring bacon bits (again with the bacon!), diced tomatoes, blue cheese, a vinaigrette, and the rest of that ranch dressing I didn't use. Iceberg lettuce tends to get a bad rap from foodies for reasons I don't understand (too commonplace?), but I like having a salad like this every so often. The lettuce was fresh and crisp, the plating was as ornate as an ice cream sundae, and the delectable garnishes did more than decorate.
The service was capable, and the clientele was well-behaved. I could see myself eating here regularly without worrying about getting a stool broken over my back. A rowdy dive bar this isn't. Rather, it's a comfortable, quiet neighborhood watering hole where people go to escape from toxic co-workers and a day's worth of on-the-clock bullshit.
