Greg Cavallino C.
Google
We got out of the Tampa Bay Bucs game and thought we'd try a spot off the beaten path.
I ordered fish and chips. When it arrived, I asked the server if she'd brought the kids' meal by mistake—it was tiny. She said, “Nope, that's it.” I said, “Are you kidding me?” She replied, “Nope,” and we both laughed. Normally I'd send it back, but I just wanted to eat and leave. The fish was a sad excuse, and the tartar sauce came in a prepackaged packet—hardly what you expect from a waterfront restaurant.
When she returned, I asked if it was straight from the Gorton's fisherman. She said she couldn't answer that, but at least tell me if it was fresh or frozen. She was honest: “Previously frozen.”
From the moment you pull up, the only thing this place has going for it is the water view. It's a total dive, but usually dives serve great food. A waterfront spot should nail at least one thing: either stunning ambiance—luxurious, romantic, upscale—or gritty charm with killer eats. This place has neither. It's a dump, inside and out. Dirt everywhere. The bathroom doesn't even have a real mirror—just a warped piece of metal you can barely see yourself in.
It's clearly a boater hangout; people wander off their boats in flip-flops or barefoot. But the common areas outside are covered in crushed oyster shells instead of gravel or mulch. Those shells are razor-sharp—absolute hazards. I can't imagine how many people have sliced their feet open on them.
There was a TV out back. We asked if we could watch the football game. They said that one didn't work, then pointed to another one 20 yards away. Good luck seeing that.
When the server suggested I try the catfish next time, I said, “You think I'm coming back? Are you kidding me?”
This place is a joke. I can't believe it stays in business. We'll never return to this dump.