Destination Dining: Hibiscus

Last night we snagged one of those rare prizes not often seen in the restaurant world--a reservation on a Friday night at Hibiscus earlier than 10:00 pm.  I saw that they had an 8:30 on Open Table so I pounced on it before someone else much brighter in the Dallas firmament of shiny happy people claimed it for their very own.  Hibiscus is an old stand by--most of the time when we want to dine there we just show up and push through the crowd to the service bar in back where they have 4 barstools and a lonely bartender anxious to make cocktails and conversation.  I guess Fridays have slowed down there a little because the restaurant was only about three fourths full but the big egos in the room made it seem like it was more at capacity.

A mature woman with wrinkly hands and a dress two generations too young for her smoothly showed us to our table and entreated us to "enjoy." (I thought that cliche was reserved for when a server placed your entree, but apparently its use is becoming more widespread and therefore, even more meaningless.)  We were watered but not breaded and our grandmotherly server came over and suggested a drink.  We don't normally partake of distilled spirits but she seemed genuinely concerned about our hydration so we indulged her.  (If you believe that last sentence you have evidently just started following this blog.)  I say grandmotherly because she wore her uniform modestly, wasted no words except to call us dears, and held her hands clasped together in front of her when she walked (exactly like the Mother Superior in Change of Habit, my favorite movie about nuns starring Mary Tyler Moore and Elvis. ) That being said, I bet I have 20 years on her.

Chewsy Mothers Choose Jif

And Then There Were None

Off da Bone

After our drinks were presented we ordered and the food started coming right out of the kitchen.  I started with the charred octopus, which was tasty if rather reminiscent of a high end Goodyear tire in its mouth feel.  D had the wedge, which looked more like a boatload of onion rings strewn upon iceberg lettuce and doused in blue cheese.  He ate all of it. Plates cleared efficiently, cutlery redistributed and table crumbed, plop went the entrees and a side.  D had the short rib chop (I think it was sous-vided for like 25 years because the meat didn't just fall off the bone, it jumped off, lemming-style.   I had 5 perfectly pan-seared East Coast day boat scallops and we shared the truffliest,

Wedgie

cheesiest mac and cheese concoction in Christendom.
We could only down less than half of it, so we boxed it up to take home.  (It is still in the car fifteen hours later, which is what usually happens if we even manage to remember to take the box with us when we leave.)

Entrees dispatched, we declined dessert and opted for cappuccinos and
lattes, which were perfect.  G'ma brung 'round the tab, which we paid promptly.  The entire dinner was very, very good but the overall experience seemed like it might have been two spark plugs short of robotic.  Quick, efficient. anticipatory, out of there.  I think they are so used to turning the tables for maximum return that they forgot that sometimes a little lingering is a good thing, especially if there are 30 times as many would be diners elbowing their way into Sissy's Southern Kitchen next door.

The tab with tax, title and license was about $135 and we were in and out the door in 45, which comes to roughly $3 a minute.  Although it was good I think I would have been happier in the $1.17 to $1.42 per minute range.  I like you, Hibiscus, but next time I come I am going to speak in a slow, steady, Southern drawl, and chew every bite 100 times.  Grandma will be proud.