It was a rainy Friday night in Georgia (cue for a song) and our friends invited us to join them for dinner to celebrate their 27th wedding anniversary. They had read some good reviews about the Watershed restaurant over in Decatur which was owned by one of the Indigo Girls (cue for another song.) and we had reservations for 7.45pm. Our friends picked us up and we set off in eager anticipation.
To my mind the hostess greeting you at the restaurant’s entrance sets the tone for the remainder of the evening, and the lady who directed us to our table would have been better employed greeting mourners at a funeral home. I like minimalist in interior design, but draw exception when the restaurant’s décor and layout reminds me of a school canteen (cafeteria.) I maybe old fashioned but I am partial to booths and I don’t like being seated in the middle of the room which has the ambiance of sitting in a gold fish bowl. Continuing the scholastic theme the tables were too small for 4 adults and they were obviously purchased as a job lot from a local elementary school.
Moving onto the menu, their signature dish was roast duck on a bed of sautéed Brussels sprouts. I had prepared sprouts the night before and, much as I like them, decided to avoid eating the green balls in successive meals. One of the items on the menu intrigued me. It was listed as a hanger steak. I have ordered and eaten most types of beef cuts but had never come across a hanger steak until now.
The pretentious waiter proceeded to indulge in a series of charades to demonstrate where on the cow the hanger could be found. Flapping his arms with gay abandon, he indicated the hanger was cut from the folds that drooped on either side of the cow’s head. I really wanted to determine whether it was lean or fatty, and he finally said it was one step removed from rib eye in consistency which I don’t care for.
The hanger didn’t sound very appetizing and I ordered the flounder. We decided to share some appetizers which comprised some crawfish pies and a plate of wild mushrooms on a bed of toast.
Five minutes later the waiter returned and went down on his knees at my side on the premise that I could be the Prince of Wales, and whispered in my ear that they had just sold out of flounder. Sometimes waiters remind me of second hand car salesmen in terms of sincerity. He recommended the special which comprised a porterhouse lamb steak. Now the only parts of a lamb I find palatable are the rack and the leg and as none of us had heard of a lamb porterhouse, and I was quite skeptical.
My circumspect waiter assured me that I would not be disappointed and I reluctantly accepted his advice. The lamb turned out to be a glorified chop which provided an exercise in locating some edible meat from the grizzle and bone. The side orders resembled regurgitated food which would have made a kangaroo proud. Quite frankly, it was one of the worst entrees that had the temerity to pass my lips.
The appetizers were quite satisfactory, but the entrees were over priced and forgettable. I have never been impressed with a restaurant where the appetizers outshine the entrees. The prices for a bottle of wine were outrageous and we confined ourselves to a glass of wine each which still cost $10-$15 a piece.
Our lasting impression of the Watershed was one of being ripped off. We agreed that perhaps the depressed economy had taken its toll on the menu, and the management was forced into buying cheaper cuts of meat, but irritatingly charged premium prices. Fortunately, the company was great and we determined that our chastening culinary experience would build character and make us think twice before venturing outside our neighborhood. The Blue Ribbon Grill down the road was recently voted No 1 in the city for its meatloaf for goodness sake.
