Of all the details of a recent happy hour visit to Pleasant Storage Room, I remember the bar’s flower arrangement most vividly. With little other distraction, I had plenty of time to study the browned elephant ear fronds and drooping ginger flowers. I would have loved to have studied the chicharron de pollo, but that never made it to the bar.
Were it a more successful evening for the island-themed room, I likely wouldn’t have given the blooms a second thought. But given the casual disregard of the staff and the underwhelming food and drink, they seemed indicative of the entire operation. Much thought obviously went into making sure everything at Pleasant was just so. Witness the florid descriptions in their menus (Hemingway worship only goes so far). Not enough care, however, was being put into the execution. Maybe the whole place had settled into a tropical malaise.
It’s equally likely that the staff was in mourning. They were certainly dour enough in their matching black guayaberas. One of the bartenders spent happy hour staring blankly at the almost-empty dining room. The other two were slightly more engaged, if not enough to offer us a second drink or a glass of water. When we finally did catch their attention, we were greeted by a sigh. Austin’s service standards numb expectations, but Pleasant didn’t even seem to aspire to that level of mediocrity.
After a noticeable wait, we ordered the two advertised happy hour food specials, the cacahuates ($3) and the banana leaf snapper ($15). They did not have ceviche that day, a fact told with a big whoop-de-do, so we made do with only the jerk chicken ($5 happy hour, $10 regular). The flavor was perfectly adequate, although too low on the Scoville scale to truly qualify as jerk. The in-shell peanuts, tossed in sophisticated twang of “chili pequin and dried mango powder,” quickly grew tedious. The rubbery snapper disappointed with its dry coconut rice. The side of mojo, served in a plastic thimble, was bogged in cumin mud.
To transcend the muck of food, the drinks needed extra zip. But the Bay of Figs ($8) and Planter’s Punch ($5 at happy hour) were almost indistinguishable. Both were imminently sippable, rooted in American Tiki despite the base of 19th century oleo-saccharum. My companion scoffed at the green tea used in the Planter’s, saying his Bajan mother would be horrified. The classic daiquiri did manage to stand out, but for the wrong reasons. We expected perfection; head barman Alfonso Hernandez undoubtedly made many exceptional ones at East Side Show Room (still Austin’s daiquiri king). This one was too tart. We couldn’t close out the tab quickly enough.
A few nights later, I returned with a larger group, hoping for a new experience. Despite the previous experience at the bar, the dining room’s leather banquettes and mounted marlin have an appealing clubbiness. And to Pleasant’s credit, the experience was better. The service improved with a dedicated server, the ceviche was back on the menu, and there was nary any evidence of barman scowl (although the previous evening’s staring employee continued to gaze. Maybe he’s a medium?)
The drinks again ran the gamut. The Serpent’s Cane’s ($11) smoke and Cuba Libre’s ($10) sweet-sour shuffle both impressed. The mojito ($9) practically gave stink-eye in its bitterness, easily overlooked had the lime had more sass. There’s also a small collection of mostly local beer and a thoughtful zero-proof menu for those who do not imbibe.
For dinner, we started with the ‘mitas ($3) – palomitas de maíz as interpreted by Chester Cheetah. The sweet chili ghee was not in abundance, but the popcorn would be welcome for a Gilmore Girls binge. The yucca fries ($5) were an unqualified hit. The homestyle cut gave a nice meatiness, and the red mojo served as a nuanced take on ketchup. The empanadas ($7), fried egg roll crisp in the Cuban style and confettied with red onion, quickly disappeared.
Two varieties of ceviche, served with plantain chips, mostly worked. The Peruvian snapper ($10) used a traditional leche de tigre, but playfully subbed corn nuts for corn. Its flashier sibling, the Napali Death Tuna ($12), may have spent some time in Ibiza. A bit too sweet with its combo of passion fruit, candied habanero syrup, and Lemon Hart rum, it nonetheless provided entertainment with its flaming lime. Less enthralling was the task of separating overcooked meat from shell in the Lobster St. George ($18). The server sent out another without much prodding, explaining that sometimes the kitchen messes things up.
Our table messed a few things up too – mostly due to the ubiquitous brown paper bags and waxed paper boats. Some were garnished with enough diced and sliced vegetables to fill a disappointing piñata, giving our table its own mini ticker tape parade. The ceviches hid in shot glasses, and the rice used the boats as a halfpipe. The presentation drove home the point that Pleasant was serving “street food.” But when eating lobster, one wants a plate.
The gimmicky presentation was another example of an establishment that so slavishly devotes itself to concept that it forgets the customer experience. The idea of languid days on the island may bring the crowds in, but it doesn’t bring them back. In its effort to create a “vibrant fantasy,” this storage room forgot the first, and most important, part of its name. For those who are still wondering, two out of three is bad.
This article appears in October 17 • 2014.