High on the list of favorable beach hot spots for a slew of Veroites is Mulligans Bar & Grill in the recently remodeled Sexton Park. Perched precariously along the ocean’s edge, Mulligans is also ironically right across from the Ocean Grill. You couldn’t have two more different drinking and eating destinations. Amazingly enough but not surprisingly so, the two get along amicably, at least as far as a bar hopping outsider such as myself can tell.
The view?
I could sit in a chair watching the ocean from sunrise to sunset and never be bored, not even for a second. The soothing waves rustling along the shore. The chatter of seagulls, pelicans, and sandpipers oh my. The spectacle of beach goers soaking up the rays, sometimes too much so. The surfers, body-boarders, and skim-boarders waiting for the right one. The toes scrunching happily in warm sand. I dare say with the exception of a beer in hand (or cocktail) life doesn’t get any better than this.
Unfortunately when it comes to digging eager toes into warm sand with beer in hand, reality comes crashing down. Unless you happen to be on someone’s private beach, drinks of any alcoholic nature are prohibited. Obviously some backwards fuddy-duddy of societal ill-will concocted that hapless piece of legislation to hinder even that simplest pleasure of life that gives rest to my waking days.
But I digress.
Digging toes in sand with a tasty brew in hand may be prohibited, but I can come pretty close at any number of our beachy locals of spirituous relaxation. Mulligans is a good example of exhilarating ocean view, relaxed Florida atmosphere, and general human conviviality. How can we not smile, let loose, relax, and savor the moment when in the embrace of such surroundings?! I can and I do. But where do the liquid libations and tasty nibblies stand? For some time, they were not on my tiki radar because in years past once was more than enough to leave me sufficiently unimpressed.
Time passes, owners/managers changed, and Mulligans has supposedly reinvented themselves inside and out, kitchen to bar. And so come last Monday afternoon, I decided to cast off my past impressions to newly embrace the Mulligans experience with the only preconceptions to kick back, relax, have a drink or few, some nibblies, and enjoy the beach life. My wonderful life.
Monday morning started cool, wet, dreary, rainy, and overcast. Joy. Already my day was looking swell. The appeal of lonely weather-enduring indoor dullness was none too appealing. Thankfully, by noonish the gray had lifted, blue beckoned amidst a blanket of cottony puffs, and the sun shone upon glittering greenery full of outdoorsing promise. Outdoors in the world of Kristyn equals a beachside (or riverside) view with food and booze, preferably beer.
One upside to lazy mornings is the time to do stuff which gets neglected on work days. Some writing, typing, cleaning, laundry, and a workout later, I primped and preened as much as a Kristyn does, then headed out to eliminate a few overdue errands. Errands accomplished, I moseyed on over to the beach side and Mulligans. Monday is payday, hallelujah, which is good for bills and the occasional playful outing such as the one I was embarking on. My arrival was around 4pmish which was well in time for happy hour. Only one problem, I wasn’t interested in their happy hour specials because more of a lesser quality beer and/or drink is of zero personal appeal.
Backpack slung over the shoulder, I wandered through their main entrance where the hostess promptly seated me outside on their patio. My request of course. No inside for me, nosiree. The great salty outdoors called and wise was I to revel in the zeal of Florida life. There are actually two different outside seating areas: the patio and the cabana. The patio is where I settled, though just a few feet away were beach loungers aplenty of varying Key West colors bordering the sandy dune dropping onto the beach and into the ocean. If I had been there just to drink, cabana all the way, but I was on a beer geek foodie mission to see if Mulligans finally had what it takes to earn a spot in my beachcomber heart.
Looking directly out onto the ocean (patrons’ heads notwithstanding) I was surprised by how calm her waters were. While not a still-glass picture, considering the wind and rain we had previously enjoyed she was in a surprisingly relaxed state. While I people-watched the loungers and walkers make their place along the sandy strip, very few actually braved the water. I noted only one wetsuit clad gent braving the cold waters to skim-board the day away.
My waiter for the afternoon, Brett, did a wonderful job of tending to my needs. Though I mentioned it specifically, with book in hand and nowhere else to be, he noted and respected my desire to relax relatively undisturbed. It is a fine art not all waiters and waitresses possess in such a situation; balancing attentiveness and distance. Brett was in that balance Monday afternoon, so I was sure to leave him a pleasant word and generous tip as thanks. After all, I may very well have been the only Vero Beach resident he waited on that day as he chuckled when checking my ID.
32 years young and still being ID-ed. No complaints here.
I remember nothing of their previous menu, but their current offering is over extensively diverse. All the nibblies were appropriately beachy in some way or another, and so I continued to embrace my love for raw seafood in various forms with a half-dozen of their raw oysters. But before I slip those succulent briny muscles in my mouth, these lips are chapped and my throat parched. What to drink first?
An old favorite when surrounded by the ocean in all her glory is the Long Island Iced Tea. Far from being a cocktailarian's dream of fancy, I have an unabashed soft spot for this long drink and, believe it or not, there is an art in a good Long Island. Some are made well and some not so much which was the case with the one prepared for me that day by whomever was tending bar. I don’t know if they follow a certain recipe formulation or if the bartenders are allowed a level of mixology creativity within recipe boundaries, but I do know she was lacking in impressionable character. She wasn’t a total reject, but as I was soon to note as par-for-course during my stay: she just was. While I failed to contemplate the lack of spirituous interplay topped with a dash of cola spunk, I browsed the beer selection to see if there lay a few sparks of flavorful inspiration.
Nothing of interest on draft (though I could have settled for Yuengling), but of the 19 bottled beer choices, the Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and Victory Golden Monkey caught my thirsty attentions. I wholly understand the SN Pale Ale as an offering; grassy and piney hops on top of a crunchy melba toast underbelly with a refreshing citrus snap in the finish. Whether raw, fried, sautéed, broiled, or skewered, the SN Pale Ale is a perfect match any day of the week.
On the flipside, the additional choice of Victory Golden Monkey was a pleasant if not slightly perplexing surprise. The beer is very good, though I would have to order her in advance with a wine glass on the side for enjoyment at a proper flavor friendly temperature. As a craft Belgian-style Tripel, she enjoys a long shelf life along with a spicy yeast character matched by tropical fruit sweetness, a full slightly doughy mouthfeel, and a dry finish to entice further supping ventures. Of the three Victory beers currently in Florida and Vero Beach specifically, the Prima Pils would be my first choice. Finally! A good pilsner to enjoy at the beach. Hop Devil would be my second choice, but maybe they felt it would be too close in profile to the SN Pale Ale. Also, as a big beer she could catch the average consumer unawares and not in a good way. Hopefully in this regard the wait and bar staff would be professionally attentive and informative. Ultimately, a little voice in the back of my conscience didn’t feel like supporting the Southern Eagle empire that afternoon, so I passed on the Golden Monkey for the always classic and always good SN Pale Ale.
Putting aside the frustrations of beer politics and the exhaustive complexities of beer distribution and marking, I came to Mulligans to relax. With my Long Island Iced Tea of unimpressive stylings mindlessly drained, my SN Pale Ale arrived just in time for the raw oysters. Ironically, I noted they came to me served in a tray of white emblazed with “Budweiser” in big blood-red letters. I swear, if it gets to the point where I see Budweiser toilet paper in bathrooms and Budweiser toothpaste in the oral hygiene aisle of my local market…maybe the castaway life on an uncharted deserted island oasis somewhere wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Rambling aside, at least the oysters didn’t also taste of Budweiser…or maybe they did. Unassuming and far too clean, they lacked any flavor or character other than the dab of horseradish and cocktail sauce I eventually had to add for some much needed tastebud stimulation. To the best of my knowledge, they were salt water oysters and not freshwater, but either way they should still exude the watery terroir which nurtured them into adulthood. The oysters at Mulligans may have had size going for them but they lacked any character whatsoever, much like the Budweiser namesake upon which they lay. A quick dip in the ocean mere feet away from where I sat would have done them a world of good.
Halfway through my oysters, I noticed that apparently someone in the kitchen needs a lesson in numbers. (You too Brett; checking a patrons meal before serving should be unquestionably second nature.) Last I checked half-dozen equals six which does not equal five. Amused nonetheless, I pointed out this minor calculation error to Brett who promptly brought me the once lost but now found sixth oyster. Though unfortunately lacking in briny delights, I nonetheless stand firm in my belief that not one oyster shall be left behind or so help me Poseidon.
Inbetween scooping oysters and soaking in the salty view of kaleidoscopic blues, I noticed another gentleman a few patio tables away enjoying the same peaceful respite as I. His reading literature consisted of the newspaper while mine consisted of Fermenting Revolution: How to Drink Beer and Save the World by Christopher O’Brien. Our written word of choice may have been different, but in his relaxed demeanor and slow intentions I found a kindred spirit who understood the simple truth to living life beautifully.
But where was I…oh yes. My SN Pale Ale had arrived around the same time as the oysters so I promptly poured his arctic depths into my non-frosty handled mug. One out of three isn’t bad. The beer bottle may have been stored in subzero temperatures and its destined vessel may have been a chunky glass mug, handle included, but at least the mug in question wasn’t sporting a layer of head-killing beer-diluting mouth-numbing finger-freezing ice. The blessings were one but still better than none. And the beer? Sierra Nevada Pale Ale is always good, though and appropriate glass never hurts.
It’s been said before and it’s worth saying again: I am a conch fritter fanatic. Those lil bite-size morsels of doughy spicy conchy chunks fried to dark brown mouth-popping perfection are a long-standing indulgence and will be so till the very day I die. I foresee sushi, raw oysters, conch fritters, bacon, cheese, bread, and good drinks all being served amidst surviving friends and relatives at my celebration of the afterlife. Why mourn a life lived when it should be celebrated with the same zest and zeal with which it was lived. Now that’s what I’m talking about, so all my precious peeps out there better make note.
Seeing as I am currently still above ground, let’s delve more into the wonderful world of conch fritters, Mulligans style.
While considering the conch fritters as my next nibbly of choice, a passing plate of golden-brown tennis balls caught my eye. Could those be the conch fritters in question? There was really only one way to find out and though the passing size of said conch fritters served up its own plate of concerns, I took the plunge anyway. Seeing as my mug was all but empty, the cocktail craving in me demanded a satisfying answer. To find that answer I enquired as to their gin selection for a possible martini. Of the three drinks ordered, I actually had the lowest expectations for the gin martini. Sometimes though, you just gotta take the chance and hope for the best. This way I could also see how their bartending staff would fair with two very different bar drinks. As a geek of many burgundian pleasures, I can have fun and critique at the same time.
With only three basic gins available according to Brett, a few minutes later my Tanqueray martini arrived in a cloudy haze of shaken, not stirred. I wasn’t always such a stickler in regards to shaking or stirring a cocktail, but stirring makes a noticeable world of difference when it comes to gin over vodka. For a commercial gin, Tanqueray is pretty good and though her rich herbal complexity of flavors had been bruised and diluted somewhat by vigorous shaking, she was still okay. Once more, not bad, not great, just meh.
Leaving my Tanqueray martini to settle, the plate of tennis balls arrived. My previous concerned curiosity had been answered. Served with a bowl of remoulade for dipping, my gargantuan conch fritters required the unusual addition of a fork; hold the knife please. Though inordinately large, they were soft to the touch which allowed the cutting of each conch fritter into threes an easy task to accomplish. In fact, they were overly doughy soft with little crunch to the outer layer, minimalist conch bits, and little discernable spice character. They were eatable as evidenced by my eventually barren plate, though not necessarily enjoyable. Once more average and mediocre strike a forgettable blow to my palate. Like the raw oysters, Long Island, and Tanqueray martini, they were there in form but certainly not in spirit.
While the food certainly won’t call me back to Mulligans, there is a slim chance the cabana with a beer or two may bring me back again so long as they keep at least the Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and Victory Golden Monkey. But Mulligans isn’t the only ocean view along Vero Beach’s sunny sandy strip, so maybe not. In the end, the most memorable part was the one provided free of charge by Mother Nature in all her unencumbered splendor. What sandy strip shall next indulge the beer geek foodie cocktailarian in me remains to be seen. Until next time…
(an original written work by Kristyn Lier. plagiarism is not tolerated)
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sushi, raw oysters, conch fritters, bacon, cheese, bread, and good drinks all being served amidst surviving friends and relatives at my celebration of the afterlife. Why mourn a life lived when it should be celebrated with the same zest and zeal with which it was lived. Now that’s what I’m talking about, so all my precious peeps out there better make note.
ReplyDeleteI took note xo Paula