Reward Yourself at The Mill Restaurant, Brandon

 

The Mill | Brandon

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We finally had an excuse to treat ourselves to a meal at The Mill in Brandon. The term mill could connote the churning out of hackneyed, uninspired, edible utility widgets. Consequently, it is a dangerous moniker to self-apply for a restaurant that aspires to creative exploits.  Would this premium-casual restaurant prove itself to be rote or refined?

We needed to celebrate

Our trip to the mill was to be a modest celebration. I had taken a leap by opening this blog to the public. Hunt & Peckish had been evolving piece by piece from journal entries to articles. I fortified my courage and prepared to expose myself to the world. Through words. This is SFW, folks.

I checked my anxiety and decided it would have to be now or never. With a deep breath, I launched the site into the public forum. Short on self-esteem, I could not have done it without Christa’s support.

I accomplished my goal, flawed as the product was—and still is—and this was cause for celebration beyond a bag of peanut butter cups and a cheeky bottle of Winking Owl Moscato. We had some favored spots, but this called for something new, something pricier—but not too pricier.

Yet, where do you go to a town full of chain restaurants when you want to celebrate a milestone or achievement? Some chains are elegant, with great food and service, but they lack a sort of soul. We wanted something special. 

The Mill had our gears turning

Our minds had been on The Mill since moving to the area. The premium-casual restaurant seemed a bit out of our budget for regular meals. So we decided to tuck it away for just such an occasion as this. Achieving my goal earned a reward of rich food,  complex flavors, and devoted execution. So I put on a clean shirt and we headed over in the sporty little runabout.

A mist of dismay chilled me when I next learned The Mill has two locations. One executive Chef overseeing two kitchens separated by some miles had a potential for appreciable failures. Such has been done with great success, but by skilled leaders of the industry.

Hey, maybe these guys are skilled leaders of the industry. I need to stop projecting my own shortcomings and experiences onto others. Two restaurants do not a chain make.  And this isn’t Grief O’Grady’s.

Still, I need to be cautious not to set myself up for disappointment. Go in low and you can only rise. Said Mr. Flaky Head, the anthropomorphic puff pastry with a scorching case of dandruff.

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The Mill

109 W. Bloomingdale Ave.
Brandon, FL 33511
Phone: (813) 603-8786
Hours:
Tuesday to Saturday – 5:00 p.m. – 10:00 p.m.
Sunday – 10:00 a.m. – 9:00 p.m.
Sunday Brunch – 10:00 a.m. – 4:00 p.m.
https://www.themillrestaurants.com/contact-us/

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The Mill Restaurant

We arrived at an empty parking lot and therefore… no waiting.

We were instantly warmed and put at ease when I opened the doors to a shadowy, Victorianesque industrial atmosphere of dark rough-sawn wood, wide-board floors, and amber incandescent lighting.  Beams of afternoon sun lit up a whimsical and imposing wall collage of found objects that spoke a massive sprocket and cog assembly behind a banquette.

Our welcoming hostess led us to our table under the massive mechanism then left us to look over the bill of fare. The menu was an uncluttered parchment with small plates on one side and sandwiches and large plates on the other.  I love simple menus because I suck at decision making.

Though, if nothing screams at you, you might feel the urge to get thee to a hot doggery. Do what I do: close your eyes and point.

Everything looked attractive and I wouldn’t have minded trying a bit of everything. For this reason, every restaurant should offer a pupu platter. Said no line cook ever.

I made short work of choosing by eliminating soups, salads, and sandwiches right off the bat. I was in the mood for neither. Then I scratched off everything that I knew I could get elsewhere and be perfectly satisfied.

Ribs? I’ve got a guy. Fried chicken? I’ve got a guy. Next, I eliminate anything I can do at home, quickly and cheaper: Steak? I’m the guy. Shrimp and grits? I’m the guy. Seared scallops? I’m the guy.

This is not to say a place such as the Mill couldn’t wow me with a new take on such a dish. This process is not a rejection of those dishes, it’s a tool I use to make decisions. My brain bowls best with the bumpers up.

Hot off the line

Christa chose the Tomato Soup (because of course) to start and the Southern Fried Chicken as her entree. I decided to get the Cider Braised Mussels small plate to start and the Meatloaf Wellington as my second course.

The Cider Braised Mussels

You might recognize mussels as something I could make at home quite easily. And I can. But I said my system was to help make decisions. I didn’t need help on this course because I knew I wanted those mussels the moment I read the description. Allow me to describe how they arrived at the table:

A bone white bowl held a pile of onyx mussel shells that glistened behind a cider perfumed steam. Golden-toasted pignoli, translucent shallots, and russet bits of rendered bacon were strewn generously like confetti. The rough ivory edges of blue-veined cheese softened; solid form and crisp lines dissolved in the steam and into the broth. Twin batons of grilled focaccia crossed arms against the glorious mass.

The aroma was intoxicating as the steam wafted off the pile carrying the scent of hard cider, blue cheese, bacon, and shallot. I cannot describe how good it smelled, only that it had me smiling and content before I took the first bite.

Every mussel shell was an open treasure chest of fragrance, flavor, and texture that instantly overwhelmed my senses. Thus unhinged, I lifted the first one and prized free a plump morsel of meat that was charged with cheese, bacon, shallot, pignoli, and broth. 

The texture was at first velvety as the warm cheese dissolved on my tongue. Then my teeth bit into the mussel that was soft but with a pleasingly chewy texture. The bacon added a firm, meaty quality while the pignoli had a soft nutty bite through the toasted outsides to the softened insides.

Time stood still as I savored each and every black-shelled parcel of joy.

Mussels, folks. I’m gushing over mussels. 

I saved the grilled bread for the finale so I could sop up the magnificent broth. The grilling made the chewy focaccia’s exterior crisp with a hint of acrid char which countered the sweet broth, balanced the creamy mouthfeel, and added crunch to the soft onions and al dente pignoli.

The pungent gorgonzola had dissolved enriching the cidery bouillabaisse by the minute. So every spoonful of shallot and bacon-laden broth developed deeper flavor and creamier texture. Finally, I supped like it was soup and wiped the bowl clean with the last fragment of bread followed by a deep sigh.

I don’t recall actually drinking from the bowl.

Whatever came next that evening would not change one fact: I’m going to return for more of those mussels. If anyone from The Mill is reading this, please do not take the Cider Mussels off the menu. And stock adult bibs.

The Tomato Soup

Oh, yeah. Christa’s soup arrived when my mussels did. I almost forgot where I was, my name,  and who I was with.

My sip of the soup was during the glorious mussel affair, so I can’t do it the justice it deserves. It was a cream based puree that Christa described as having a nice fresh tomato flavor and toward the sweeter end of the scale. She would get it again, which is top praise from my wife.

The Entrees

Two stout triangles of minced meat baked in golden pastry jackets of buttery, flaky radiance arrived upon a square of porcelain. Graced in a speckled mantle of sauce and trimmed with pea shoots the twin peaks of meatloaf perched atop a bluff of deep green braised collards on a hill of smashed roasted root vegetables. Smokey mushrooms and parsnips hit my nose.

Christa’s Southern Fried Chicken looked very alluring, but then fried chicken is one of the sexiest of prepared meats. It smelled just right and hints of vanilla and mustard joined the aroma of deep fried flour and bird.

The presentation was three golden-fried portions propped on a sunny mound of potato salad. A fun-size cast iron pan of saucy kidney beans and a stainless ramekin of syrup completed it. It appeared exactly as you’d expect a down-home dish to look in an upscale dining room and it worked.

I half-regretted my decision without taking a bite. That would change.

The Meatloaf Wellington

I tucked right in and sliced off a corner of pastry wrapped meatloaf making sure to get a good dose of smoked mushroom gravy. My bite fractured the rich pastry and sunk into the dense yet tender slab of mystery meat.

The loaf was blended and baked to sublime cohesion that made it difficult to distinguish any one flavor. It didn’t matter since the combination had formed a singular whole that was delicious and the smoky gravy of creamed mushrooms was the perfect compliment to the savory meat.

The sauce was less mushroom gravy than creamed duxelles with a hint of smoke and…truffle(?) Or was that just in my head. I had an earthy flavor that added depth to the bright root mash.

I next forked up some root vegetables that had been roasted soft and roughly mashed. There were almost certainly parsnips and possibly other kinds of neeps though the orange flesh of carrot stood out. They were a well-seasoned compliment to the collards due to their buttery sweet flavor. The greens were a vibrant dark green, tender, and also seasoned perfectly.

The cooks had orchestrated the dish well; each item complimented the other. A forkful of some of each was a medley of flavor, yet each item stood on its own as a complete work. I wasn’t sure what to leave for the last bite but settled on a thick slice of the meatloaf in the gravy and a bit of collard.

I gave the second triangle temporary reprieve (until breakfast) after Christa noticed the glazed look overcoming me.

The Southern Fried Chicken

As I was experiencing meatloaf ecstasy, Christa was at the same time encountering fried chicken agony. No, that’s not fair; I just wanted to write that sentence. But the fried chicken did miss the mark because its look of perfection disguised an unfortunate problem—it wasn’t crispy.

The steaming and tender meat was savory, possibly brined, but lacked any distinctive notes. It was simply a seasoned and decent bit of fried bird that lost it’s crisp between the fryer and our table. Which was disappointing when she went in for the first bite

The cream soda jus was essentially a very sweet vanilla syrup that we both thought was tasty and I imagine would make an excellent topping to spicy fried chicken (better yet, gizzards) and a crisp Belgian waffle.

The “loaded” potato salad was not what we expected by the term “loaded” loaded but had an interesting flavor with onions, savory pickles, mustard, and…mint? Unfortunately, the stodgy potatoes were water-logged and needed salt. 

Lastly, the beans were not my thing (I don’t care for kidney beans), though Christa liked them. The beans were simmered in a tomato sauce with a sweet flavor that reminded me of a Coca-Cola reduction.  As much as they were not to my taste, I did scarf them down the next day, along with the potato salad—loaded or not.

All things considered, the southern fried chicken was a great concept that I’d call a mild disappointment. That has to be a glitch here because everything else was so good. My opinion of the beans was strictly personal taste.

The Grist

Great value

The prices at The Mill were a great value for an establishment of this caliber. The bill seemed a fair exchange for quality ingredients, creativity, and a firm grasp of flavors and technique. The added service, ambiance, and attention in the kitchen was well worth the expense not only for a casual meal but especially for a special occasion.

Rarely do I find myself inclined to get fried chicken from anywhere other than a shack, grocery store, or gas station. But then I wouldn’t be likely to order mussels from a shack, grocery store, or gas station. Mmm, gas stations mussels.

It may then seem ironic that I paid $25 for meatloaf. But what can I say? The menu description spoke to me. Sometimes personal rules crumble in the face of allurement.

The extra sixteen dollars got me (aside from the aforementioned features) a flaky, buttery pastry, smoked gouda, a rich and aromatic mushroom sauce, those braised collards, bright yet tender, and a deliciously complex root vegetable mash instead of basic potatoes and gravy with a green veg of the day from a diner. To me, it was worth it, especially for a special occasion meal.

Difficult Choices

Several small plates other than the mussels grabbed me and I could have made a meal of three smalls, rather than a small and a main. Pimento crab corn fritters and watermelon bruschetta were close runners-up. And the Coca-Cola chili was another appealing option, but seeing red beans made me think twice. Wait…red beans, Coke…Hmm, I wonder if the baked beans were an offshoot of their chili?

Missed Desserts

We also declined dessert since we were comfortably satiated and didn’t need to risk belly aches. But the major deciding factor? Yep, the prices. Were they under $5 or maybe even $8, we might have risked an upset tummy and late night indigestion with a slice or scoop of something. But at $13, our decision was made for us.

Ideally, dessert portions are small enough to be a nice bow on the gift of a meal to ourselves and the prices are small enough to make us always say, “What the hell.” To those of us with limited means, when dessert is priced as high as your entree, it becomes less a bow on a gift and more a gift on a gift.

I’m not suggesting The Mill change their dessert prices or portions; they’ve done the market research, I’m sure. We’re simply positioned on the frugal end of their market where such marginal hurdles can be a deterrent.

Nevertheless, I may have to return to The Mill when I’m craving dessert, particularly for the Jovana Try This Cake! (Swiss chocolate cake, chocolate ganache, and chocolate buttercream). To this fan of chocolate cake that sounds like my ideal dessert. Consequently, should I find myself with an empty stomach and a few spare bucks to splurge (try a herd of spare bucks; fourteen to be exact), I will splurge.

Thoughts from the recliner

Meanwhile, back home with my feet up, belt loosened, and about to settle into 8 Out of 10 Cats Does Countdown on YouTube (NSFW), I burped a bit of blue cheese with smoky undertones and a bouquet of savory cider. It’s the little things…

Now, that would not have been a pleasant experience mixed with chocolate, lemon stilton, or strawberry coulis. It would seem passing on dessert had been a wise decision.

Not every meal needs to be followed up with sugar and cake.  Maybe we ought to save the sweets for after bad thing in life, not the good. Then we could measure our luck by our waistlines. Maybe we already do.

Did you get skipped for a promotion? Then get a Key lime pie and eat the whole thing in your bed with a dark rum chaser.

Did 23andMe reveal your birth father to be wealthy foreign royalty? Then get an All-American Chocolate cake and a box of plastic cutlery from Costco and sit in your car. Better yet, just use your hands. Wipe your tears in the rich velvety frosting.

Did someone run a light and total the trusty car that’s carried you ten years and 300 thousand miles (but at least you’re okay)? Then get a big tub of Blue Bell Groom’s Cake ice cream and dig in while standing in line at the Walmart.

Have spoon, will wallow.

But after a fantastic meal such as we had at The Mill that satisfied in (almost) every way, give that lovingly crafted meal time settle and ruminate on the finer points for a few hours. Then pull that Groom’s Cake ice cream out of your freezer while Netflix loads.

I’ll draw this to a close

Mills may grind out uninspired pap, but the inspired preparations of The Mill restaurant in Brandon are anything but. The atmosphere and decor were inviting, yet mysterious, cozy, yet austere. The mood felt relaxed and comfy;  service and preparation were professional and focused.

The Mill is a quaint and fanciful place to get an inspired and delicious meal at an agreeable price. Though it might not be the cream of Tampa’s crop, albeit its prices or perceived attitude don’t imply that it is, The Mill felt special, the meal tasted special, and we left feeling special at reasonable expense.

Besides, I’ve hardly tasted Tampa’s cream and barely gleaned its crop.

We were on the hunt for a special place to celebrate a special occasion. In doing so we found The Mill to be just right. We will happily return to this remarkable restaurant. Otherwise, those cider braised mussels will haunt my dreams.

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• Can sweet desserts spoil a good meal? 
• What are your menu decision rules?  Are there any items you won’t order because you can make them at home?
• What excuses do you use to splurge on a fancy pants dinner?
• Did a favorite spot of yours lose its way after opening multiple locations?

Please comment with any questions, critiques, or greetings. I’d love to hear from you.

Thanks for Reading!