There’s a line separating culinary creativity in all its artistic license from the lesser art of cooked-up interpretation. And there’s discernable difference between dishes thoughtfully “deconstructed” and those merely reduced to pale comparisons of their classic preparation and presentation. Though its menu reads very American Southern-inspired, Ypsilanti’s Thompson & Co. aspired to little more than CliffsNotes versions of several deep South signatures during our recent dinner visit, dishing up pricey yet relatively poor samplings of a cuisine style it strains at doing justice to.
More’s the pity, since the restaurant property itself proffers an impressive platform from which to perform. Stationed in Ypsi’s Depot Town since its Civil War army barracks days, T & C’s come current as a hopping hub for legions of food and drink-seekers, enlisted together to the cause of emancipating Ypsilanti from its longtime perception as almighty Ann Arbor’s poorer, college town relation. And certainly, the place was packed on our arrival after a short walk from free parking. Shoulder to shoulder with many others who’d marched in on a Saturday night, we found ourselves among ranks of a tony, mixed crowd of twenty-to-fiftysomethings, for the most part, looking uniformly well-coiffed and content as a collective, breaking bread and making merry throughout the sprawling interior.
T & C’s laid-out long. A beautifully high-backed bar anchors one end. A live entertainment space staged with comfy furniture occupies an adjoining lounge area. The main bar and dining room — framed in iron girders, brick, and woodwork — is set with almost schoolroom-functional tables and chairs. Bookending the inside beyond that, a bit boxier-looking room likely serves some large party-banquet utility. It’s altogether expansive yet cozily cloistered. Outside, a patio dormant in winter conjures can’t-wait wishes for spring. From any angle, everything about the look and feel screams great date night destination, guys’/girls’ night out hang, or group gathering; a place you might want to keep in mind for any and all such occasions.
Without doubt, Thompson & Co.’s enjoying some local hot spot status. It takes reservations and a two or three-person door staff to greet and seat its clientele adeptly (which it does), creating finer-dining expectations of paying for what you get while getting your money’s worth in return.
Yet value perceptions proved the other rub we ran up against during dinner. Coupled with compromised, appropriation issues we took with the fare, the food experience fell flat for one reason or the other. The skillet cornbread, for starters ($9.50), was sugary and dense enough to pass for pound cake, much more so than corn-sweet and crumbly as one with traditional tastes for this down-South staple sustenance might be willing to swallow. Though the jalapeño jelly was a hoot, it could only help a ten-dollar, palm-sized serving of sweet, cakey bread and butter so much. Frankly, of our three first-course selections, only Louisiana shrimp ($16.25) satisfied, netting us a generous handful sautéed firm and plump in a piquant butter sauce we sopped and eventually squeegeed from their plating with nicely-charred, thick slices of still-spongy (in a good way) crostini. Cajun seafood spinach dip ($18.25), sadly, tipped the scales toward overall disappointment with the appropriately-named “rations” menu, affording us a meager ladling of what was essentially over-creamed spinach dotted with a morsel or two of chopped shrimp and crawfish tails, sorrier still under another let-down layer of torched-black, splotchy crust left under the flash broiler too long. Listen, I love the look, texture, and taste of things browned nice and toasty, but under a salamander, seconds count, chefs. Someone lost count in this case, and put out a product burnt in places which could and should have been caught — then quickly and easily replaced — before it left the kitchen pass.
As we sat feeling a little singed over a rough start to dinner, Racheal, our server, began endearing herself to us with some plucky tableside manner. When she essentially asked me to “suck it in” during her first pass between my chair and the table behind us, I was instantly engaged and entertained. As a former restaurateur, I’ve always had a thing for hiring personalities to fill front-of-house positions. I’m convinced most customers enjoy a little back-and-forth with staff who can give as good as they get; tactfully, cleverly, and with good humor. Racheal was all that as she bandied with me to a point where dining companion Debra offered her a “can’t take him anywhere” apology for some of my comments over Racheal’s brushing my backside as she worked her way around me all evening. Racheal and I saw eye-to-eye, no butts about it. She held up her end of the business, being a personality chameleon who colored her table talk in the very tone I set for our table, when teasing her first squeeze by me to say hello. I loved your service, girl, and, between you and me, the way you framed your suggestions and answers to my ever-probing menu questions was brilliant. Kudos, Kiddo.
As satisfying as the service was from start to finish, our entrées went on to leave us wanting. I liked that they took a temperature on our pan-seared salmon order ($29.25). Too bad the fresh broccoli that came with was so undercooked. I get al dente, but we got barely blanched florets with still-hard stalks. Gilded with a dull, congealed lemon butter, the nicely-crusted but noticeably under-seasoned fish fillet left us wishing we’d ordered something else. So, too, the étouffée ($24); another good catch of shrimp, crawfish (though hardly in evidence), and holy trinity veggies (bell pepper, onions, celery) smothered in a sauce somebody stopped building flavor into after they browned the roux. From Louisiana-spiced heat and buttery unctuousness to shrimp and shellfish stock ladled in, such added nuances are what distinguish stellar étouffée as the gastronomic bayou gods intended from utterly ordinary attempts to mimic this simply stewed masterpiece. What we had tasted was one-note floury and far from mastered. As a table share, Nashville hot chicken ($18.50) played better in tribute to Southern food hospitality, treating us to a slightly crispy, tender breast of bird, brushed and rubbed saucy and spicy, served on a grilled Challah bun built with crunchy, puckery pickle and creamy jalapeño slaw, sided with a big, piping-hot pile of skin-on, skinny fries. Most impressed by this sandwich plunked in the middle of some unimpressive dinner entrees, I’ve told myself to consider the possibility that T & C’s sandwich, pizza, and/or salad offerings — which I’ve yet to try — may prove the menu’s stronger suit, so I’ll commit to returning for a lunch sampling of those soon, and following-up on that in a future column. Fair’s fair.
For now, though, my grilled steak ($31) sears my mind’s lasting impression of what epitomizes Thompson & Co. as an evening meal destination. Check out the photo of that plate, which I just had to attach to this review. Car keys were included in the pic to give that small twist of striated Hanger Steak some scale. I understand this cut of beef is fairly prized for what it is. What it wasn’t was satisfying in any way whatsoever. I ate two bites, shared two bites, and left two bites. And that’s all there was to it: six bites. Total. The meat was essentially unseasoned to our palates, though cooked perfectly medium as requested. Chimichurri helped as a condiment, but didn’t make up for otherwise fairly flavorless beef. There was good news and bad news on the other go-withs. The grits were textbook: velvet creamy and cheesy. The red beans and rice were, again, a reductive representation of a side dish I think much better served classically, with its key ingredients combined all dirtied-up together, not as you see; in a tin lined with a paltry few beans and a melon ball scoop of plain white rice plopped atop. Meh.
Did we have dessert? Sure: leaden doughnut twists that had no business masquerading as airy, soft and snowy Beignets ($8.25); their powder-sugared component almost abjectly absent in the presentation, and a Dairy Queen-take on Bananas Foster ($8.50) that featured an ordinary scoop of ice cream in a boat sunk by completely un-brûléed or otherwise caramelized segments of plain-sliced bananas afloat on a cold sauce that forsook all the luscious hot-cold yin-yang there is to love in a true rendition of Bananas Foster. As for vegan chocolate cake ($8), I concur with dining companion’s comment (she makes a mean chocolate zucchini bread): “Yeah, no. Not much going on, flavor-wise.”
Paying our $185 bill, it offered an option to pay $178 by cash instead. It seemed small compensation.
Leaving Thompson & Co., I looked for Racheal to thank her for her service, then walked out not looking forward to what I’d have to report. I’ll go again and give the fried green tomato salad a try, or maybe pizza with brisket or okra, and hope for better results.
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