Cooper’s Hawk
Walking into Cooper’s Hawk, I momentarily forgot why I avoid chain restaurants like the plague: the food is usually mediocre, and the service somehow manages to be worse. Suffice it to say, I was quickly reminded. My partner and I started with the Crispy Brussels Sprouts—an optimistic label for a plate scattered with suspiciously raw kernels. Without a serving spoon in sight, we were reduced to a bumbling game of pass-the-plate-and-stab, as though we’d wandered into some bizarre dinner theater.
Things didn’t improve when the lemonade showed up, looking less like a refreshing beverage and more like a glass of water that once heard about lemons in a distant fairytale. Our server cheerfully admitted it “didn’t look right,” but served it anyway, presumably under the “eh, close enough” school of thought. With that kind of quality control, I should’ve guessed the rest of the meal was headed for disaster.
I foolishly ordered the Blackened Skirt Steak Salad, hoping for a hint of spice or a dash of creativity. Instead, I got a lettuce swamp drowning in not one but two dressings—bleu cheese and creamy Italian—because who doesn’t love a sloppy duel of condiments? The bacon bits could’ve been used to chip ice off a windshield. Meanwhile, my partner’s Filet Mignon came out so rare it looked like it might’ve just mooed. They’d asked for Betty’s Potatoes on the side but got Mary’s Potatoes instead—apparently, the kitchen thought “names are all the same” was a fun twist on customer requests.
By dessert, we were already in survival mode, yet we still subjected ourselves to the Milk Chocolate Crèmeux. Spoiler alert: it was about as creamy as a frozen brick, topped with a “dark chocolate krackle” so devoid of taste I briefly wondered if I’d lost my sense of flavor. To rub salt in the wound, a large party was seated so close behind me that every passerby bumped my chair as if we were in an overbooked flight’s middle seat. The only saving grace? A dirty Bombay Sapphire that had just enough brine to remind me there’s still some good in this world. If nothing else, Cooper’s Hawk perfectly illustrated why I typically steer clear of chain restaurants—between the botched orders, watery drinks, and relentless chair-bumping, I’d have rather eaten cereal at home.