West Coast Grill | 850 Douglas Street | Victoria

Update: I'm sad to report that the West Coast Grill has now closed it's doors.

So many things in life would be easier if they were dealt with honestly.  Dating, for example, would be simpler if, when you walked into the bar, men and women alike came out with what was really on their mind.  When the peroxide blonde with the washboard stomach dancing on top of some speakers caught your eye she would say, “Keep moving, droopy.  I’m drunk, not the Make-a-Wish Foundation.”  When a sculpted Adonis in his finest Tommy Bahama shirt put down his Jagerbomb to make time with the shy brunette in the red dress he’d say, “You seem vulnerable.  Can I help you get drunk enough to make a mistake that I can tell my friends about at brunch tomorrow?” 

Now, as long as the proper declarations are made beforehand there is nothing wrong with either of those scenarios.  If two (or more if you like to rock and roll) adults are supplied with all the necessary information to make a bad decision and then do so, that’s their right.   It’s when one or both parties misrepresent themselves that people get hurt, and someone ends up trying to fake their own death or cut off all their hair and join a poetry circle.  Honesty really is the best policy.  So, in that vein, I’ll lead off with this statement:  the West Coast Grill is simply a re-branded Smitty’s.  Same owners, similar food, and still the unofficial CARP clubhouse, you eat there when you want a particular type of meal.  There’s nothing wrong with any of that but it’s something you need to know beforehand to make an informed decision.

It was close to the end of the lunch service when I wandered in so there were only about ten patrons remaining, most of them in their golden years.  From what I could tell, “renovations” translated to a beige paint job, some new lights and the addition of a horse motif that made the whole restaurant look like a fourteen-year-old girl’s bedroom, meaning that simply by having lunch I was violating the terms of my parole.  The arrival of a host distracted me from making any more tasteless jokes and I was taken to a booth where a waiter swiftly brought a menu and took my drink order.  Right away I noticed that there was no background music, the only noise was hushed conversation.  I care very little for having a soundtrack to my meals so this was worth some points straight off.

The lunch menu is limited to a single page of familiar standbys like the Monte Cristo, but that didn’t bother me; my reasoning is that the more options on a menu, the greater the chance that the cook can’t prepare any of them well.  I decided on a plate of hot wings ($8) followed by the the house specialty, a meatloaf sandwich ($10).  I was called upon to make a quick decision when I learned that they were out of meatloaf and in haste I opted for the Monte Cristo ($10).  After placing my order I was asked whether or not I wanted to have my wings before, or with my meal, and while that may seem like a small thing it’s something I’m not often asked. 

The wings were generously portioned and steaming hot, so it’s a shame that they were otherwise unremarkable.  That’s not to say they were bad, but as far as buffalo-style wings go their light coating of Louisiana hot sauce did nothing to distinguish them from the pack.  To my ruined taste buds the best plate of hot wings in town is still the “Butt-Kickin’ Hot” wings at the Bird of Paradise; their house-made sauce is delicious and retains its taste despite being hotter than Anna Kendrick selling Girl Scout cookies.

Other than a possible relationship to the croque monsieur, I haven’t turned up a convincing history of the Monte Cristo, so I’m going to pretend that it had its genesis in the writings of Alexander Dumas.  Not having read so much as a grocery list that he’s written allows me to believe that in his The Count of This Sandwich there’s a scene in which Edmond Dantès takes a break from planting his boot squarely into the hindquarters of those who have wronged him and decides to eat a fried ham sandwich that he’s dipped in egg.  Because he’s French and because he can.  This particular Monte Cristo would have pleased the vengeance-driven Count:  it’s artistry wouldn’t have distracted him from his single-minded quest but it would have filled him up and given him a little more energy with which to stick it to the man.  What I mean, of course, is that in no way did it stand out as being ambitious or unique but it was well-made, tasted very good and was filling enough that I couldn’t finish all the French fries it came with.    As diner food goes we call that a victory.

The cooks at the West Coast Grill seem to know their way around diner food.   In that respect they remind me of my perennial favourite, Alzu’s and that’s not a bad thing.  If they were open at night I would probably find myself there a lot more often, but as I learned from one of the managers, an attempted dinner service was quickly axed when it didn’t draw a crowd.   As it stands, if you want to have a simple, inexpensive lunch in the downtown area where the service is efficient if impersonal and the atmosphere relaxed then the West Coast Grill is your kind of place, but don’t let the name fool you.  It’s still Smitty’s at heart.