Whiskey Cake Tampa

Great place to eat. Very low lit ambiance, TVs to watch sports, kid friendly crowd. We got the Wabbit smash and Coolatta...they are not shy about the portions. Wabbit tasted like a thinner Bloody Mary and I was quite impressed. Coolatta was on the stronger side. Kids meal was brought out on a lunch tray and he ate all the Mac & Cheese it was really tasty and fresh made. The Rooster Royale if you like hot honey this is your go to it was phenomenal. I could have really ate 2 of them! The Prime Rib and Gouda Stack another go to for you beef eaters it was delicious, perfectly cooked rib and the flavor combination will have you coming back with the family. Service was friendly and the waiter made sure our cups were always filled. I unfortunately was too full to try a slice of the Whiskey Cake...I'll be back for more!

Came for lunch. Its a chill atmosphere. Decided to do a whisky flight and appetizer and sandwhiches. My prime rib was so juicy and delicious the potatoes are crispy with a hint of spice but mild if you ask me. My husband go a Ruben and his was jucey and just melted in your mouth. The food was amazing. Will return again.

There are meals that sing. Meals that whisper. And then there are meals that just... yell at you. Tonight at Whiskey Cake on Westshore Boulevard in Tampa, the kitchen chose violence. And the weapon was salt. Let me be clear, I wanted to love this place. The name alone conjures images of warm, amber-lit decadence… a temple to brown liquor and butter. The promise of "whiskey" anything gets my attention. But what I got was a masterclass in overreach, a menu trying so hard to be something it fundamentally isn't that it forgot the basics. I started with the spinach artichoke dip. The description read like a fever dream of a Southern grandma with a culinary degree. Smoked Gouda, whiskey garlic breadcrumbs, served with herb Lavash crackers. Sounds like a party, right? Wrong. What arrived was a salt bomb of such magnitude that my palate filed a formal complaint. This wasn't "seasoned." This was a hostile act. The dip was so aggressively saline that it crossed the line from appetizer to dare. And the Lavash crackers? Stale. Not "rustic." Not "artisanal." Just... tired. Like they'd been sitting in a back room since the Obama administration, waiting for someone to make the mistake of ordering them. I told the server. To his credit, he was a pro. He was apologetic, offered to replace it (I declined; some bridges are best left burned), and comped it off the bill without a fuss. That's hospitality. That's what you do. I pivoted to the fried green tomatoes, beer battered with remoulade. And you know what? They were fine. Not transcendent. Not the kind of thing that makes you close your eyes and forget your own name. But they were good. A rare moment of competence in an otherwise chaotic evening. The batter was crisp, the remoulade had a little tang. It was the culinary equivalent of a firm handshake, polite, unmemorable, and just enough to keep you from walking out the door. Then came the main event, the French onion burger. Brisket blend, whiskey-braised onions, Gruyère, garlic-thyme aioli, beef jus, frenchie bun. Ordered medium. Arrived medium-well, knocking on well-dones door. Not a crime, but not what I asked for. I let it slide. I'm a reasonable man. I've eaten street food in places where "medium" is a suggestion and "rare" is a liability. But the fries. Dear God, the fries. They were so aggressively over-salted that I couldn't eat them. Not "a little heavy-handed." Not "the chef sneezed near the salt shaker." These fries had been baptized in the Dead Sea and left to dry. They were a sodium delivery system masquerading as a side dish. I left them. All of them. That never happens. Maybe this was just an off night. Maybe the line cook was distracted, or the salt dispenser malfunctioned, or the ghost of a disgruntled former employee was haunting the seasoning station. I don't know. What I do know is that Whiskey Cake is trying too hard, reaching for some elevated gastropub ideal without nailing the fundamentals. A burger should be cooked to temp. Fries should be edible. A dip should not require a water chaser. I'm not writing this with glee. I wanted the whiskey. I wanted the cake. I wanted the warm, Southern-tinged comfort the name promises. What I got was a reminder that ambition without execution is just noise. Would I go back? I don't know. Maybe. Maybe on a night when the salt demon is otherwise occupied. But I'm not rushing. There are too many places in this city that understand the difference between seasoning and assault. Whiskey Cake, tonight, was not one of them.

All around amazing. Our server Elim took care of my party of 11 for my birthday dinner and my experience blew my expectations. Surprised to say my NY strip was the best restaurant steak that i’ve ever had. The atmosphere was slightly too dim for my liking, but I did not notice it after we put our orders in. The whiskey cake is good to get for a one time but I find that it’s slightly too rich or deep of a molasses flavor.

Man, did I miss whiskey Cake! Being from Plano Texas, I used to go all the time! The Tampa location Oates a great menu and bourbon selection. I enjoyed the salmon with a side of fries. Get the fry sauce!! …