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The Treehouse: A Buckhead Legend
by Cliff Johnson

The six-foot blue finned wooden Marlin had me mixing my metaphors inside one minute, along with my cocktail. That’s the Treehouse. The 13-year-old restaurant, hidden to outsiders, is cherished by neighborhood habitués, from Bermuda shorts legends, to the sexiest pair of glowing legs in town, and that’s just the lobsters. It’s almost like your grandfather’s old attic, full of glorious junk décor you wouldn’t dare trade, only in this attic grandpa ran a blender extension cord up the folding stairs to make midnight margaritas not just possible, but probable. The Treehouse doesn’t live or die by glitz. It’s the off-Buckhead resting stop, where pretension takes a break, with fun and good conversation.

Within minutes of arriving, I lunged for the only small open table. English pub furniture and comfy mix match stools decorate the inside. The Marlin brought me some weekday luck in seating. Still, this place is comfortably swamped on weekdays. Waitresses have those “You don’t scare me” faces so necessary to taming thirsty mobs; they handle overflow with grace and many drink orders. A Doobie Brothers soundtrack kicks in overhead and I notice the giant Grand Marnier bottle in the rafters twenty feet up. That’s when I lock eyes onto the calamari wafting by—looking tempura-battered almost to the point of tiny doughnuts. Tragically, my date’s still a calamari freak; even after years of therapy to work on this character flaw. We order some. I’m now a calamariholic too. What can I say?

The food’s not the only draw here. The Treehouse is also a spectator sport paradise. Summer Rose, the Manager and general walkabout patron saint to everyone here is perhaps the most popular item in the restaurant. Everyone calls her name; everyone smiles at her authentically. She’s the IT girl at Treehouse. I ask her about the best menu items. “Oh—try this one!” she says casually. She’s wearing some cool cuffed red Capri style chic jeans, and a sunburst smile made out of pure laid back charm; your basic people magnet. There’s no hard sell at Treehouse—that’s the point. Summer points to Lisa’s Creamy Artichoke Dip from the Favorite’s section. “This girl hired me!” she says of Lisa. She continues some juicy recommendations laced with even better secrets—gossip—the best form of waitress-to-customer communication! “The place used to be a tree cutting service,” she says. “People think there’s a tree here. And it used to be a place you brought somebody you didn’t want anybody to see you with; now it’s just the opposite. Everybody comes here; everyone knows each other.”

As I chart a course through the rest of the menu, the orange 7pm dusk covers the crowded patio. I notice signs everywhere inside, including “Please don’t mistake our endurance for hospitality.” Under canopied Live Oak trees, this place could be in any small town from its looks; yet it’s in-town. Sure, typical singles mix into the scene, aggressively waiting for tables to open up so adult truth-or-dare games can begin. Requisite stick figures, those cookie cutter models-in-training types, sometimes filter by wearing 70s retro tops and gold disco dancing chokers, but hey, Atlanta’s no stranger to urban nostalgia-lite. Summer mentions that people often spill out of the patio onto the street, and around the corner waiting for tables. Peripheral conversations I hear clue me in on the climate. One guy’s reviewing car repair with friends, another is taking his wife out for her birthday, a third table is debating why a mutual friend is basically—well—not particular about who she shares nachos with.

The nachos are delicious though ($1.00 more, add chicken or sirloin). The menu is seriously eclectic, featuring trendy mid-level city fare from the past decade. On one end of the spectrum, you have baked Brie, on the other Buffalo wings. Everything is welcome at the Treehouse. Starters offer a southwestern influence, featuring great quesadillas. There’s also lobster—steamed or stuffed, adding to the alehouse motif, and the many, many birdhouses hanging on the walls and roof. My friends clued me in that the burgers are the best. They are! The blue crab dip comes out molten hot, like lava, with a crust on it like guys need for dipping. Avoid the tortilla chips and go with my waitress’s recommendation, the pita chips, for excellent dipping potential! There are also seven ways to cry fowl. Chicken choices include: All-American, Special Delivery, Teriyaki, Buffalo, Jerk, California and Marsala. A Nicoise salad balances out the menu as a highlight, and homemade croutons top the consistent house salad. Caramelized bananas await the desert-minded, those who haven’t yet taken up permanent squatting rights at the bar with a beer or cocktail.

In all, the place lulls you into Sublivion—a word rooted in the term “suburbia” for its shear whimsical connotation, and “oblivion” for its power to help me fall happily to mental pieces after work. Part pub, part attic, this neighborhood clubhouse even has a downstairs couch lounge featuring TV and great booths. No reservations necessary—non taken really seriously either; its first come, first serve. Show up and stay late with the cheerful crowd in Atlanta’s sleepy bungalow neighborhood near Midtown.

The Treehouse Lounge is located at 7 Kings Circle, Atlanta, GA 30305. (404) 266-2732. Mon - Fri 5pm - 12am; Sat - Sun 11am - 12am.

From top: Tortilla appetizer; Lobster tail pasta; Trout; Blue Cheese burger; Bannana sunday.