The hipster is suffering a backlash (mostly from other, self-hating hipsters), but the poster child for its heydey, Woodland, doesn’t seem terribly concerned. It wins wit points with its tongue-in-cheek takes on nature (the décor’s like a deconstructed forest, with green shingled walls and a plastic tree running up the center) and comfort cuisine.

The jaded service is not only legendary, but apparently encouraged—perhaps disinterest is the uniform. It’s an odd stance, considering the menu of 1950s Americana classics like meatloaf and pork chops, chicken pot pie, and so on. What’s on the plate is certainly warmer. We’ve enjoyed spicy, punchy shrimp and grits, but that pot pie has come bland and soupy; its good pastry shell and tender chicken won’t ruin your night or anything. Meatloaf has been inconsistent, but a veggie burger’s often satisfying and not too crumbly. The pie case is a fun touch, but better to look at than sample. Brunch is more successful here, due to a combination of tater tots and sleepier expectations.

Cocktails are fun, although not as excellent and serious as some of the newer programs in town. The short wine list has taken a real nosedive in the last couple of years, and beers on draft are uniformly Live Oak—chosen, perhaps, solely because their tap pulls fit the sylvan décor. Haven’t they heard? It’s hip to care again.