Baylor B.
Google
I usually don’t write bad reviews. Honestly, something has to go spectacularly wrong for me to pause my day, collect myself, and type one up. But here I am, fresh out of brunch at Brio, still shaking my head like I just survived a weird social experiment.
Picture this: a slow Sunday afternoon, maybe six tables with people. Should’ve been smooth sailing, right? Wrong. Within minutes, I watched one poor guy march to the manager four separate times, like a contestant on Survivor begging for rice. The table behind me soon joined in the “Where’s My Food?” parade, and I even overheard a staff member muttering something along the lines of, “I should’ve had that calamari 22 minutes ago.” That’s when I realized: it wasn’t just us.
Meanwhile, our waiter vanished into the abyss. Twenty minutes went by, no check-in, no “how’s everything,” nothing. At that point I was less annoyed and more genuinely worried for his safety. Was he okay? Did he quit mid-shift? Did Brio secretly double as an escape room?
The kitchen scene was even more chaotic: chefs, waiters, and managers in a confused huddle that looked like they were planning a surprise party nobody actually wanted. And speaking of unwanted surprises, my “steak and eggs” arrived cold, limp, and so tragically sad it deserved a funeral.
The only silver lining? We all suffered together, united in hungry despair. The entertainment value of watching fellow diners hit their breaking point was worth a single star. Otherwise, my favorite part of brunch was stepping outside afterward and realizing the sun still shines, even after Brio.