Marie C
Google
I came to Fancy Ranch for the fried chicken, but I stayed because they held me hostage.
When you first walk in, the place has potential. The menu is simple, the vibes are chill, and it smells like glory. You order and sit at the counter or order off to the side for to-go, and here’s where the trap is set: you pay immediately. No “pay after your meal,” no time to assess whether the chaos is worth it… just swipe and pray. Once you’ve paid, you’re locked in, financially and emotionally.
We waited about 10 minutes to order, not because it was busy, but because the waitress was just standing there staring off into space. We had to get her attention and ask if we order with her or the manager. Then comes the waiting game. You will wait at least 30 minutes for your food. And then we watched them give our food to a couple who had just sat down. Like, still-zipping-their-jackets sat down. When they did this, neither the waitress nor the manager said a word. No heads-up. No “sorry about that.” We were left wondering if our chicken and waffles had somehow grown legs. Again, we had to get their attention to ask what was going on and why it was taking so long. The manager was just standing by watching the chaos unfold like a diner-themed episode of Survivor.
When we finally got our food, I specifically requested dark meat, but what did I get? White meat. My friend ordered a mix and she got all dark meat. So instead of explaining this to them and waiting another 45 minutes, we just shared chicken and kept our sides. Listening isn’t part of the vibe here.
Now, when the food finally arrives, it’s undeniably good. The waffle is crisp yet fluffy, and they don’t skimp on the butter. The chicken? Juicy, well-seasoned, and beautifully fried. They clearly know what they’re doing in the kitchen. Unfortunately, that knowledge did not extend to hospitality, organization, or basic restaurant logic.
Let’s talk eggs. You get two options: fried hard or sunny side up and runny. That’s it. No scrambled, no over-easy, no middle ground. Eggs are no longer versatile, apparently.
Now, prepare yourself for the hot sauce scam of the century. It costs $2. Not only is it wild to charge for hot sauce at a fried chicken spot, but they also don’t tell you when you order. So if you want it, you have to swipe your card again for a sad little ramekin that’s only half full. The card processing fee probably costs them more than the sauce. And at a fried chicken spot, too? That’s like charging extra for air at a yoga studio.
This was all on a Saturday morning, with the restaurant about 70 percent full and only one waitress on the floor. She looked like she’d just been dropped into brunch service with no training, no support, and no chance. We made eye contact a few times, and I swear we were both blinking “help” in Morse code.
But the part that really took me out was the cleanliness. Employee belongings were chilling near the food packaging. A customer sent back an incorrect order, and the staff placed the tray directly on a cutting board covered in chopped onions. And just kept chopping. No wipe down. Just a little bacteria with your brunch.
And the manager? I watched this man touch the card reader, the fridge, his phone, someone’s receipt, and then reach barehanded into a tray of fresh waffles. No gloves. No handwashing. Just straight from capitalism to carbs.
To be clear, the food is great. If they can tighten up operations, train their staff, and introduce soap to the kitchen, they could actually thrive. But right now, it feels like a fever dream with amazing seasoning and at least three health code violations.
They just opened a week ago, so I’ll give them grace. Maybe I’ll be back… maybe. After I recover. And I’m definitely bringing my own hot sauce.
