maciek M.
Google
There are tourist traps, and then there are tourists traps. This one? The worst kind. The kind that doesn’t just catch you—it studies your Yelp history, flatters your optimism, and then serves you a mocha so forgettable it could be a decoy in a CIA training exercise.
Let’s rewind. My wife and I, seekers of ambiance and occasional culinary redemption, wandered into Market Café with open hearts and low expectations. The latter proved prophetic. The first red flag? A gigantic outdoor TV broadcasting NFL like it was the Sistine Chapel of sports bars. I should’ve known then. Any place that outsources its soul to ESPN is not here to feed yours.
We ordered crawfish beignets, a mocha, and a Pepsi. The beignets arrived looking like they’d been deep-fried by someone who once read about seasoning in a dream. Texture: doughy. Flavor: elusive. The mocha? A warm brown shrug. And the Pepsi, flat, uninspired, spiritually vacant. But the ice? Oh, the ice. Cold, crunchy, and emotionally available. The kind of ice that deserves its own jazz solo.
Service was good, though. Our server was kind, attentive, and clearly trying to rescue the experience from the jaws of mediocrity. And of course, the company of my wife, gracious, radiant, and far more forgiving than I, was the true highlight. She found something redeeming in the mocha. She always does. She’s the kind of woman who can spot beauty in a beige wall and joy in a lukewarm beignet. I aspire to her palate and her patience.
But Market Café? It’s not a café. It’s a cautionary tale. A place where flavor takes a personal day and ambiance is outsourced to a flatscreen. Would I return? Only if the ice gets promoted to entrée. Or if my wife insists. And she might, she’s got a soft spot for underdogs and a talent for finding grace in the griddle.