Ivan H.
Google
The plan was CPK.
Safe. Predictable. Beige, but edible.
You know the vibe. You go in, you eat, you leave, you forget it ever happened.
But fate had other ideas.
We rolled out of the parking structure, which just so happens to sit directly across from Tavern, and for a Friday night, the street felt strangely calm. Not dead, not wild, just… open. Like the city itself was leaning in and whispering, “You don’t have to do the same thing tonight.”
Then my wife spotted the birdhouses outside.
Now, I don’t claim to be superstitious, but I am absolutely suggestible when something feels like a sign. And right then, that was the sign. I’ve always been the kind of person who follows the side quest instead of the main storyline, so I did what any reasonable adventurer would do.
I turned toward Tavern.
Through the windows, I could already see people laughing, leaning into conversations, the kind of energy that says, “Yeah, this place knows how to start a night.” The second we stepped inside, nostalgia drop-kicked me straight into my chest.
I hadn’t been in a proper gastropub in years, and this place didn’t try to be flashy or over-designed. Instead, it felt effortlessly cool. Snappy signs. A chic but cozy aesthetic. Random treasures everywhere. And then… the carousel.
Yes. A literal carousel hanging from the ceiling, filled with bottles of booze like some magical, slightly irresponsible chandelier, floored, flabbergasted. It felt like someone took all the best memories of college nights and distilled them into a room.
We sat down, and within seconds, a smiling bartender with a beautiful accent appeared.
“Hello, my name is Olga. I’ll be happy to help you.”
Instant warmth. No forced cheer. No robotic script. Just real, human, let’s-hang-out energy.
We ordered a couple of beers, and she showed us the QR code menu at the bar. But we did what we always do. We asked the real question.
“So… what do you eat here?”
Because if you want the truth, you don’t read the menu. You ask the people who are trapped with it.
She didn’t hesitate.
“The tortilla soup is honestly the best I’ve ever had. We just made bacon-wrapped shrimp. And the wild mushroom flatbread is killer.”
That’s not a suggestion. That’s a prophecy.
So we ordered all three.
The shrimp came with fries, and Olga, clearly invested in our destiny, offered an upgrade: garlic parmesan, truffle parmesan, or sweet potato with spicy chipotle mayo. We chose sweet potato, because life is short and fear is optional.
About 10 to 15 minutes later, the food arrived.
And wow.
First, the tortilla soup. Not a sad, watery afterthought, but a full-on main character. Huge chunks of chicken. A broth so rich in umami it felt like it had stories to tell. The cilantro added just the right brightness, and the fresh tortilla strips on top created this beautiful chaos of textures. Every spoonful felt like comfort, like wearing a leather jacket.
Then the bacon-wrapped shrimp. Crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, still steaming as they’d sprinted straight from the kitchen. The sweet potato fries stood tall in the center, flanked by ranch and chipotle aioli. Sweet, smoky, salty, spicy. It was a flavor symphony, and everyone was playing at once.
And then… the finale.
The wild mushroom flatbread.
Drizzled with what tasted like an expensive balsamic glaze, kissed with truffle oil, and topped with fresh arugula. Creamy white sauce, gooey cheese, roasted mushrooms that actually tasted like mushrooms. But the real hero was the dough. Crisp yet soft, rich with that “someone’s grandma guarded this recipe” energy.
Maybe I’m getting poetic. Maybe I’m being dramatic. But I expected “ok” bar food and a couple of beers.
Instead, I found a place that felt like it already knew me. They understood my cravings before I did. Tavern on Brand didn’t just feed us. It welcomed us.
CPK can wait.
We found our new side quest
