We came for rest. We paid for breakfast. What we got was regret, served hot and soggy.
They called it food. I called it microwave archaeology—ancient scrambled eggs and mystery meat dragged from the freezer’s crypt. The coffee said Starbucks, but it tasted like something strained through an old sock in a trench. The woman running the breakfast area had the enthusiasm of a DMV on a holiday weekend.
We paid $40 for two people. For that, we got sadness on a plate.
So we did what any broken, battered travelers would do—we fled to First Watch down the street. There, the eggs were real, the coffee woke us up instead of insulting us, and the service reminded us we were human. The bill? $41, with a tip and our dignity included.
Next time, skip the Courtyard breakfast unless you’re into culinary nihilism.