"Brio Review"

By special request, ladies and gentlemen.
(The opinions expressed herein are mine.  Paul in no way endorses or recommends what is written below)
~Candice


Months ago.  Many months ago.  I went with a friend to the Easton Brio for dinner.  It was a mid summer weekend afternoon and the consumer driven community was full of...uh, consumers.  Bustling, the walks. Full, the restaurants.  Empty, my stomach.  Bright, the sun.  Loud, the day.

We went to the Cheesecake Factory first.  Received our electronic device and stood on the sidewalk waiting.  I was listless from hunger and looked longingly across the way at Brio.  My companion noticed and asked if I'd rather go there instead.  My guess is he figured if they could sit us sooner, my longing would end and his belly would also be full.  A win-win way of thinking.  I agreed.

We walked into the restaurant, was told there was a wait, but we could sit at the patio bar.  Through the restaurant and out the double doors we went.  A waiter greeted us warmly.  Pleased, I was, not to be stuck inside on such a beautiful day with the din of a large crowd bouncing off the interior walls, I greeted him in like manner.  My companion was quick to notice an empty table and took us to it.  Bypassing, I suppose, the rules.

Rules are funny.  Necessary in a nebulous way, desirable in a dirge and fulsome when fitting.  I ordered a filet with cheese sauce.  Some foodies would say that was breaking an unspoken culinary rule:  don't ruin a fine piece of flesh with saucy excess.  I was inclined to break the rule.  I am inclined to break many.  Bend some.  Ignore others.  In all of those actions, a person is taking a chance.  The chance of finding out why rules are set in the first place.

The cheese sauce was disgusting and I admitted defeat to myself.  Rule noted.  To my dinner companion, I just whined.  I sliced into the steak and found no red.  Having ordered medium-rare, I was disheartened with my choice.  But!  A window opens when a door closes?  A door closes when a window is broken?  There's a secret door behind the bookcase if you play certain keys on the piano? Yes.  I can change my mind.  I can ask for something different.

I looked up to find our waiter, that same warm mannered young man who greeted us, and watched then as he slipped in and out of the dinner crowd, handing food off to one table, providing drinks to another, stopping in his graceful service to pick up broken glass on the floor and, without missing a beat, setting off to help another.  I did not have to wait long for him to come back to check on us.  I informed him of my desire to have the steak as I had ordered it, showing him the evidence.  He was understanding, agreeable and swift in his care.

In the interim, my companion and I watched and listened to the children playing in the sprinklers.  He enjoying his meal and me - still listless.  I'd ordered a lovely glass of wine, so I sipped and waited, hopeful.

My new steak came.  My new steak was a blue steak.  My foodie's heart was broken.  I was livid.  My hunger driven logic thought that the cook was offended I did not prefer the medium steak I was served so he/she chose to give me blood.  Bloody, it was.

Our warm, wonderful waiter had stayed at the table to see if the meat was to my satisfaction.  His look of dismay was genuine.  His request to have me allow him to take it back a second time, sincere.  I was flippant in stating that at least I could see the blood in this one.  Another look of dismay from the sweet boy and then I remembered part of my manners and spent the next few moments trying to assure the young gentleman that it was okay because I do have a preference for more red than brown in my meat, so it would do.

And, it did. Do.  I've cooked many a blue steak in my day.  Haste and hunger overriding the need to wait for a perfect heat.  I wasn't satisfied.  I could only eat portions of it.  My anger plain on my face.  My companion thinking me overly concerned about nothing.  He going so far as to think I took it personally because I grew up hungry therefore somehow this stranger, the cook, had deliberately done this to me. To me!  How dare he?  This, he thought was my ire.  His appreciation for food is different than mine.  My heart really was broken.  Not because I had gotten the wrong temperature in the first instance and not because I had gotten the wrong temperature in the second instance, but because I believed the serving of the blue steak was deliberate.  That someone who cooks food for a living would not take the care to get it right after having gotten it wrong in the first place.  That someone would rather disappoint again.  That someone is human.  Imperfect.  Fallible.  Capable of mistakes in executing.  Capable of mistakes in judgment.  Capable of emotion-driven decisions.  Just like me.

I do not know if it was deliberate. I believed it to be.  If it wasn't deliberate, it was incompetence.  Which is worse?

I was given a chocolate dessert in recompense.  I was again flippant -  remarking to my companion that they were trying to buy me off.  It was an off color joke, fitting for my experience.  He chose to share my remark with our waiter, making the fellow uncomfortable and me abashed.  I gave my companion the dessert.  He is the sweet tooth. I am not. I am a salty/savory gal.  I like steak.  Steak over cake.

There's your review, friend.  Do with it what you will.