Luckily they serve breakfast all day here, because the kitchen excels at scrambling eggs, flipping pancakes, and squeezing oranges. Next time, I’ll choose the huevos rancheros over anything my friends and I recently tried to eat off the lunch menu. How is it possible to screw up a grilled sandwich called the Sleaziest, Cheesiest? Let me count the ways. The thick stack of Tillamook sharp and Brazos Valley cheddar cheeses was not melted. The jalapeño cheese bread was not warm. An inch-and-a-half slice of cold tomato between the cheese and the bacon made the sandwich so tall you couldn’t take a bite. We sent it back and asked them to throw it on the griddle. It came back with only its edges showing any potential sleaze. A half roasted chicken on a pile of green beans and roasted sweet potatoes appeared appropriately brown and glistening. I peeled the skin from the thigh, and half of the meat came with it. The clump of dried meat was impossible to chew. Brussels sprouts were roasted to the color and consistency of charcoal, odd given a revamped image that favors a more farm-to-table approach. Chicken-fried steak was so salty we feared too many bites would spike our blood pressure. I’ve been eating here for 30 years and have never had such a wretched experience.