The food service is abysmal, and the evening reception is an exercise in extrinsically motivated humility. Breakfast: There is a skeleton crew barely able to meet the demands of the hungry guests. There is no variation in the food, and only on day 5 was there cut fresh fruit. The scrambled eggs are soupy, and the bacon strips are matted together in a grease slick. The worst of all is the wait for the cook to order food: even as guests are waiting to be served, once the clock strikes 9:24 am, the breakfast team starts closing the doors to the juice and toasting stations. Treat us like paying guests, for heaven's sake! My husband, who waited 30 minutes for two fried eggs, was literally closed in there and had to push his way out with a hungry mob. There was one functional toaster for throngs of people. Evening reception: There is one happy bartender and one grouchy bartender; we usually ended up with the grouch who appeared to be working against his will. The "food" of the reception is staged off to the side, a tacit acknowledgment of its deficiencies. I remember there would be a full array of snacks, both hot and cold. Now it is a daily bucket of Gardetto's and maybe a trough of Goldfish or rubbery pita chips accompanied by hummus or onion dip the consistency of spackle. Embassy Suites has succumbed to the post-COVID trend of unapologetically doing less, supporting the pervasive rhetoric of lowered hopes and expectations.
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