Campfired was... an experience.
I wasn't even planning to go here. We had just come from a car show and needed somewhere to eat, so it was my husband, my son, my stepson, and me. Sometimes dinner plans are carefully curated. Sometimes you've spent your morning sweating your ass off at a car show, staring at cars that cost more than your house, and everyone is hungry enough that civilization is beginning to feel optional.
First, it's located in an older repurposed mall, and honestly, I like that. I'm glad they're giving an old building a second life instead of letting it sit there collecting dust and memories of Orange Julius.
Inside, however, they have clearly decided to go ALL IN on the Influencer Experience™.
Fake flowers. String lights. Fake plants. More fake flowers. And seating that appears to have been selected by someone who has never actually had to sit down and eat a meal.
They have picnic tables, bar seating, regular tables, coffee tables with sofas... basically, choose your own adventure, but every adventure involves questionable lumbar support.
Our party got a picnic table.
Now, I was born in the previous century, so I'm going to go ahead and admit that my ass has entered a new era of expectations.
If I have to swing my legs over, around, or through something just to sit down, I'm already irritated.
If there's no back support, I'm questioning every life choice that led me there.
And then I watched a couple who looked to be around my parents' age get seated at a sofa with a coffee table.
They had to hunch over like two people trying to eat dinner while hiding from the police.
I thought, Surely this cannot be comfortable.
Our waitress was perfectly nice. The food was okay. Nothing offensive, but certainly not priced like something that should require a small personal loan.
But the ambiance...
Good lord.
This place is trying SO HARD to be Instagrammable that it feels less like a restaurant and more like a middle-school social experiment where someone is hiding behind a two-way mirror to see exactly how much bullshit people will tolerate if you put enough string lights around it.
And perhaps the biggest plot twist of all?
There is no campfire.
Not one.
Not a tiny one. Not a fake one. Not even a decorative little pile of logs with an LED flame.
You name your restaurant Campfire's and then apparently decide the campfire itself is an unnecessary accessory.
Although, in hindsight, maybe that was for the best.
One customer actually walked in carrying an oxygen tank, and I thought, Well... at least nobody's going to accidentally light the place on fire in the name of "ambiance."
But then, after this entire ordeal, Campfire's actually tried to make things right with my soul.
I was handed a beautiful rose.
And let me be very clear: this was NOT Campfire's fault.
They had no idea that the rose they gave me was about to become the centerpiece of a domestic Shakespearean tragedy.
That rose was supposed to be my reward.
My little floral consolation prize after a bullshit, sweaty-ball morning wandering around looking at ridiculously expensive cars, followed by an overpriced meal at a restaurant where my spine was apparently an optional accessory.
They handed it to me.
It was my rose.
And for one brief, beautiful moment, I thought, Finally. Something nice.
Then I got home.
And my spouse, in what can only be described as a colossal betrayal of the marital contract, decided to give MY ROSE to his mother.
Yes.
MYYYYYYYY ROSE.
The rose that was handed directly to me.
The rose I had earned.
The rose that symbolized my survival.
And he gave it to his whiny, nasty, pot-stirring mother.
My heart was ripped from my chest and tossed directly into the fake-flower display.
Campfire's gave me a rose.
My husband gave it to his mother.
So really, the restaurant wasn't the villain here.
The restaurant gave me the rose.
My husband gave away the rose.
Know the difference.
In conclusion:
No campfire.
Questionable seating.
Influencer décor.
An oxygen tank.
Overpriced food.
One beautiful rose.
And one man who apparently needs a refresher course in Rose Ownership & Marital Diplomacy 101.
Would I go back?
Possibly.
Would I accept another rose?
Absolutely.
Would I let my husband within 50 feet of it?
Not unless he has a notarized document proving he understands whose fucking rose it is. read more