Twenty6 at La Quinta Resort is really two completely different restaurants wearing the same clothes.
Friday morning, it was excellent. The kind of breakfast that reminds you why resort dining can still matter when somebody in the kitchen actually gives a damn.
Sylvia ordered the avocado toast, and honestly, it may have been the most beautifully plated version I've ever seen. Colorful. Fresh. Layered with intention instead of just stacked for Instagram. Every component tasted like somebody had thought carefully about texture and balance rather than simply following a spec sheet from corporate. It was the rare dish that actually arrived looking better than the menu photo probably promised.
My eggs Benedict were equally impressive. Perfectly poached eggs surrendering exactly the way they should. A hollandaise that was clearly made in-house, carrying subtle layers of flavor beyond the usual blunt-force butter and lemon assault most places settle for. Crispy hash browns done correctly, crunchy outside, soft inside, which sounds simple until you realize how few restaurants actually pull it off.
If I lived nearby, I'd eat breakfast here regularly.
That's not to say the experience was flawless. The patio still suffered from some of the same strange neglect seen elsewhere around the property. Giant bulbous plastic umbrella bases better suited for a discount pool supply warehouse. Broken partitions awkwardly jury-rigged back together. Tabletops and surfaces that could have used a proper scrubbing instead of whatever quick wipe-down they'd received. But when the food is that good, you forgive things. Or at least you want to.
Then came Sunday brunch.
And suddenly Twenty6 transformed from thoughtful resort dining into what felt like a desperate airport convention buffet after a delayed flight to Omaha.
I've eaten in some deeply mediocre hotels before. I've suffered through casino breakfast buffets, conference center scrambled eggs, roadside motel continental breakfasts, and one particularly terrifying off-brand buffet somewhere in mainland China where I genuinely couldn't identify half the food in the steam trays.
This was worse.
And somehow, it cost $45 dollars a person.
Now look, I understand the logistical challenge. Feeding hundreds of resort guests simultaneously is hard. Nobody expects a fully customized farm-to-table breakfast experience for every tourist dragging their kids through the dining room in flip flops and sunscreen. Volume changes the game.
But stale sourdough bread that was physically difficult to bite through? Powdered scrambled eggs with the texture of damp insulation foam? Generic miniature muffins that looked like they'd been purchased frozen by the pallet from a food service warehouse? And sausage patties, allegedly turkey or chicken with the texture and personality of hockey pucks left overnight in a parking lot?
That's not volume cooking. That's surrender.
And then there was the fruit.
Even the blackberries had mold growing on them.
That's the moment the whole thing crosses from disappointing into offensive.
Sylvia literally couldn't find anything she wanted to eat. I managed maybe half a plate before giving up entirely. Yes, there was an omelette station. But the line snaked deep enough into the dining room that it appeared you'd need to sacrifice twenty minutes of your vacation just to get someone to crack an egg.
And funny enough, when the food is terrible, all those little aesthetic flaws you overlooked two days earlier suddenly become impossible to ignore. The dirty surfaces. The neglected patio details. The tired infrastructure barely being held together behind the curtain of "luxury resort" branding.
To be fair, the staff hustled. The hostess, in particular, handled a relentless barrage of impatient, unhappy guests with professionalism and composure. And the Bloody Marys were genuinely fantastic, spicy, balanced, properly built cocktails instead of watered-down tomato sludge poured from a plastic jug.
But not even good cocktails could rescue this brunch.
Which makes Twenty6 all the more frustrating. Because somewhere inside this restaurant is a genuinely talented breakfast kitchen capable of producing exceptional food. But somewhere between Friday morning and Sunday brunch, the entire operation collapses under the weight of scale, shortcuts, and what feels like management simply deciding "good enough" was acceptable.
So here's the advice: when available, order off the menu.
And avoid the brunch buffet at all costs. read more