Vora Restaurant European

I would like to start out by saying I wanted to leave 5 stars. Our food was absolutely wonderful, and the atmosphere was quite charming. We had the burrata appetizer, an espresso martini, the Garden Benedict, and the short rib hash. Our food was excellent, and they have perhaps the best martini I've ever had. The problem lay in our server, Miles M. We were greeted politely and seeted next to a couple of influencers. Our server introduced himself, and then was distracted and completely inattentive. He had made 3 visits to people sitting next to us before we even received our drink. 3 more visits later, and he finally asked if we were ready to order. He continued checking on them constantly during our meal, while we were left waiting. No two bite check. No "how is everything". Just staring at Instagram girls. When we finally got our check, he didn't even bother to give us a pen to sign it with. I would eat here again, but if he was assigned as my server, I would simply walk out, and choose another place to done. Overall, 3 out of 5.

We've been a couple times now and love the atmosphere and food. Have not been disappointed with any of the apps, entrées, drinks or dessert selections we've had. Staff are friendly.

Three Runners, Zero Clean Plates, and One Deep Regret Fresh off our weekly river run—sweaty and high on endorphins—we wanted brunch that felt like a reward. The kind of food that makes you close your eyes and softly moan while chewing. Normally, we’d head to The Belmont, where we devour our plates with the enthusiasm of chocolate Labradors and occasionally discuss whether licking them in public is technically rude. But no. We strayed. There’s a friend—a devoted dad with a permanent brunch invite—who’s never needed fancy restaurants because he insists he can recreate any dish he likes in his own kitchen. He calls places like Vora “hoity toity,” not because he doesn’t know better, but because he’d rather have a good burger than a plate that looks like a chemistry experiment. Loved by everyone, tolerated by necessity, his invite is irrevocable. That’s his go-to term for anywhere with cloth napkins and entrées spelled in French. And while I genuinely believe he has the palate for upscale dining, he never really gives his tongue the chance. Still, we took it as a challenge. Seduced by the siren song of novelty and the restaurant’s sterile elegance—part luxury spa, part airport lounge, all echo—we sat outside on the patio, where at least the sun had some warmth… unlike the food, the room, or the mood. We didn’t order mimosas. Not because we’re boring, but because we were brave. We wanted to taste the food unfiltered, unblended, un-orange-juiced. Water only. Clarity. Which, in hindsight, was our first mistake. The food arrived, plated like it was headed to a magazine shoot instead of our mouths. It was all very... composed. Like a salad trying to win a Grammy. Eggs arrived wearing cherry tomatoes like a bad hat, and everything was sprinkled with the confidence of someone who just discovered flaky salt and thinks it solves everything. But here’s the thing: you can dress an egg in heirloom tomatoes, hollandaise sauce, and emotional backstory—but it’s still just an egg. And if that egg is overcooked and underseasoned? You’ve basically got lipstick on a pig, and not even a fun pig. A disappointing, flavorless pig. All three of us left our food unfinished, which is a statistical anomaly. At Belmont, the plates get licked. At Vora, they got left behind like a Tinder date who wouldn’t stop talking about their kombucha journey. Would I return? Only if someone else is paying. And ordering for me. And I’m slightly tipsy. Actually, fully drunk. We’ll be back at Belmont next Saturday, licking plates and memories, because some traumas are worth forgetting—and others are worth avoiding altogether.