This floppy-ass disk. This limp excuse for a golden griddled joy. If a waffle is not crisp on the outside, it is merely a puffed-up pancake molded into the facsimile of one: a waffle in name and small-square-impressions only. This specimen, pulled fresh from a nondescript chain hotel’s electric waffle maker during a recent stay, was one such phony. I had thought my last hotel waffle mediocre, but this was worse. Its only saving grace was the butter and maple syrup I slathered on top, burying the lack of textural integrity under flavor both dairy-rich and sticky-sweet. A travesty. And yet, I am not afraid to admit that the next morning I went back and made myself another waffle — after all, a complimentary breakfast not taken is an opportunity missed. 2/5 stars.