Debates about Toronto’s best brunch are a touchy subject, as it often results in someone losing an eye.

But despite an inclination to avoid conflict, I’d volunteer for an eye-gouging over setting foot in Cora’s Breakfast and Lunch ever again.

Sure, it was a holiday Monday morning, which likely meant the staff was bitter about having to wake up early and cater to self-indulgent yuppie types and their demanding brunch requests.

Had I the chance to demand coffee refills or complain about the lack of maple syrup, I’d step up to the “I’m to blame” podium. But that morning I was completely inoffensive — just an ex-service worker, a petite but hungry girl with a constant craving for waffles and high hopes for Cora’s.

In fact, people online rave about Cora’s vast brunch menu. I was hooked, in theory. And then I got to the host’s station.

So I know Toronto’s not known for eye contact, but when you’re standing at a host’s station for 10 minutes — no lie — you’d assume that someone would actually look up and say, “Hey, you know, we’re a little busy, but we’ll be with you in a second.”

That, compounded by spotting at least two free tables, compounded by the growing, fidgety line behind me, compounded by the staff rushing back and forth without holding at least one dish, new or used… it got to me.

As the seconds added into a minute, and then 10, then 15, my waffle fever began to erupt, and there was no chance I’d be satisfied.

We were finally seated at a table I’d been eyeing for the last 15 minutes, the server was actually all right. 1 point.

However, the menu was large, ridiculous to navigate, and looked more like a Discount! Nylons! ad from a BiWay flyer.

The quality of food — cookie-cutter and extremely yawnworthy — didn’t help matters. Not much consideration here for the paying customer, really.

No sign of “Cora” in the dining room. She was likely too busy opening her dictionary, going to the letter “S”, ripping out the definition of “service”, and then handing it to her staff.

Even thinking about this is making me fume. Pass me a grapefruit spoon; I’ll gouge my own eye.