A few things about me. I’ve never posted a latte art pic on my Instagram feed. I think the deliciousness of bratwurst makes for persuasive evidence of an Abrahamic lord. I sort of relate to this. And I don’t eat brunch.
Oh heavens. Brunch. That hollandaise-soaked herd migration of a weekend custom. All that ritualistic hoisting of crap Mimosas; all those also-ran egg dishes; all that dyspeptic hangover repartee. Who has patience for this nonsense?
A lot of you, apparently. I first declared my aversion to the food world‘s most contentious portmanteau on this very site three months ago. Some of you offered the Internet equivalent of a slow clap. Most of you beat your chest in defense of the midday meal. Not only is hating brunch elitist and uneconomical, you seemed to suggest—it’s also un-American.
I gave it some thought. I ate a few waffles. I waited in a few lines. I sucked back a few glasses of from-concentrate orange juice and prom night-quality bubbly. I wore bad bitch sunglasses and headscarves to conceal my day-after locks and made big dramatic showings of recounting the previous night’s antics. And I’m here to tell you, in eight cogent points, why I still believe—deep in my marrow—that brunch is for suckers.
Ready your pitchforks folks, and do feel free to storm my gates on Twitter at @jordanarothman. Just not between the hours of noon and 2pm this Sunday—I’ll be eating lunch.
Jordana Rothman is a Brooklyn-based writer who most recently served as Food & Drink editor at Time Out New York. Her work has appeared in publications including Gastronomica, New York Magazine, and Tablet.