The Complete Guide to Hating Brunch

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.

The average bargain mimosa consists of a half to two-thirds pour of OJ and a few glugs of bottom-rack sparkling wine to make the thing foam up. The juice is mostly a mask for acrid, poor-quality bubbly—and its added sugar content means that a late-day hangover is a lock. Sure, you can have as many of them as you like, but it’s going to take commitment to court a serious buzz, meaning you’ll be taxing your bladder even more than your liver. And don’t get me started on the genocide of the bloody Mary. What was once an excellent savory cocktail has been systematically corroded into an astringent cesspool of jugged vodka and canned tomato juice. Cheers, y’all.

The New York State Liquor Authority, in concert with Jesus, has long prohibited the on-premises sale and consumption of alcohol before noon on Sunday. Because, you know, it’s the Lord’s day. Which means that if you have the gumption to roll out of bed and trample on over to your local hash house at a reasonable hour, you’re in for a sobering feast. At least you beat the crowd, which leads me to my next point...

You thought that band of mooks and nail-art obsessed hussies was bad when you saw them terrorize some innocent bartender on Saturday night? Just wait until you see them hungover on Sunday morning. Now they’re hungry, dehydrated, and irritable, with Parliament Light–weathered voices that demand more coffee and yolk-less omelets. They talk extra loudly, so you can hear all about their half-forgotten, RBV-fueled exploits. And they linger, tying up tables for hours, which inevitably means longer wait times for the rest of us. And on that note...

The prospect of a long wait rankles enough at dinnertime. But in the evening, an hour spent twiddling one’s thumbs at the bar is the price paid for a special and memorable meal. The wait at brunch is no more punitive, but the phoned-in grub you’ll get when you finally do sit down magnifies the ridiculousness of all the hoop-jumping. If you know how to fry an egg you can make most of this stuff at home. So you could spend your Sunday eating a homemade omelet, taking a walk, seeing a movie, making sweet, savage love to your partner—or you could wait on a three-hour brunch line. Your call.

Brunch is a hell shift. Your server (probably) and the cooks (definitely) were closing out the restaurant late into the previous evening. Just a few hours later they’re back, wincing through splattering bacon fat burns at the griddle, slaving over a broken hollandaise sauce, and tending to a busy dining room full of spectacularly rude, hungover, and oblivious patrons. The tension is palpable. Should've stayed in bed.

Let’s talk about the food. Most of my favorite restaurants do a roaring trade at brunch, but I don’t like to think about this. Knowing that some of the most respectable chefs slum it on Sundays is like finding out your new suitor doesn’t vote, or he spends the time when he's not with you collecting uncirculated quarters from every state. But brunch is a cash cow, and the people must have their cheesy, eggy, hangover slop. Still, even at the best restaurants, brunch is an afterthought. You might eat fiery jerk chicken and curried goat for dinner at haute Caribbean spot Miss Lily’s in New York. But at brunch, it’s the same soulless, castrated buttermilk pancakes and brioche French toast you’ll see everywhere else. At the Nomad in the Flatiron district, you may have the world’s finest roasted chicken and butter-dipped radishes in the evening; but come Sunday morning, the tyranny of eggs Benedict takes its awful hold. Point is, the hegemonic brunch canon makes it all but impossible for a restaurant to show its true identity. If you’re dying to try a new restaurant, go at dinner when the place is in full flower.

So you’ve been dragged along to brunch and now you’re giving this insipid menu in front of you the side-eye. You’ve got to choose something. At dinner you could have a whole savory spread and something sweet to finish it off. But at brunch it really only comes down to one choice: sugar or salt? The decision is a crippling one. Go with the eggs and you’ll find yourself craving sweets in a few hours. Go the waffle route and you’ll feel you haven’t had a meal so much as a massive, blood-sugar spiking midday dessert binge. The whole canon of griddled foodstuffs is insidious that way. Better to order a plate of bacon and some black coffee and think on it a spell.

We’ve established that the food is the worst reason to go to brunch, but not everyone agrees. There is the journeyman food blogger chick, whose Tumblr is dedicated to photos of blueberry French toast and adorable foamy cappuccinos. She thinks brunch is the best meal of the week, and she keeps a running list on her rhinestone-encrusted iPhone of all the places she still needs to hit. She’ll be snapping photos before, during, and after brunch, like she’s constructing some kind of flip book paean to her terrible taste. Good news is, she’ll grow out of it. For now, just look the other way.