An ode to brunchers
A field report from America’s most perplexing meal
[Italics To be read in David Attenborough voice]
The bruncher—truly an extraordinary species.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee. The pop of a champagne cork. A gentle sun pushes through San Diego’s morning mist. An idyllic scene if there ever was one. But this tranquility will not last.
There’s a palpable tension in the air during brunch. You can hear it in the way brunchers order. They don’t ask; they demand. They’ve been waiting, can’t find an open table, and maybe the coffee’s out—injustices that fuel a desire for some intangible satisfaction. Everyone’s on edge because they want their experience to be perfect, but there is no perfect brunch experience. It’s like trying to have a pleasurable shopping experience on Black Friday. Everything’s rushed; everyone’s stressed. The servers, the kitchen, the clientele—all stressed.
Noon-time heat will draw the bruncher from their resting holes. Watch as they emerge, surly, hungover, wearing sunglasses and fedoras. Scientists have studied this mysterious phenomena—the pull that brunchers must heed, zombie-like, regardless of their mental and physical states. It is extraordinary how they have adapted both their body and their behaviour [sic] in order to survive.
When did brunch become a thing? I don’t mean the literal history of brunch, more of the “brunch as a cultural phenomenon” sort of thing. When did people begin waiting hours for it? How did mimosas become the currency? How did brunch-lover become a personality?
There’s a notable difference between brunchers and every other diner. The dinner crowd is the best—friendly, relaxed. Even work-lunchers have a certain je nous se qua about them, a chillness despite their stricter schedules.
Brunchers seem like amateurs of the dining world, as if the whole concept of going somewhere to eat has suddenly become foreign and difficult. They’re single-minded in their intent, seemingly forgetting that restaurants have menus for the purpose of advertising the food they serve. Brunchers often believe that the menu is superfluous, modifying their dishes into Frankensteinian monstrosities.
“I will have the Benedict, but instead of eggs, can I have two mini sliders? And can you use salsa instead of hollandaise? And if you could, can you slap some grilled and buttered sourdough toast on there? Yeah, just like a little tower of bread. I’ll let you decide how many pieces—I’m easy.”
Here the adult brunchers teach their offspring. Young brunchlets follow closely behind their parents, navigating the often treacherous terrain of strangers asking for more butter or a side of lime for their sparkling water. These little ones are still having to find their feet. This is their first descent. (KID BLEATS).
Once safely settled at a table, brunchers rest easy. But the calm will not last. Even seated, the young are still vulnerable.
It’s chaos. There’s a person asking for an extra plate; another needs a side of jam. I have three separate drink orders to remember. There’s no silverware. I’m sweating. I mean, I always sweat, but removing my clothes after a six-hour brunch shift is like removing a second skin—clammy and overused.
Ignorant of the madness, an older woman pulls me aside. “I must speak to you,” she says. “There’s a woman sitting next to us, and her child was crying, so I looked over at them. I didn’t do anything else, just looked at the baby, and then the woman took my photo. I don’t know what she’s going to do with that picture. It’s an invasion of my privacy and I’m scared. She’ll put it on Facebook and then people will want to kick me in the groin.”
My god, the woman actually says “kick me in the groin.”
The cook needs me to run some food. There are no less than three carafes of mimosas that need to go out, and this woman wants me to... what? I want to tell her that she just needs to figure it out herself, and also remind her that, although our society has devolved into a viscous mass of cruelty over the past couple of years, there is one unspoken rule that everyone still needs remember: do not give the stink-eye to new mothers. Everyone with a heart and brain knows this.
Regardless of the surrounding chaos, the bruncher remains focused. It waits for its prey, sometimes upwards of two hours. Watch as it paces, roaring with increasing hunger. An incredible thirst for mimosas renders the bruncher oblivious to others, and will often strike out with intense fury at the slightest provocation.
Thankfully, another server steps in and says she’ll ask the woman to delete the photo, but that’s really all we can do. For the rest of the day, we will say “I’m scared” in a shaking voice. Servers must cling to moments of brightness during our darkest hours.
Brunching is hard, so brunchers must choose their targets wisely. Ah, a steak and eggs. But does the bruncher have enough in the checking account to pounce? (LION ROAR) Perhaps he'll have more luck with something a little more sensible. Yet smoke from the grill sends off an enticing aroma, so the bruncher proceeds. To survive a weekend takes tenacity, and brunchers have that in abundance.
I watch as people try so hard not to tip. I see the mental gymnastics going on in their brain after I hand over their credit card receipt. I can practically read their minds: “I’m getting food, but it’s counter service. Does that deserve gratuity? Hm.”
Sometimes I want to give them a little encouragement, like “Hey big guy, all you need to do is move the decimal one spot to the left and double that number.” Sometimes I want to give little “Good Try” awards for people who are almost at 20% but just couldn’t bring themselves to add that extra dollar or two. And then there are some who tip $5 on an $80 order. These are the people that shouldn’t be eating at restaurants. I think it was Tom Scharpling who said, “Nobody has ever gone broke from tipping.”
Imagine a world where there's no escape from people making demands and food modifications. Imagine a world with an abundance of food and beverage, yet nobody’s happy. These are the conditions in restaurants on Saturdays and Sundays all across the nation. To survive here demands the most extraordinary grace.
Regardless of how people tip, how rude they are, or how little they regard each other, I’m still going to make that mimosa. And it’s going to be fucking good.
(PS: I actually love my job.)
AWKSD CAPTION CONTEST WINNERS
Last Sunday, I sent out this image and asked readers to give it a caption.
Every response made me lol, so nice work everyone!
This week’s winners are:
Rory Kelly: “I feast on your fear…of organized labor!”
And Kara: "Finally got my Judy Collins cd!"
Congrats, you two! You get free paid subscriptions to AWKSD, and Tom Was Right stickers.
Keep your eyes peeled for another caption contest this Sunday.
AWKSD GUEST LIST
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Thursday, June 9
Sonny & the Sunsets, Earth Girl Helen Brown @ Soda Bar: There’s an unapologetic earnestness and positivity to Sonny & the Sunsets’ music, which feels essential during our current timeline. It’s like a mix of surf-pop and Beatles, with a dash of country—the perfect music to listen to while lying in a hammock and imagining life’s immense beauty.
Wednesday, June 15
Empath, Dark Friends, Flower Animals @ Soda Bar: By combining noise-punk with shoegaze lushness, Empath have made one of the year’s best and most delightfully messy albums, Visitor. For people yearning for something No Age-y, yet more tender and complex, don’t skip out on this show.
Cass McCombs + Band, Farmer Dave and the Wizards @ The Casbah: Cass McCombs is one of the most solid singer/songwriters to emerge in the last decade. By blending Americana, psych, rock, and folk, his music feels timeless, romantic, and sad.
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