Why Brunch is a Fake Meal

Me destroying two plates of “brunch”

Brunch is the meal synonymous with middle class Americans that live in San Francisco. Nothing says, “I live in one of the hippest cities in the country,” like overpriced eggs, undercooked burgers and bottomless mimosas at 11am on a Sunday. It’s the meal that defines the generation of upwardly mobile late 20’s, early 30’s new industry professionals. These people are prepared to line up for over an hour to undergo sub par service dished out by servers/bartenders/cooks who are hung over, woke up four hours earlier than usual to be there and are now the ones throwing eggs at your table while you wallow away in all of your Sunday morning glory, downing your $12 bottomless Mimosas, served with the cheapest of Californian sparkling.

Brunch is the meal, invented by those situated atop the highest rungs of the social ladder.  Its a clear sign of people with way too much money, so much in fact that they can invent a fourth meal that falls somewhere between breakfast and lunch and is loosely reminiscent of the meal plan of a Hobbit.  I’m sure its not unheard of for large families to eat breakfast late or lunch early, but why confuse the issue and mix the two. Only in America can you eat a burger as the first meal of the day and wash it down with cheap champagne and it be justified. What I want to know is, do people eat first before going to brunch? If I had to stand in line for over an hour to eat the first meal of the day I’d probably stab someone on account of a seriously bad case of the “hangry” disposition I get.

Brunch is a fake meal. Don’t get me wrong, you’ll find me smashing mimosas with the best of them most Sundays but it doesn’t make it any less ridiculous. It’s a meal that exists solely to torment the hung over servers and bartenders whilst providing a lousy experience to middle class white people who enjoy talking about stocks in upcoming startups, the latest mini Cooper they just bought, or the socially alternative film they just saw.   They get to talk about going to Burning Man because they’re so “far out” liberal and it becomes an excuse for them to sport their North Face Puffer on a 65 degree morning. They get a chance to forget about their annoying boss, their annoying kids, their annoying wife, or that annoying person they’re having an affair with. They get to drink in the sun, eat eggs and forget for a brief second that their meaningless life actually exists. This is what brunch is, it’s the last vestige of the weekend, the one thing we all desperately try and cling on to. Then it ends, without warning and we’re left to wander home wasted and sleepy, ready to return to our abysmal lives and the weekday grind.