I love GQ. It's a great magazine, although sometimes their articles (or should I say their writers) irk me a little. The voice of every article is always written in that all-knowing, entitled, cool-as-shit especially because my-shit-don't-stink, douchey male voice that gets under my skin at times. Despite that, I came across an article that I thought was hilarious and all-too-true for us city folk:
Why Brunch Blows
Fake-farmy restaurants! Hangovers with strangers! Long lines! Watery mimosas! Seventeen-dollar French toast! Sickly orange slices sadly dying next to overwrought infantilizing pancake concoctions on chipped china! Half your waking weekend day spent in a hollandaise haze!
“Can I top off your shitty coffee?” Yes, please! Because it’s brunch. And everyone must love brunch. Because if you do not love brunch, you have a serious problem with joie de vivre and America and the whole point of living with all our best friends in the city and being alive.
But you know what? Brunch sucks. It’s a ritual— not a meal— and an annoying, unsatisfying, badly conceived one at that. Eat breakfast alone. Leave the house when you are ready to do something real at a normal time like an adult. Actually, it doesn’t matter what you eat or when. Just stop saying “brunch.” Stop. GQ declares brunch is over. We bury brunch. Huevos rancheros estan muertos. Enough. Long live the real drinking lunch: drunkch.
My best friend John and I have a similar situation, except we're waaaay not as cool as the brunch crowd. He'll call me Sunday morning around 1 or 2 PM, ask me if I'm still drunk or if I've slept it off enough. I'm usually 50/50. Are you starving? I'm starving. You wanna go to Melrose for food? Yeah give me a sec so I can shower and I'll meet you there in a half hour.
Melrose is completely unassuming, unpretentious, serves decent food, and does not have brunch. Nope, no brunch. Just regular menu food. No one goes there because it's the cool, brunchy thing to do. You go there to eat and chill and stare out the windows that line the street. That's it. We read magazine and newspaper ads, we discuss last evening's events (at least what we can recall), reminisce a little, and go forward with our lives. No gaggles of peeps. No lines. No getting out of bed while still drunk just to eat overpriced food.
Drunkch. Perfect.
And don't even get me started on the sushi crowd...
...omg, let's go get sushi!
OMG get out of my face.
