It’s like Yeezus always says, sometimes when you want food, you want it NOW. I’m specifically thinking of brunch—a topic I seemingly have exhausted on this blog, but one thing you should know about me is that I do not tire easily.*
Brunch is obligatory in our apartment on weekends (Saturdays AND Sundays if we can muster the strength monies). And no matter what wayward boy or house guest has found themselves in our abode, we will brunch because we are young and wild and free, goddamnit! But it is not always easy to be young and wild and free. Brunch is a process.
First there’s the lying in bed for 1-3 hours (depending on the hangover) trying to see what our hearts are telling us re: cuisine. Do we want Mexican brunch? Fried chicken? What kind of bloody mary mood are we in today? Do we really, really need 100 pankcakes?
This discussion then migrates to the living room where we all laze about on sofas, sharing funny snaps, instas, and IRL memories from the night before. Wait—back to brunch! Where should we gooooooo? Somewhere off Bedford? Graham? Do we want to stay in Brooklyn or venture to Manhattan? BAHAHAHAHAHA, JK. We’re totally staying in Brooklyn.
This continues for another 1-2 hours (again, depending on the hangover), while the various parties, shower, dress, wallow, and continue to debate the brunch ahead.
Then when all is said and done, we select a destination. Our mouths water and bellies rumble all the way to brunch. Then we wait. And wait. And wait. Because it’s not Brooklyn brunch unless you feel like you’ve served a minor prison sentence waiting for a table. Except I don’t think they serve bloody marys in prison. But I don’t know, I could be wrong.
When the food finally comes, tears stream from our faces, our Instagrams and Vines overflow with delicious, delicious content. And when we’ve stuffed ourselves silly, swearing we’ll never eat again, we venture back into the world a little happier, a little drunker. We are ready to take on the day.
*This is actually not true. Stairs often tucker me out, and I do love a good sit.
Today I invented an acronym, kids. SDOA: Social Displays of Affection.
It’s the thing of where you have a boo (or would-be boo) and you openly boo-love all over the internets. We’ve got Vines; we’ve got tweets; we’ve got tagged FB pics; we’ve got so many instas you’d think all you ever do is brunch & boo.
SDOA is all about the @mentions—not DMs or FB chat or gchat. You wanna scream it from the platforms that you are in a boo-thing and probably eating a lot of good food and doing a lot of fun things and looking really friggin cute all the livelong day.
And before you ask, “relationship statuses” are not still a thing. Too vintage. So try-hard. SDOA is more like:
"Oh look at me being suuuuuuper casual with this bloody mary insta. Why did I tag, Brad? Umm because you can’t see because it’s a casual insta, but Brad & I are brunching and booing and drinking the shit out of these bloodys."
And it’s all hearts and likes until the boo-thing is over. That’s when things get sad and awkward, and you’re like:
"Well great my Vine is now nothing but videos of my boo-no-more frolicking in the park and washing dishes and dancing at that cool party we went to and drinking bloodys at that spot we love. Guess I’d better find some cool stuff to Vine to fill this sad boo-shaped hole in my heart."
And let’s ponder…
Are social displays of affection good? Bad? Annoying? Necessary to demonstrate your affection in our DIGITAL AGE?
Can you base an entire relationship on a shared love of bloody marys?
Do the lovers who brunch together stay together?
Should someone create a social platform where you can send all your old SDOAs to die when you’re no longer booed up?
BRB going to invent this now and become an internet millionaire.
Aside from a brief beer with an autistic gentleman, only one date came out of my 2nd round with NoWayStupid. And boy was that fun!
I was foolishly optimistic about this guy. He was tall, kinda chubby, and appeared to be a hamburger connoisseur of sorts. Check, check, and check! For our first date, he took me to brunch at Perilla in the West Village, which was amazing. I had scrimp&grits and three bloody marys. He was super charming (and paying for everything), so brunch turned into a stroll around a museum, which turned into fancy drinks, which turned into a sushi dinner.
I got the impression that he was trying to impress me by spending money, partly because he was spending so much money and partly because he kept talking about all his family’s “houses” and “cars” and “dinner parties.” But I didn’t pay much attention because, you know, I’d been drinking since 2pm.
After dinner he took me to the bench where Woody Allen and Diane Keaton sat in Manhattan. This felt painfully forced, but I endured the too-soon romance for about 10 minutes before declaring I needed to go to sleep.
All in all it wasn’t bad. Free food, decent company.
Then he tricked me into a second date.
He invited me to accompany him to the premiere of Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Duh, I said yes. “Why don’t we try another date before the premiere??” he asked innocently. “Awwkay,” I said. Tricks!
We went to Mayahuel in the East Village—incredible food and drinks. Not so incredible date. Here’s how things unraveled:
We talked about our childhoods, which is always for fun early dating talk because neither person is really listening to the other. He told me about his various vacation house(s!), and asked me, “So where did you summer?”
We were eating these delicious tamales, and he spilled some of the sauce on his (I’m guessing fairly expensive) suit. He made an embarrassed face, so to lighten the mood, I sweetly said, “Aw you spilled!” and offered him my napkin. To which he replied, “No I didn’t.”
Um okay, but I totally just saw you dude.
He spent the rest of dinner awkwardly pulling his jacket over the stain to “hide” it from me. SO freaking weird.
Somehow we got back onto the subject on “summering,” and he began telling me about his family’s annual bash in the Hamptons. I was half-listening, until he dropped this bomb: “Now not to freak you out, but this party is like a big test for a girlfriend. Like if you can handle it, and my parents like you, then you’re in the family pretty much.”
I choked on my margarita.
Homeboy was full of stories that night, so he started telling me about this wild, crazy time he ate a chicken&waffles spot in LA (maybe he was trying to convince me he could also do low-brow??). Well he apparently wore basketball shorts and a t-shirt to this establishment AND—here’s the punchline—his $5,000 watch. When the waitress came to the table she allegedly remarked, “I know you’re not wearing that $5,000 watch with basketball shorts!” He then chuckled to me, “I mean what could I say?”
As he awkwardly adjusted his jacket to yet again cover up his OBVIOUS tamale stain, exposing his $5,000 watch, he said, “Oh yeah, it was actually this watch here!”
Needless to say I didn’t respond to his follow-up calls/texts/FB friend requests. And unfortunately, I was un-invited to the premiere. I hope he and his $5,000 watch had a terrific time together. Whatevs!
My love of breakfast foods dates back to my elementary school years. At least once a week, my Daddy would take my little sister and me out to a bright and early breakfast before school. Margaret Ann’s favorite spot was Evan’s Fine Foods. Here my four-year-old sister would take shots of coffee creamer while she waited for her signature dish: eggs sunny side up.
Evan’s always kinda sketched me out. Most of the clientele was ancient—seriously one time an elderly woman had a heart attack or something in the middle of her grits and eggs and had to be rushed away in an ambulance! Talk about a breakfast buzzkill. Also the silverware was greasy.
No, my spot was The Original Pancake House. Strawberry pancakes with fresh strawberries and homemade whipped cream—none of that berry syrup bullshit—and bacon. The end. Seriously, I love that place so much, I used to force my high school boyfriend who lived in South Carolina to wake up extra early on Saturdays so he could get to Atlanta in time to take me out for some strawberry pancakes. I am the worst!
So when I moved to NYC—the brunch capital of the world—I knew I was in for a treat. I was also in for some real sticker shock. Really, $16 for eggs benedict? I’d better be getting unlimited mimosas for that.
But last weekend I discovered that my Whole Foods has a little restaurant on the 2nd floor with an incredible and cheap (!) brunch. I helped myself to their eggs benedict, which was bomb and only like $7.
This weekend though, I had a radical notion—why not make my own brunch?? And so I did. I made some french toast and turkey bacon, using my Daddy’s french toast recipe. No old ladies or greasy forks—just YUM!