I Hate Brunch


We live in one of the most partisan eras ever. People today disagree over what constitutes conception of life, how to handle America’s mounting deficit and whether Miller Lite or Coors Light has the better beer can (they’re fucking cans, is the correct answer).

But in the town I’ve lived for the past five years, which is the epicenter of petty bickering (Washington, D.C), there is one thing every single person universally and indiscriminately fawns over: Brunch.

“OMG BRUNCH!!” everybody shouts. “It’s that meal where we get to eat food and drink alcohol.”

No. Fuck Brunch. I have no idea why people adore it so much. It’s dinner without steak. Seriously. Fuck it with every fibrous strand of muscle in my already overtaxed heart (from all the steak). That meal sucks and loving it is simply pulling wool over your own eyes because you have no satisfaction in any other facet of life and must find it in a ramekin of Hollandaise whipped up by a line cook who was out drinking until five a.m.

Brunch is the weekend equivalent of a Monday morning all-staff meeting, where everyone sits around wishing they were somewhere else, but pretends to care. And any argument in favor of it is invalid. Allow me to demonstrate.

OMG BOTTOMLESS!!: Woooohooo all you can drink crap. Are you really orgasming over unlimited Korbel with a splash of Tang? I’m amazed every bruncher hasn’t been hospitalized with a peptic ulcer. You are gulping down cup after cup of hydrochloric acid trying to convince everyone it’s enjoyable. And don’t start on make-your-own Bloody Mary bars. For the lone, perfect tomato juice and vodka concoction you once made there were 28 failed attempts involving too much Worcestershire which you had to painfully sip until your waiter brought you another lone shot glass of vodka and a pint glass full of ice. 

But it’s such a good deal: No. It’s not.

EGGS BENNY!!: Brunchers fawn over versions of this dish like they are the newest iterations of the iPhone. (This place bakes their English Muffins in-house!) It’s a piece of bacon on top of toast with an egg and some butter. And when has it ever been perfect? You are either bitching about how not runny the yolk is or dousing it in salt, pepper and hot sauce like it’s a three a.m. slice of college pizza. This is your culinary apex?

It’s a good chance to catch up with friends: It could be, but when do you ever go to brunch with your close friends? You don’t waste Sunday morning eating with your besties because you spent Saturday night with them. Because they are your friends. Brunch always involves some amalgamation of two distant acquaintances and their cousins who are in town for the weekend. There are so many things I can be doing instead of pretending to care when you say it’s time to drop up everything and move to Brooklyn.

And why the fuck does brunch take so long? I could have watched Iron Man 3. If it was the length of a normal meal I’d be alright with it, but it’s 270 minutes of moving my straw around the bottom of my glass trying to reach the last bits of drink because I haven’t seen my harried waitress in 25 minutes. Then no one ever lets you leave. “Why are you leaving? Are you not having fun?”

No. I’m not. Because brunch is stupid.

Follow brunch-hater D.C. on Twitter.