Eggs Benedict and a Bloody, Please
I used to “do brunch.” New York. The Eighties. it was a thing.
Probably out late the night before, definitely slept in, maybe passed through the gym...or just passed by it. Then met up with whoever, who had probably done the same thing and was ready for a little libation and something greasy or fried, probably. It was fun. It was fattening. It was lazy. I haven’t done it in thirty years.
Often I just can’t believe that I wasted so much time. I shouldn’t say wasted – I mean you’re doing that thing – you’re relaxing , you’re with friends, hopefully chatting and just laughing and that’s never a waste. None of it. I haven’t done it in such a long time and I think I miss it a little bit now and then...but, in the meantime,I get a lotta shit done.
Anyway, I’m rambling because it’s Sunday and I was up late last night and I passed by the gym, not through it, but I am taking a walk, like a good boy. A looong walk over a sweeping bridge (#Bridgesareoneofmythreefavoritethings). Up ahead of me, I see two young ladies speed walking. The one on the left has a tank top with an egg on the back and her friend’s top has a bottle of Tabasco sauce...
So, after I’m done with my walk, ya know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking ya do.
I’m thinking I might do brunch.
“Breakfast is a meal but brunch is a culture.”
- Matt Basile