I hate you brunch. I hate your frittatas and three egg omelets. I hate your long lines on the Upper West Side. I hate you most in the winter, when I stand outside in the cold while turtle-necked-sweater-wearers sip lattes from over-sized mugs. I hate your policy that my whole party must arrive before I can sit. I hate you in the summer when my iced coffee is just hot coffee poured over ice. I hate your stupid menus and hollandaise sauces. I hate when you add bananas to pancakes. I hate your one shitty sandwich that taunts me with what could have been if you served lunch. I hate that you charge me 29 dollars for two eggs, bacon, and toast. I hate that you think adding the words “Applewood” and “smoked” to bacon make it better. I hate your slow service. I hate that this exists. I hate that despite all these feelings, I’m stuck with you. Because everyone else thinks you’re f*ck!ng fantastic.
I Hate You Brunch