Brunch.  The meal that is, in theory, a mixture of breakfast and lunch.  Prior to living in New York, the only brunch I was familiar with was served at hotels and included the typical breakfast fare (eggs, cheese grits, fruit) with fried chicken thrown in to serve as the “lunch” component.  I never had a problem with any of that.  Cheese and fried groups: covered.  Seemed fine by me.

Then I happened upon the New York brunch scene (and trust me, it is just that–more in a bit) and realized what I had been missing.  What New York showed me in letters-writ-large about my life–how much bigger it is than I knew, how much better it can be than I planned–was illustrated on a smaller scale by that one meal.

It’s not just the food, though that is naturally a huge part of it.  Eggs benedict, Italian eggs benedict, omelets, Mexican omelets, home fries, French fries, MIMOSAS.  Some say that New York brunches are just an excuse to get drunk on a Sunday afternoon.  They’re also a way to stuff your face with cholesterol and not be judged.  Because everybody’s doing it.  But more than combining breakfast and lunch foods, brunch in New York is also about pushing the glories of morning menus back a few hours.  In other words, an excuse to eat biscuits at 4 pm.

I’ve had brunch with the gays, girlfriends, boyfriends, and family.  I’ve had pre-theater brunch, pre-travel brunch, post-travel recap brunch, jazz brunch, walk of shame brunch, breakup recap brunch, falling in love brunch.  I brunched with a fashion director at GQ (see: gay brunch) who insisted on taking my friends and me to the Soho House pool where he continued to feed us alcohol until the night ended at a gay bar nearby and the next day I had four new phone numbers and five new facebook friends.  All gay men.  I recovered from the half-marathon at a bottomless mimosa brunch.  I brunched ten feet from Chelsea Clinton (The Smith) and across the patio from Mandy Moore (Pastis).  I’ve waited on the phone for half an hour to get reservations for The Stanton Social’s brunch.  I have nursed a hangover at brunch.  (Many, actually.)  I have found out that brunch does not cure my hangovers.  I have given and received advice at brunch.  I have sweated and frozen at brunch, mourning the end of summer and hoping for the coming of spring and sitting outside regardless.  I have gotten ideas for writing at brunch.  I have realized the guy was a tool at brunch.  I have solidified friendships at brunch.

I brunch, therefore I am.

New York knows how to do a lot of things, and brunch is at the top of the list.  Two free drinks with an entree?  Check!  Replace home fries with regular fries?  Check!  Butter with your bread?  CHECK.  (Butter, fat, and calories do not count at brunch.  Look it up.)

I have formed some of my best memories of life in the city over brunch.  But my favorite brunch is the following: the BF hits the bagel shop and I hit Dunkin.  We meet on the corner and walk to the Loews theater.  We buy our tickets.  We eat and watch previews.  We drink coffee, hold hands, and watch the movie.  Brunch?  Check.