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Brunch of weirdos

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Drunch brunch equal drunch.

Holy crap, this is an early game. Everyone loves brunch hockey, right?

Before I lived in San Francisco, I didn’t really realize that brunch was a thing people would plan ahead, make reservations for, or wait for hours to consume. But holy shit, people really want to stand in line for fancy egg dishes in our cities.

Usually when some restaurant has something called “bottomless <alcohol>” that is a reason to stay as far away from that restaurant as possible. Like, you’re certainly going to have a terrible time, and it’s likely you will get shivved or find out that the chef has Hep C or just wake up later mostly naked in a gutter and the name “MAURICE” carved into your forearm for some reason.

But fancy-ass brunch places have bottomless mimosas or bottomless prosecco, and people in fancy-casual clothes get fucking destroyed. I used to routinely watch people casually walk into the paths of the F line streetcar on Market St., relying on their equally wasted friends to pull them back. Where were they going? It was never clear. There’s a grassy median with mature palm trees in the center that’s ok, I guess, but for some reason stumbling girls named Meredith really fucking needed to check that shit out stat.

My wife and I would call this “drunch,” an ugly word that pretty well captures the experience. I mean, I really like chilaquilas and I’ve been drunk on sparkling wine before, but I don’t really need to combine them. The headaches are awful.

I will say, though, that the Rose Cafe over on the mesa in Santa Barbara has the best pancakes ever, and a cup of coffee, a Negra Modelo, a full stack, and some chips and salsa is a perfect start to the weekend. We should all make that a thing.

Sharks @ Flyers

10:00 AM (!!!???) Pacific

Prediction: someone vomits up a Benedict.