New Yorkers love their brunch. Every single restaurant in Manhattan offers a brunch menu on Saturdays and Sundays, no matter how unbrunchlike its normal menu may be. Brunch runs pretty much all day, and I've noticed that the most crowded places always have one common offering: drink specials.
Bloody Marys, mimosas, and oh, the hell with it, straight up vodkas and just about anything else that can get a person drunk are the real attraction to getting those bodies in the seats. Having an excuse to liquor it up in the middle of the day on the weekend is the real draw here, not the stuffed French toast.
And since this is a dog town, water bowls and doggie treats don't hurt either. Sleepy people and their sleepy pooches stroll into burger joints, pizzerias and steak houses with last night's dreams still floating through their heads (yes, dogs dream, too), plop down at a cafe table outside whenever weather permits, and pretend they are on the Riviera for a couple of hours while slowly drinking their brunch.
It's Sunday morning, so Ricky and I will be on our way shortly to meet some people as part of this tradition. And just like men who claim they read Playboy magazine for the articles, I will tell you that I go to brunch for the food. That's right, THE FOOD. While I'm munching on my blueberry pancakes this morning, I promise I'll be thinking of you. Cheers!
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