newyorker: What time is brunch served? The question has become a hotly contested issue in Williamsburg: http://nyr.kr/Lanix1 sexpigeon: newyorker: What time is brunch served? The question has become a hotly contested issue in Williamsburg: http://nyr.kr/Lanix1 “For me, it’s like people being forced to the back of a bus in the fifties. It’s like, why?” Jud Mongell, owner of Five Leaves, on receiving a citation for setting up sidewalk seating at an earlier hour than the law allows.     *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * “The noise coming into her apartment from these sidewalk cafés “is like the old Wild West,” she sighed. “I have to use earplugs.” At the end of a dusty street, the chill of morning has worn off, yet the scorching heat of high noon does not yet burn down upon this forsaken piece of earth here at the far left end of the continent.  A man, a woman, sit here, and wait for the inevitable.  For the coffee.  For the cheap non-vintage sparkling wine mixed with the fruit of some juice that will give their repast a hint of health.  They squint at one another other, their only communication, wait for the natives who will swoop down upon them with their war cries for harder yolks, crispy potatoes, fruit instead of potatoes.  “Go to brunch, young man!” was the cry, and Manifest Brunch took its way to the west.  Was it worth it?  Take a look around San Francisco now, and ask yourself this question, while in New York, the young and hungry are denied so much as a mimosa, a bellini.
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newyorker:

What time is brunch served? The question has become a hotly contested issue in Williamsburg: http://nyr.kr/Lanix1

sexpigeon:

newyorker:

What time is brunch served? The question has become a hotly contested issue in Williamsburg: http://nyr.kr/Lanix1

“For me, it’s like people being forced to the back of a bus in the fifties. It’s like, why?” Jud Mongell, owner of Five Leaves, on receiving a citation for setting up sidewalk seating at an earlier hour than the law allows.

    *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

“The noise coming into her apartment from these sidewalk cafés “is like the old Wild West,” she sighed. “I have to use earplugs.”

At the end of a dusty street, the chill of morning has worn off, yet the scorching heat of high noon does not yet burn down upon this forsaken piece of earth here at the far left end of the continent.  A man, a woman, sit here, and wait for the inevitable.  For the coffee.  For the cheap non-vintage sparkling wine mixed with the fruit of some juice that will give their repast a hint of health. 
They squint at one another other, their only communication, wait for the natives who will swoop down upon them with their war cries for harder yolks, crispy potatoes, fruit instead of potatoes.  “Go to brunch, young man!” was the cry, and Manifest Brunch took its way to the west.  Was it worth it?  Take a look around San Francisco now, and ask yourself this question, while in New York, the young and hungry are denied so much as a mimosa, a bellini.