Am I the only one who’s had enough of brunch?
That smug, overexposed, avocado-strewn “non-meal” that has, for over a decade now, inserted itself into our weekends and, somehow, the rest of the week too. Since the dawn of social media, brunch has been less about eating and more about performance, a meal you could only participate in if you snapped your smashed avocado on sourdough and uploaded it with a hashtag like #blessed or #brunchvibes.
It started innocently enough. But brunch has since seized every corner of the globe, slowly strangling the beautiful simplicity of lunch.
Let us not forget: lunch is ancient. Lunch has history. Sure, in the 1980s it was largely liquid. The ’90s threw in a few cigarettes. The 2000s reintroduced food, and by the early 2010s… lunch was quietly cancelled. Brunch took the crown.
Suddenly, every café and restaurant had a brunch menu, stretched so far beyond its original time slot that some places now proudly serve “all day brunch.” Which makes no sense. That’s not brunch, that’s just indecision disguised as branding. And don’t even speak to me of “brinner.” If you’re eating eggs Benedict at 8pm, something’s gone very wrong.
Let’s get back to basics: brunch is a portmanteau of breakfast and lunch. It belongs in the late morning. Once the clock strikes twelve, you’ve officially entered lunch territory. Brunch is basically a rebranded version of “elevenses,” that 18th-century British snack break between breakfast and lunch, usually tea, perhaps some small sandwiches. But apparently, that wasn’t “cool” enough.
Instead, we got #avotoast: the most overexposed dish in the Western world. It’s fine. It tastes good. But I don’t need to see yours every time I make the mistake of opening social media. And worst of all, I now struggle to find a table at lunchtime, not because of a lunch rush, but because people are still lingering over brunch.
But here’s the thing: brunch can’t last forever. Even with bottomless prosecco and “extended service hours,” it’s still a meal on borrowed time. Lunch, on the other hand, can stretch. It can start modestly, and if the mood’s right, grow naturally into dinner without anyone forcing it. Lunch is generous like that.
The simple lunch is a joy. A baguette with sides. A steak, a hot dog. You can have a glass of wine, or a cold beer, or a negroni if the afternoon calls for it. Lunch doesn't shout; it doesn’t beg for likes. It simply happens quietly, confidently, with no need for filters.
And then there’s the rarest and most beautiful kind of lunch: the accidental one. The lunch that turns into a drink, which turns into another, which turns into dinner, somewhere down the line. I recently heard about a four-Gibson lunch at Brutto that involved food, wine, champagne, and a negroni to close. It started, like all great things, with the humble idea of sitting down for a simple lunch.
So yes, I miss lunch. Real lunch. Not curated, not branded, just good food, good company, maybe a drink, and no expectations.
Let brunch have its hashtags. I’ll be at the table, ordering lunch.