Brunch is, culturally speaking, a meal of excess.
There are bottomless mimosas and $28 omelets, towers of French toast and Bloody Marys accessorized like seafood platters. At the peak of 2010s hipster brunch, I remember passing a restaurant whose chalkboard sign perpetually announced that the soup of the day was “whisky.” There, brunch lasted from 11 a.m. until 6 p.m., by which point the distinction between brunch and simply spending the entire day at a bar had become largely academic.
