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Broke Wife, Big City
Putting a bird
on brunch
By Aprill Brandon
You know how people are afraid of turning a street corner and suddenly
realizing they are in the “bad” part of town? Or walking into a bar and
seeing that’s it’s filled with bikers and ruffians? Well, I have the
opposite fear. My fear is walking into a new place and realizing with
horror that it’s fancy. That they don’t have bartenders, they have
“mixologists.” That the clientele all look like they just walked off
the set of “Girls.”
Of course, you’d think this would be a pretty rare occurrence but it
happens more than it should because they’re sneaky now. Gentrification
has ruined everything and everywhere. You innocently walk into what
appears to be a dive bar when BAM. They just made it LOOK like a dive
bar. Hand over $17 for that fancy beer you can’t pronounce,
unsophisticated peasant.
Now, I realize what I am about to write next will give away my age and
thus embarrass myself. Not my real age, of course. I’m not embarrassed
about that. Being embarrassed about your age is basically apologizing
for being good at not dying.
But it will give away my mental age and I AM embarrassed about that.
Because I am a 36-year-old with the mentality of a 87-year-old. This is
especially true when it comes to money. (You want how much for my
gourmet coffee? Why, back in my day, it only cost an arm, not also a
leg). But still, I feel I should share my experience because it’s time
all of us decidedly un-fancy people band together.
And so...ahem...
All these fears culminated last week when my family decided to grab a
bite to eat after my son’s soccer “practice” (and I use that term
oh-so-loosely because he’s 3, they’re all 3, and so it more resembles
extras running around in a disaster movie).
Let’s try a new place, we said. Let’s be spontaneous, we said. This is
definitely a decision that will not blow up in our face, we said.
So, we strolled through our decidedly not fancy neighborhood until we
came upon an innocent enough looking place. But then, just as we walked
in far enough that making a quick exit would have been awkward, we
noticed the Mason jars. The exposed ceiling. The iPhone photography on
the walls. The white bartender...SPORTING DREADLOCKS.
And we knew, the color draining from our faces, that we had entered
into a HIP ARTISAN EATERY (fancy slang for “we cannot afford this
place”). It looked like every scene from “Portlandia” had been
filmed there. And when we got the menu, which only had five items, plus
a drink menu of craft cocktails that was 55 pages long, our fate was
sealed.
We tried to make the best of it. I got what anywhere else would be
described on the menu as “the truck stop special” or perhaps “the big
breakfast”. Here it had a fancy unpronounceable name that looked like a
Spanish word had a threeway with two French words. It consisted of
fried eggs, bacon, toast and “holme frites,” which after some
Sherlockian deducing, I figured out was pretentious speak for “home
fries.”
(When I got home, I Googled “holme frites” and even Google was like
“wtf...that’s not a thing.”)
A small cup of black coffee was $4 (I was too scared to ask for a
refill). My trucker special was $17. (See? What did I say? 87-years-old
mentally. I have to tell you exactly how much everything costs and then
want you to be as outraged as I am. Why, I remember when a pack of
smokes was $2 and a gal could get a free cocktail with a little flash
of leg, dearie).
And forget a kids menu. While places like these don’t “actively
discourage you from bringing in your kids,” they actively discourage
you from bringing in your kids. Which is why they ate the ancient
Cheerios and raisins lying at the bottom of the diaper bag that had
been in there since my youngest was still renting out my uterus.
But I will give the place this. It was delicious. And the place was
beautiful. And the service was impeccable. Because I’m not here to
insult these kinds of places.
You want fancy? Great. You want a small menu curated by an actual fancy
chef? Fantastic. You don’t spiral into a rage when you have to spend
$24 for a cheeseburger? Bully for you!
There is nothing wrong with any of that. There are people out there who
will pay out the butt for local, fresh, organic, seasonal fare. And
good for them. They will likely live very long lives with very clear
skin.
So, I’m not saying get rid of these places. I’m saying stop making them
look like a normal place I can afford until I sit down, see the menu
and die of an aneurysm. Because the only way I am paying $24 for a
cheeseburger is if it also gets me drunk. Very drunk.
It’s simply a matter of timing. I am not mentally, emotionally or
financially able to eat at one of these places currently. I am at a
place in my life where I need you to fling some chicken nuggets at my
whiny toddler and throw some mushy mixed vegetables into my crying
baby’s gaping maw so I can take three minutes to choke down something
comforting and deep fried. Anything other than this is stressful and
confusing and it makes me angry because I am an 87-year-old woman.
So, please, stop making fancy places look not fancy. Or, at the very
least, if you have your heart set on that industrial-chic aesthetic,
put an old lady out front who whispers to shabby families like mine
before we walk in “they call home fries “holmes frites” here, sweetie,
keep walking.”
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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