I'm Easy Like a Sunday Morning

Sunday morning, after some kickass Beehive lovin' and a Spin class led by a drill sargeant, I headed into Manhattan to meet up with Kristen for brunch.

I am reading Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential for the 1OOth time, and in it, he spends some time discussing why one should never eat brunch--the reasons ranging from leftover old food, to the fact that the real chef would never work on a Sunday, and therefore, you've got some rube of a chef cooking your meals. To that I say pish posh, because I honestly love brunch.

It's not so much the food--although there are some places where you can get an incredible spread, such as Artisanal, but seriously, anyone can slop some eggs onto a plate and charge money for them...I think it's just the excuse to get together with friends, and drink in the middle of the day without a second glance from anyone.

I told Kristen to pick the place since I rarely head into Manhattan anymore on weekends, so she texted me the address to Sette, a restaurant in Chelsea that I've walked past a million times but never thought of going into.

Thankfully Kristen had the foresight to make reservations earlier, but just to get the guy's attention was proving to be next to impossible. When he finally decided to realize that we were there, he gave us two choices of tables..one next to the door, the other in the back room. Naturally, we chose the back room, I mean what could be so bad about that?

A restaurant's gotta have major balls when they offer you a seat in the "back room", which ends up being an unfinished space that was clearly freshly painted, with brown paper still taped to the floor. The only other people in the back room was a party of 1O or so, and weirdly, the only other table in the room was our table for two.

Yea. Wasn't really in the mood for that fresh painted feeling, so we scurried back into the main dining room to request another table, to which our ever so impatient host banged on a two-top that had just been vacated...we weren't sure if he was giving us the signal to sit, or asking the busboy to clean it up, or both...he had a very clever way of never looking us in the eye when we spoke to him, as well as pretending there was something much more urgent always going on, and running away.

Indeed, we were being summoned to sit, and that we did.

Now, any place that offers unlimited mimosas/bellinis/bloody marys with brunch is a-ok in my book. It was a lovely sight indeed, watching the waiters circulate with carafes of bellinis just ready for the taking, and take we did...

3 bellinis later, I wasn't sure if I was hallucinating or did a girl wearing NO BOTTOMS just sit herself down in front of us?

Seriously, what is up with this latest fad? First, there's this numbskull, but now I have to go to brunch and literally before my eyes some chick is parading around in a sweater (it was a sweater, not a sweater dress, but a bonafide, just to the hips sweater} and SEE THROUGH pantyhose. Not leggings. Not even tights. pantyhose that, every time she got up and down from her chair, I got to witness her ample butt cheeks bobbing up and down. And not in a good way.

We weren't sure how her friend and boyfriend allowed her to leave the house like that, but eh, whatevs, it gave ME something to laugh at, and that's all that matters!

After quite the yummy meal-frittata for me, eggs benedict crabcake for Kristen--the check appeared as if it had fallen out of the sky. Mind you, we had never asked for it, and the crowd had died down...so it's not like anyone was waiting for our table.
We were sufficiently inebriated, but dammit, the menu said UNLIMITED drinks...so fuck them, we wanted more. Garcon, bring over that carafe and give us a little topper!

A girl can only have so many Bellinis before feeling like she's going to start pissing peach nectar, in addition, a girl tends to crave certain things after an afternoon of boozin' {and, in my case, pms} so we peeled ourselves away from the unlimited alcoholic goodness, and walked two long blocks in the freezing cold, to find ourselves yet again at the fabulous Billys.
This time, they brought out a fresh banana cake and we couldn't resist...it was like the damned thing was calling out to us....eat me, bitches!



What can I say. Beehive, Brunch, Bellinis, Butts, and Banana Cake. Hot damn, that's a good Sunday!