Don’t You (Forget About Our Reservation)
You see us how you want to seat us.
Dear Maître d’,
We accept the fact that we’ve had to sacrifice fifteen minutes this late Saturday morning waiting for a six-top to open up because apparently it’s hella hard for every table to find the bottom of your special mimosa pitchers, but we think you’re crazy to make us wait to be seated after everyone who was physically here before us. You see us as you want to see us. In the simplest terms. In the most convenient definition: just some common walk-ups. You seriously asked us, “Why should I seat you before anyone else? They’ve been waiting.” But what you clearly don’t understand is that among our group is …
…a bro…
…and a girl boss…
…and a plant daddy…
…a Scorpio…
…and a 37-year-old man named Christopher who still goes to electronic music festivals.
BRO: Does that answer your question? Sincerely yours, The Brunch Club.
Hi Again,
We accept the fact that you didn’t have our reservation written down because of some conspiracy theory you have about what we might have done wrong when we booked it on the app during our Uber ride over, but we think you’re crazy to not let us take that corner booth just because it’s meant for parties of eight or more. You see us as you want to see us: a tiny fiesta of five. Well, our other friend Tyler is probably stopping by later, and he’s so fucking hilarious he should count as two, basically making us eight. Also, hello? We’re exactly the type of people you want sitting at your highest visibility table, because…
BRO: …I just got my blue check on Insta…
GIRL BOSS: …and I make over $100,000 a year…
PLANT DADDY: …and there are ads on the videos from my YouTube channel, TheManWhorticulturist …
SCORPIO: …OMG, Uranus is in retrograde, and I want a fucking Bellini! …
CHRISTOPHER: …and I never ask girls how old they are before offering them acid.
BRO: Does that change your mind about the booth? Cheers, The Brunch Club.
Dear Maître d’,
Hi, it’s just me this time, the girl boss — here to talk woman-to-woman. We’ve been waiting here for like a really long time, which is super weird. I understand there was a problem or something with our reservation, but we’ve been here long enough to be seated. I can’t imagine you’ve forgotten us, so let me ask … is it Christopher? Because I totally get it with his creeper vibes. I notice you’re a young-ish pretty girl yourself — your ponytail is super cute by the way — which is exactly Christopher’s type. Ugh, is he making you uncomfortable? I swear his schtick plays better at clubs with their noise and darkness. Still, if it helps snag us the next open table, we can totally dump him, because …
GIRL BOSS: …I’m dying for a Bloody Mary …
PLANT DADDY: …and I could kill for some chilaquiles …
SCORPIO: …and —
GIRL BOSS: Shhh! We’re not doing that right now.
BRO: Why not? I really am “ready to assassinate for some açaí.”
GIRL BOSS: Because! I’m trying to be discreet getting us a table without you know who.
PLANT DADDY: Christopher? But he’s our friend.
GIRL BOSS: He’s Sarah’s friend.
SCORPIO: Um, he is not my friend. I let him give me molly at Coachella like three years ago, and he just keeps showing up to everything and buys us shots.
GIRL BOSS: But now I can buy our shots because of all the money I make, so we don’t need him.
PLANT DADDY: That’s a good point.
BRO: Okay, then we’re in agreement? Christopher is —
CHRISTOPHER: Hey guys!
BRO: Christopher! Heh-heh … I thought you were talking to that girl in line that you recognized from Wet Republic.
CHRISTOPHER: Yeah, she said she doesn’t remember me, or much of that party. Whatever, I added her on TikTok anyway! So, we finally getting a table?
SCORPIO: Doesn’t look like it.
CHRISTOPHER: Dang! Hey, you know what? I know a guy who DJs here sometimes. I can see if he’s working today. Maybe he can help us get a table!
PLANT DADDY: I don’t think the brunch DJ has any —
GIRL BOSS: Uh, I think that’s a great idea, Christopher. Am I hearing the DJ in the other room? You should see if he’s working … like right now.
CHRISTOPHER: I’m on it hashtag fam!
BRO: Jesus, what a fucking chach.
PLANT DADDY: Fuck! Sorry everyone, I almost blew it.
GIRL BOSS: It’s fine. Let’s just do this before he gets back!
Dear Maître d’,
Christopher’s out. Now can we get that table? Tyler just texted saying he’s for real on his way, so we still basically fill a six-top. Tyler’s hilarious. He’s had his blue check for like six months already. But if we have to wait until he’s here to be seated, I’m sure he’s still in bed — Wait, what was that? Did you just say we have a table!? OMG, finally! You are finally seeing us as we want you to see us, as …
…a bro…
…and a girl boss…
… a plant daddy…
…and a Scorpio…
BRO: … Does that answer your —
PLANT DADDY: Shit! Are the prices on this menu for real!?
BRO: Let me see — fuck, this place is expensive!
GIRL BOSS: [Looks away]
SCORPIO: … Maybe the Maître d’ can point Christopher to our table when he gets back?
PLANT DADDY: Yes, please.
BRO: He is our friend.
GIRL BOSS: I mean, I guess. It’s really not that expensive, but since he’s already here …
BRO: So, yeah, we’ll take that table now, Madam Maître d’. And send our friend Christopher over, and Tyler, too, when he arrives. “Which table do we want?” you ask, because now that the morning rush is over we have options. Why, whichever is furthest from that shitty DJ, of course. Does that answer your question? Sincerely yours, The Brunch Club.
