If Your Brunch Doesn't Look Like This, Don't Even Bother Inviting Us
Hemingway and His Pals Set a High Bar
If you are thinking about throwing a brunch this weekend and you aren't going to have dusty bottles of wine, an obnoxious French man playing the guitar, and a bunch of random people smoking cigarettes, then don't even bother inviting us.
After seeing this photo of Hemingway Hemingway in Paris, revisiting some of his old stomping grounds during his expatriate days, we have a new standard.
Your terrible little brunch just won't match the energy and vibe we are now looking for.
Sorry, but if we are going to get out of bed early in the afternoon just so we can battle our hangover to get dressed and drive 40 minutes just to eat fruit and quiche, we have certain demands.
First off, don't even bother with food. Nobody wants to eat, they just want to drink more. As you can see, the wine and unfiltered cigarettes are going down just fine.
First off, don't even bother with food. Nobody wants to eat, they just want to drink more. As you can see, the wine and cigarettes are going down just fine.
Second, there should be a mandatory dress code involving neckerchiefs: everyone must wear an ascot or a cravat. And if you don't know the difference then you are proving my point exactly.
Third, there should only be one woman there. Then we can all insult her femininity with backhanded compliments that let her know her role within this social hierarchy. She should be married to an artist or photographer, and therefore, potentially fair game.
Fourth, everyone should have pristine hair. None of this "I'm going bald so I'm going to wear this dad hat" nonsense. If you're going bald like the guy sitting to Hemingway's right, comb that shit over and live your best fucking life.
Fifth, the music should only be provided by an off-putting French musician who only plays "the classics," and in France that means vulgar little folk tunes about having sex with prostitutes. Also, notice the man who thinks the guitarist just insulted his sister, and he's right because he did.
Finally, we all want to sit and hang on every word of some hypermasculine sexagenarian, who will tell us some offensive stories about fishing, bullfighting, or his time in the war. All conversations will be dominated by him, and whichever wife or mistress he brought with him this time will be in the corner rolling her eyes and talking about how she is going to finally leave the "sonofabitch."
Bonus: the more bored he gets, the more drunk he will become. This will make for amazing conversation on the 40 minute drive back to our house.
Thank you for meeting our demands, and see you this Sunday. We’ll bring the cigarettes.