The table looks like it’s been lived in for a while—water sweating in glasses, a pale cocktail with a red straw, silverware nudged out of place. In the middle of it all, an earnest brunch plate: eggs Benedict spilling over, a heap of greens, and the kind of crispy side that tastes like it was worth getting out of bed for.
4 gays 1 Straight Brunch wasn’t a punchline so much as a small weather report. Different energies circling the same table, everyone translating the same language of coffee refills and shared bites. There’s always a moment when the room settles—when the conversation stops performing and starts creaking like an old house, familiar and unforced.
That’s what I remember most: not the exact jokes, not who ordered what, but the quiet rhythm underneath it. The way brunch makes a temporary home out of a restaurant booth. The way a simple plate can hold a whole morning together.
Maybe that’s the trick—letting something ordinary become a little brighter just because you noticed it. A soft light on a yellow tabletop. Steam disappearing. Friends leaning in, then laughing, then pausing like they’re listening for something beyond the clatter.
Later, the day kept moving. But for a while, we were all there, gathered around Eggs Benedict Brunch Plate, letting the mundane turn gently mysterious.
