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American brunch menus have evolved into dense ideological treatises packed with supply chain dissertations, carbon footprint calculations, and passive-aggressive footnotes. No one has actually read a complete brunch menu since the Obama administration.
I spent seven years claiming a gluten intolerance I didn't have, wielding my fictional dietary restriction like a social superpower. Then my best friend got actually diagnosed with celiac disease, and everything fell apart.
A first-person confession from a commercial kitchen operating dozens of fake delivery brands, each with its own Instagram aesthetic and deeply felt mission about community. Spoiler: the 'artisanal' pizza and 'authentic' tacos come from the same microwave.
A first-person account of surviving a weekend wellness retreat that promised 'radical kitchen sovereignty' but delivered group therapy about aluminum foil relationships and mandatory vegetable meditation. Spoiler alert: the drive-through burger afterward was the most healing part.
As the owner of a Brooklyn brunch restaurant, I believed that no table should be permitted to order avocado toast without first sitting through a full land acknowledgment, a carbon footprint disclosure, and a brief overview of labor conditions on Mexican avocado farms. Wait times are now 45 minutes. The vibes are extremely accountable. Business is complicated.
A former barista at a Portland oat milk 'experience lounge' claims a shadowy conglomerate has been quietly bankrolling America's dairy guilt since 2015. The documents are blurry, the nutritionist is unreachable, and one Holstein cow named Linda just wants her reputation back.
Every weekend, millions of Americans stand in line for twenty-five minutes, pay seventeen dollars, and carry a beautiful bowl of raw fish and edamame to a table where they will eat exactly 40% of it before declaring themselves 'so full.' It's time we reckon with what's really happening here. Breckin Oatsworth demands answers.