The Sunburnt Cow - $20

Our first Manhattan brunch taught us a very important lesson: brunch can be crowded. When Joe and I walked into The Sunburnt Cow on Avenue C, we were asked if we minded having brunch at the bar, at least until a table opened up. We, of course, didn't. "Chris will take good care of you," our waiter said, nodding at the bartender, who was busy flipping cups right-side-up, pouring mimosa-filled pitchers into them, and sliding them to their lucky destinations. Chris nodded in affirmation, without looking up from his busy work.

Joe, for some reason, ordered a Bloody Mary; I, of course, went with my favorite OJ delight. "This is awful," he said, neutrally, after a sip or two. I tried it. It was. Why does anyone drink tomato juice ever?! However, little can stand in the way of Joe and drinking: he calmly worked his way through the sour, pulpy liquid, like a champ. Our waiter came back to tell us a table had opened up. We went over, sat down, and ordered our food. Joe asked for a mimosa.

The Sunburnt Cow's bottomless brunch is either $20 or $25, depending on what food item you choose. The mimosas here are less strong than they were at MexiBBQ, and the glasses were a little smaller, and they were a little less consistently good with the refills (mostly because they were so busy; when there was some downtime, the waiters were very good with refills indeed) but we still got very drunk.

The food here was of good-sized portions, with nice little perks (salad, toast, etc.)!

As soon as we had finished our food, a waiter came over to clear our plates. We asked him if we could have one last refill, and he said sure, of course, he just needed the table free. So we went back to the bar, and presented our empty glasses, and Chris filled them up, and we drank them, and Chris filled them up again, and we (grinning) drank them again. "Is this going to go on indefinitely?" I asked.

"I don't think the mimosas are the problem," Joe said, with the careful diction of someone who doesn't want to jinx something. "I think it's just the table space. We might be able to stay here for as long as we want."

"Okay, I have to pee," I said. I slid off the bar stool, and grabbed Joe's arm. "Get us another drink!" I said. "Say we just graduated from college!"

"Okay," he said.

"Say we're, say we -- say we're siblings!" I insisted. (Yeah, that'll work!) "Say we're siblings from San Diego!"

"Okay," Joe said. He nodded, to reassure me of his seriousness.

When I came back from the bathroom, there was a mimosa waiting for me. "He loved the story," Joe said, laughing quietly. "He's so into it."

"What did you say?"

"I was like, My little sister just graduated from college, we're from San Diego, this is her first day in New York, like her very first impression... Basically like, he feels like it's up to him whether you love or hate New York, forever." 

"Oh my god," I said.

"Yep," Joe said, proudly.

"I can't," I said. "I can't! I feel too bad!"

"Maia," Joe said. "Relax. It's your first day in New York!"

We got refill after refill after refill. At one point, Chris came over with three small shot glasses and filled them up, smoothly and quickly. "Welcome to New York!" he said to me, and we did a shot with him. He cleared away the shot glasses and kept working.

"I'm going to marry him," I said to Joe.

Joe nodded. "You'd be drunk all the time."

"Yes," I said. "He's very efficient."

Eventually, Joe and I decided that we'd had enough to drink. Joe left Chris a lavish tip ("Thank you, man," he responded, very seriously), and out we stumbled, into the bright outdoors. We walked for a few blocks, and somehow found our way into a small park, where we found a nice bench to sit on. We hung out there for a while, marveling at the flora surrounding us. I confessed that I was terrible at my times tables. Joe decided to see just how bad by asking me a couple of questions, and laughed and laughed when he saw that it was true. A man and a woman passed by, speaking French; I excitedly addressed them in French, and had a couple minutes' conversation. "Vous parlez très bien," they told me politely, trying to leave.

Joe had to go home, so I accompanied him to his subway stop. "I really want mac and cheese," I said. "I really want mac and cheese from that place on 12th Street. I really, really want it." As I walked, my flipflops flip-flopped heavily with the despair that comes with the knowledge that finding your drunken way from point A to point B is, for all practical purposes, entirely impossible. Joe and I hugged; he went down the stairs to the F train; I turned and walked away from the subway entrance and -- the mac-and-cheese place had a kiosk in the park, right there! It was a miracle. It was a miracle from the Cheese Gods. I paid way too much (five dollars) for a tiny tub of mac and cheese and sat down on a park table to eat it, completely and totally happy. It was salty. It was gooey. It was wonderful. 

Next to me, a couple was drinking out of a coconut. "Are you drinking out of a coconut?" I said.

"Yeah!"

"Where -- where did you get that?"

"Over there," the woman said. 

"Like two blocks that way," the man said.

"What's in it?" I said.

"They just like, puncture a hole in it, and give you straws," the man said.

"It's so fresh," the woman said.

After a beat, I said, realization dawning: "...So there's no liquor in it."

They laughed. "She thinks we're wasted," said the woman.

"No," I said. "I'm wasted."

When I was done with my mac and cheese, I threw out the plastic tub, bid goodbye to the coconut-drinkers, and began my journey home. It was a beautiful day, and I was happy.