Books & Brunch Novels & Stories

She swiftly made her way around the table and began serving each of the dishes that had been laid out for their brunch. "We also have freshly baked croissants and pastries from one of our best chief’s," she announced, pointing at a basket of still-warm baked goods on the table. "Along with a selection of local charcuterie and cheeses, seasonal fruits, and of course, the chef's special eggs Benedict." The spread looked and smelled absolutely divine. Just as Mrs. Rizzi was placing the final dish on President Bolting’s plate, the large doors at the other end of the dining room swung open again.

There is no mate bond, but having him close makes me feel more secure. “I can’t wait for you to see this.” He rubs his thumb on the top of my hand as he leads me to a store. It’s rare Bronx gets so excited about surprising me. We approach a bookstore with a dusty, old window display. In gold paint, there is a picture of a pan flute and a goat. The images are peeling and sundried as if they’ve been there forever. Over the pictures are the words ‘The Barded Goat Used & Collectible Books’.

As usual. The name on the screen jolted her directly into wakefulness. Brandon had written: Hey, want to grab coffee? Or brunch? It’s a beautiful Saturday—perfect for a museum visit! The image of Brandon’s sweet, open face as he told her he liked blueberry donuts rose up unbidden in her head…

Sunday means brunch, an occasion that fills the restaurant with both families and lone diners seeking solace in our famous blueberry pancakes or a hearty omelet. Opening a drawer, I retrieve a stack of paperwork—invoices, supplier orders, and the like. This is the mundane part of the job that no one ever romanticizes, but there’s a comfort in the routine of it. Each paper I sign, every number I check, it’s all a testament to the world I’ve built brick by brick, dish by dish.

Quiet. He lifted his glass slightly. Fine. “Six ribbons?” Mama repeated, one brow arching now. “Jasmine, what is this?” “This?” I said sweetly, taking the phone from Poppy before she decided to give her grandmother a full tour of the restaurant. “This is brunch. Very simple. Very normal. Don’t start.” “When you say don’t start,” Mama said mildly, “that usually means I should start earlier.” I took a sip of espresso. “I admire your consistency.”

The next morning. I get up on my bed and check the time, and it is already nine in the morning. I woke up late because I finished reviewing half of the first batch of the books lined up for publishing. I move towards the bathroom to take a leak, wash my face, and then do my skincare routine. After several minutes of making my face clean, I went to the kitchen to prepare for my brunch. I prepared two poached eggs, three toasted loaves, and chicken breast salad for my meal. It's part of my diet, and I need to stay in shape so that Mimo would drool for me if she sees my glamorous body. After I finish everything and am not busy anymore, I will pursue her, but not right now since I am swamped wit

"I mean, if you want to use that word. And then I want my scrambled-" "Poached." "Scrambled eggs put on top of some Canadian bacon, and then I want them both on top of an English muffin, and then I want Hollandaise sauce on top." "This sounds an awful lot like Eggs Benedict." He said squeezing his face to show his distaste. “Oh my God, Brianna, what the heck are you craving for this morning ?”. "Well it's not awful. It's scrambled eggs à la Katelyn." "Uh huh. And do you want to watch?" he asked kissing my forehead.

He made toast and found the butter and poured more coffee — his usual, because there was more of it, the emergency bag having run to its conclusion — and set it all in front of Adrian at the kitchen table. Adrian looked at the plate. He looked at Daniel sitting across from him. "You made me breakfast," he said. "It's eleven-thirty," Daniel said. "It's technically brunch." "You made me brunch." "I made eggs," Daniel said. "The definition is the person's problem." Adrian looked at the eggs and then at Daniel and his expression was the open version, the unmanaged version, the version that had the rawness present alongside the warmth, both of them visible, both of them real.

Aspen tracks a guy as he walks past the front and opens the door. My mouth started salivating before I walked in this morning and I've been impatiently waiting for someone to feed me since I sat down. Monday through Saturday I'm iffy on the whole breakfast meal, but Sundays... Sundays are the day where we call it brunch and use it as an excuse to stuff our faces with sugary goodness. Most weekends the promise of Tahiti French toast is the one reason I get out of bed.

Tonight, I looked untouchable. Leah’s voice echoed in my memory from the night before: “They’re having a society brunch tomorrow. Catherine will be there. Sera too. The whole empire. Perfect stage for your return.” So I said yes. The hired car purred as it pulled up to the hotel terrace where the brunch was already in full bloom. Guests spilled across the manicured gardens, tables dressed with orchids and crystal. A string quartet played something light and airy, but the music was swallowed by the hum of gossip.