Okay, so here's the thing — I love brunch. Like, if I had to pick a food group? Brunch might be it. And ever since I moved back to New York (yes, she’s a city girl again), I made a personal vow to myself: I will embrace solo brunching. Just me, a mimosa, and some overpriced eggs.
So naturally, this particular Saturday, I got all dressed up in my “casually effortless just-in-case-I-run-into-an-ex” outfit — you know the one — and decided to take myself to a cute little spot in SoHo. I had my book, my sunglasses, and a full emotional commitment to people-watching. What could go wrong?
The Brunch Plan That Wasn’t
I walked into this darling little café-slash-bakery-slash-floral-wonderland that shall remain unnamed (because I might want to go back one day and save face). I asked for a table for one. One. Solo. Just me.
The hostess blinked at me like I asked for a table with a dolphin. “It’s going to be a 40-minute wait,” she said, scanning the packed room.
Okay. I can wait, I thought. I’m secure. I’m mature. I’m an independent woman with a New Yorker subscription I never read.
But then… through the large window next to the hostess stand, I saw it: a group of people — maybe eight? — gathered around a long table, laughing, gesturing wildly, already two mimosas deep. And at the head of it was a woman wearing a birthday sash that said “It’s Giving 30.”
And in that moment, something changed.
Mistaken Identity… Or Destiny?
One of the friends — a man in a wool bucket hat (???) — turned to the window, made direct eye contact with me, and waved. Not a slick, subtle wave. A full-arm, “Hey you!!” kind of wave.
Now, I can’t explain what came over me. Maybe it was the mimosa deprivation. Maybe it was the way my heels were already starting to hurt and I couldn't bear the thought of waiting another 40 minutes next to a couple arguing over almond milk.
But…I walked in.
I walked straight to that table, smiled, waved like I belonged there, and—
“No way, Rach!!!” someone yelled.
Wait… Rach?
Were they… expecting me?
“Happy Birthday!!” I blurted to the sash girl as I slid into the empty seat between Wool Bucket Hat and a girl wearing sunglasses indoors.
And just like that, I was part of the party.
What I Learned From Becoming a Brunch Crasher
After three rounds of bottomless pineapple margs, I learned the following essential truths:
- People will believe anything if you act like you belong. Confidence is everything. Especially if you also bring a small Chanel bag.
- “Rach” was apparently a friend-of-a-friend who lived in LA and hadn’t been seen in years. I was mysterious. I was glamorous. I was… apparently a wellness coach and part-time candle designer?!
- Brunch friendships are fleeting but fierce. By the end of the meal, I knew Emily was cheating on her keto diet, Marcus had a secret second Instagram, and Sarah was fighting with her roommate over a marble cheese board.
- Nobody eats the toast. Like, toast is the side tattoo we all order and instantly regret.
The Escape (Because Every Icon Must Leave Early)
Once the birthday chant started turning into an off-key rendition of “This Girl is On Fire,” I knew it was time. I stood up, clinked my glass dramatically, and said, “This was so special. But I have a [pause for fake obligation] — a facial.”
Everyone nodded solemnly, like I was off to war.
I left a crisp twenty on the table (for the margaritas, for the memories) and slipped out the door before anyone could realize I’d never actually been invited at all.
So, To Recap:
- Was I technically a brunch crasher? Yes.
- Did I pretend to be a coastal wellness girl named Rach? Also yes.
- Did I get free birthday cake, two compliments on my scarf, and a story I’ll be telling until the next leap year? Triple yes.
New York is a lot. It overwhelms, it confuses, it makes you wait 40 minutes for pancakes — but every now and then, it pulls off one of those magical, unexpected moments that remind you why you live here.
And honestly? I might do it again next Saturday.
But don’t worry, I'll switch neighborhoods. Uptown next time. Maybe Tribeca. Wherever Rach might reappear.
xoxo,
Rachel 🥂🍳✨
“Could I be living a more interesting life?” — probably Joey, but definitely me this week.
