🌸 a brunch to cry for

Welcome to track five from buttahbasted, my written album. This week, I designed a potential cover for the physical copy. Tell me in the comments if you like this!

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🌸 a brunch to cry for

Will the real San Francisco please stand up?

If you read the news, the city is a ruined Rome—a once-great fallen city decaying right before us. Downtown is Ghost Central. You can't buy deodorant at CVS without buzzing a button—begging an attendant to quench your stench. Seasoned San Franciscans master the arc of the mindless hop, leaping over piles of poop and shattered glass everyday.

But if you live far enough from Market St, you know the city's ethereal beauty.

Russian Hill lifts you up high—and dips you down low—treating you to gorgeous views of the Pacific Ocean. The Presidio presses you to pause and smell the wet bark on evergreen trees. Victorian homes serenade with a quaint charm—offering timeless respite from the ridiculous Twitter thread of the day.

One thing is certain, though. For forty-five days every year, this city glistens. Her radiant glow leaves locals in a daze. Petty conflict dissolves, and we wake up convinced that the $20 sandwiches at Atlas Cafe are indeed worth it. How lucky are we—permitted to live in this pristine paradise?

The itchy chill from the Pacific tempers the brash burn from the sun. Parks crowd with puffy jackets, dusty sunnies, and furry fellas on leashes. Wicked winds wind down before they reach the park—on days like this, the bouncers come correct. No, you are not welcome here, you gusty heathen. The weather gods swivel the thermostat up and down, then left and right, until they find a sunny compromise. 

Streets sprawl into walkable havens dotted with rows of outdoor restaurants and watering holes. Hole-in-the-wall Burmese spots border French brasseries border bistros. Cafes convene around patisseries selling sweet treats. Soups from around Asia simmer in chorus—songs of ramen, pho, miso, and tom yum echo in rhythm. Burritos blend beans, rice, and bits of meat into a coherent story. All-you-can-eat Korean barbecue tests your limits as you sip soju and flip bulgogi till your belly hurts. 

I went for brunch with friends on one of these unforgettable Bay Area days. We'd just finished our weekly soccer game in the Mission, a Saturday tradition for the past three years. We usually get coffee at Atlas Cafe afterwards to let the dopamine drip into our bones. But we opted for brunch this day.

Our notorious foodie friend recommended an Asian Fusion spot a few blocks from the pitch. She used the opportunity to hard-launch her boyfriend to us. He hopped off his moped and joined the conversation like we'd known him for months. Within a few minutes, we all understood why she liked him. 

Nothing on the menu stood out because everything looked so damn good. We decided to eat family style and ordered a bunch of dishes. Fifteen minutes later, the server spread a feast of delights served on black, stone plates.

We dug in, breaking all boundaries between us and passing plates and drinks around for everyone to share. Bites followed by subtle, closed-eye moans proved the chef delivered on the menu's promise.  

Between those bites, the conversation flowed from travel tales to funny stories from when we were kids. Our group was mixed, spanning many countries—East Asian, Caribbean, West African, South Asian, and American. I told my handy boarding school tales that brought out shrieks of shock horror and high-pitched cackles—perfect grazing material for our bunch.

You know those picturesque days when the weather and your company are perfect, so the slightest whiff of breath near your funny-bone catapults you into a full-body laughing frenzy?

I was sold a dream in that perfect place. While giggling like a glutton, someone handed me a plate and I placed it beside me. My eyes were fixed on my friend telling stories about growing up in Florida. I glanced away to pick up a chunk of avocado from the plate and plopped it into my mouth.

I waited for that familiar fatty feeling to coat my tongue. But that smooth texture never arrived. Instead, I got a sudden rush shooting for my brainstem like mini rocket gushing inside my upper nasal cavity with a vengeance. I recognized it immediately. I stood up and walked away from the table, but nobody on my table realized. Florida Man was telling hilarious stories. 

Without my consent, I felt a villain draw tears from my eyes like someone dug a well in my face and pumped away. The sinus rush was inconsiderate. A runner on the street offered me a concerned face, our eyes catching each other for a moment, then she just sprinted off. How fitting: the only person who noticed my pain literally ran away?

I wanted to thrust my fingers into that cavity between my throat and nose and itch away. But that border is blocked. (For good reason, I imagine). So I contorted my face—raising my squeezed nose and lifting my face-cheeks—for relief. But nothing helped.

I knew the culprit for this feeling. I'm a sucker for spicy food, I love the burn of Capsaicin. But this wasn't Her work. She’s prone to fiery, volatile moments, but never cruel like this. This sinus sting had the fingerprints of wasabi or horseradish ravaging my nervous system. That bite I thought was avocado? Yeah that's when I screwed up. 

Eventually, the rush began to let up. I released my raised cheeks from their full mast position. Relief has never felt so good: the pressed foot on my neck eased off and let me breathe again. Sweet oxygen dancing on the top of my lip, belting out a song of worship and triumph over a tricky foe.

I returned to the table to meet giggling faces unaware of my struggle. Nabila noticed me pull my chair back. Seeing dried tears on my face, she asked, “Wait, dude, are you good?” I pointed to the plate conspicuously lacking wasabi and we all burst out laughing.

As the laughter died down and the waitress returned to ask for the check, I realized I’d never forget this brunch. The harmony of pristine weather, perfect company, and my prickly sinus demanded to be immortalized in history.

And herein lies the fossil.