Drunk Brunch

For me, brunch is a verb unique to NYC. I can't actually recall a time in Austin when I called up my lady friends and said, "Let's brunch."

Which is actually quite a shame, as brunching is one of my favorite weekend activities. Without it, my weekends would - surprisingly - be less productive.

Brunch is dragging my hung-over (read: still drunk) ass out of bed when all I really want to do is sleep in 'til 3. Brunch is catching up with friends. And, brunch is just plain delicious.

Even though we have our go-to places (ahem... Cafe Orlin), we've decided to make more of an effort to branch out lately. I feel like the possibilities are endless - we could choose a different restaurant every weekend until the end of time with no overlap.

And this past Saturday (after marathon nights of drinking on Thursday and Friday) a gaggle of us girls met for noon-time brunch at Primehouse.

I believe I've mentioned the drastic lengths Momma J once took to ensure that my New York family enjoy a bit of BBQ during my first trip up here - a testament to the fact that we Texans take our meat seriously.

So needless to say, I was excited for some steak & eggs action at Primehouse, and couldn't pass on the Surf and Turf Hash when I spied it on the menu: braised short rib, shrimp, poached eggs and pommerey mustard hollandaise sauce atop a pile of hashbrowns.

Sounded like a good choice to me.

Wrong.

There was only one itty-bitty, puny, baby-sized piece of short rib hidden in the entire dish. As there were 10 of us sprawled out in the middle of the restaurant -and 6 of us threw down cards - I (graciously, IMO) waited until we had paid and were leaving the restaurant to play disgruntled diner.

My friend L-Squared volunteered her moral support while I went to confront the waiter.

Me: I don't mean to be obnoxious, but I just wanted to let you know that I ordered the Surf and Turf Hash, and there wasn't really any turf with my surf.

Waiter: Huh?

Me: There was only one itty-bitty, baby piece of turf in my "Surf" AND "Turf" Hash.

Waiter: Uh... [lengthy and confused pause]... which one is the turf?

Really? Really waiter at a renowned STEAKHOUSE? You don't know the difference in definition between SURF and TURF?

Me: Uh... the beef? You know, like land vs. sea...?

Waiter: Oh. Right. Thanks for letting me know - I mean, it's not my fault, but I guess I could... like, tell the chefs or something so I don't get this same complaint again later.  

Really? Really waiter at an "upscale" restaurant? You think I thought you were back there in the kitchen neglecting my steak addiction? And you're not going to offer to comp anything - that is, if I ever even decide to bestow my patronage upon you again in the future? Not even a free cocktail on the house?

Nope, apparently not.
It pains me to say this, but Primehouse: Fail.

In the end though, even if the location lets us down from time to time, the actual act of brunching never will. Cocktails + Friends will always = Success.

Ladies: can't wait 'til next weekend!