I thought brunch at a sports bar would be a magical mixing of worlds. My favorite foods. My favorite friends. Sports. Mimosas. We headed to Public House, one of my favorite bourgeois sports bars (TVs everywhere! cleanliness! good beers on tap!) in the city, with high hopes and happy spirits. We left having learned a lesson.
All the ingredients were there, but they just didn't mix. Maybe we made a mistake or two -- like starting with a communal nacho plate -- but ultimately it was the atmosphere. The incongruity of trying to watch a game over brunch was near impossible. The game was distracting from the conversation and no one was in the mindset to watch a game.
Oh, and did I mention we that started with the nachos? Huge mistake. Every subsequent bite of anything wound up tasting like refried beans. Things didn't get any better when our main dishes came since I had ordered the huevos rancheros, but there weren't that many menu options.
All the ingredients were there, but they just didn't mix. Maybe we made a mistake or two -- like starting with a communal nacho plate -- but ultimately it was the atmosphere. The incongruity of trying to watch a game over brunch was near impossible. The game was distracting from the conversation and no one was in the mindset to watch a game.
I might try this experiment again, 21st Amendment would be the next on my list. Maybe I won't. If I do, I can promise that I will not be eating nachos before noon ever again.
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