The Psychology of Easter Brunch; May Contain Eggs and Nick Miller

The family and I took a little trip out to the Lost Pines Resort just east of Austin and capped off our weekend of farm animals, lazy rivers, and torrential downpours with an innocuous Easter brunch in what the resort calls their "Barn" but was more like their "Barndominium."

You're probably thinking: Mr. Verastiqui, how can you write a diatribe against brunch, that sacred time between breakfast and lunch when all of life's possibilities come together in a singular moment of pancake cheeseburger divinity? Have you no soul? Have you no decency, sir?

First of all, no need for such formalities. And second, I have nothing against brunch. I've brunched. I'll brunch again in the future. But if there has ever been a kryptonite to my unshakeable self-confidence, it's buffets, which is French for take without asking.

In the pantheon of social anxieties, buffets stand alone. On paper, the concept sounds generous (here's all this food, just take it), but the execution is where things fall apart for me. There's something uncomfortably animal about the whole affair, the way people crowd around the stations, appraising the offerings before digging in. Feeding time at the zoo, but with chafing dishes.

We arrived at the Barn and were immediately offered wine, which I appreciated as a kindness even if I didn't fully understand it at half-breakfast. I've been drunk and eating pancakes before, but college was a long time ago and those memories are hazy and a little sticky. The Barn itself was nicer than the name implied—tables arranged on two sides of a stage, with an archipelago of serving tables bisecting the room, all tastefully decorated for Easter. The dessert table in particular caught my eye. I want to eat all of those things, I remember thinking. A rare moment of foolish optimism.

My saving grace at any buffet is my children. When I'm helping Matador or Rainbow get a plate, the anxiety fades into the background because I have a purpose. "I'm also hungry and would like to eat" is, apparently, not sufficient motivation for my nervous system to cooperate. But fetching chicken tenders and mac and cheese for an eight-year-old who swears his mom said he could have a Diet Dr. Pepper? That I can do. Dom took Rainbow and came back with pretty much the same spread, but with more fruit and veggies, because we're doing things right with our second child.

Then it was my turn.

The live band started playing the moment I stood up.

I was already operating at a low-grade buffet-terror when the music kicked in, loud and pointed directly into my ear holes. I asked Rainbow if she wanted her headphones, and when she declined, I considered getting them for myself. This is exactly why I wear earplugs at Orange Theory; the loud noise just electrifies my nerves.

I made a full lap of the tables and came back empty-handed. Not because nothing was good—I don't think that was it at all. Nothing looked appetizing because my nervous system had quietly decided we were all going to die.

Nerd Alert: there's actually a clinical name for the fear of eating in public. It's called deipnophobia, and the underlying fears identified in clinical literature are embarrassment, perceived judgment, and loss of control, which, if you've ever stood frozen at a sneeze guard trying to remember if you like roast beef, probably sounds familiar. Researchers have traced the root of social anxiety like this to the amygdala, the small almond-smelling structure in the brain responsible for processing fear. In people prone to social anxiety like your favorite science fiction author, the amygdala runs hot—triggering fight-or-flight responses in situations that are objectively safe. Functional MRI studies have shown heightened activity in the medial prefrontal cortex as well, the region that handles imagining how others see you. In other words, your brain isn't just afraid; it's performing a continuous live simulation of every nearby stranger's opinion of you. And fight-or-flight, it turns out, is physiologically incompatible with appetite. Your body, preparing for a threat that isn't there, signals you to focus on survival rather than food. Which is a very dramatic way to respond to french toast.

I sat back down and full-on lied about not seeing anything that interested me, which is the kind of thing you do when you're forty-six and still can't explain to a table of normal people that the concept of choosing food in public has short-circuited your brain.

But sitting there, I started to recognize the signs. It was like standing on a rooftop, well-anchored, perfectly safe, but completely unable to convince your body of that fact. The physical symptoms of distress were all there, running the full checklist without my permission. The anxiety wasn't about the food, or the crowd, or even the band drilling directly into my skull. My nervous system had identified the buffet as a threat and was doing what nervous systems do: preparing me to either fight the cocktail shrimp or flee the premises.

I took a breath. Took inventory. Then got up.

I came back with a full plate and felt genuinely good, not about the food, but about catching myself mid-spiral and walking through it anyway. It was a small victory, but sometimes that's all you get.

Then Dom dropped a hammer.

A few weeks earlier, during SXSW, she had spotted Ethan Hawke just walking around South Congress while we were eating lunch and said nothing. Told me about it after the fact, casually, like that wasn't a fireable offense. We have since established, at great length and with some passion on my part, that when she sees a celebrity, she is to tell me immediately. It's one of my rare rules, like not putting utensils handles-up in the dishwasher.

So when she came back from the buffet, set down her plate, and said, "Since I didn't tell you about Ethan Hawke, I'm going to make it up to you—guess who's here?" I had no idea, so I asked who.

"You gave me cookie, I got you cookie."

I knew immediately who she meant, and I totally did not believe her. She maintained the claim. And just like that, the buffet stopped being a mild strain on my nervous system and became a catastrophic one.

She wouldn't tell me where he was. That was part of the game, apparently.

Horrifying. Looking for a specific face in an already swirling crowd is one of my worst anxieties. You mean I have to look at people? And they might look back?

Mercifully, I had my back to the room for most of the meal, so I wasn't scanning the crowd the entire time. But I couldn't stop watching every person who walked past. I was completely off my game, distracted in the particular way that only a combination of social anxiety and celebrity proximity can produce. The rest of brunch passed in a blur.

I did eventually find him. One of my favorite television characters, right there in the barn, eating Easter brunch like a regular person who had absolutely no idea he had become the unwitting centerpiece of my complete nervous breakdown. I should have felt triumphant.

But I didn't. Not even a little. My nerves were fried, and any satisfaction was hollow by the time it arrived.

When Matador asked if I could take him outside to play, I was already halfway to the door.

Anything to escape this perilous situation.

Anyway, I saw Nick Miller at brunch and it was terrible.

Oh, and this: