In the forest there is truly every kind of bird, and those wishing to continue a certain kind of Saturday night revelry flock to Sunday brunch at Peso's. At noon, it is mobbed with the same heterosexual young urban professionals who've given the place its reputation as a mating ground at night; the rituals are only slightly abated by the presence of daylight. The possibility of a one-night stand at two in the afternoon is startlingly clear.
Every drop of enjoyment is being eked out of the weekend. Everyone is drinking, with bloody marys spurned in favor of margaritas by the pint. Everyone's also entirely pulled together. Aside from one gentleman clearly under the influence—weaving his way around the environs slack-faced, clutching a drink—there is no blear here. Those males not wearing baseball caps are prodigiously producted, achieving coxcombs atop their heads; the females are smoothed, shined, presented. If three blondes at the bar allow the roots of their true colors to show, it is surely intentional; their faces are carefully, uniformly matte, their eyebrows stylized, nails lacquered, plumage arrayed. The one with the sparkly engagement ring hides it in her lap while laughing with the good-looking redheaded bartender. His hair resembles a woodpecker's crown.
The wait is at least half an hour, but the large bar area is first-come, first-served, and by way of concerted vulturing a table is obtained. The vulture's reward: sustained perusal of the remains of the prior diners. The staff is nearly hopelessly overwhelmed by the brunch rush, though it surely happens every weekend. A busboy symbolically wipes a circle of the table approximately eight inches in diameter while staring abstractedly into space, then drifts away. Despite the efforts of several friendly servers—chips and salsa, please? "Heck yeah!"—everything takes nearly forever. The population is unruffled by the pace; the better to drink and openly stare at those of the opposite sex. The food, generally pretty good—big plates of spicy migas, chipotle-hollandaise benedicts, huevos with carnitas—is of tertiary concern. People are, inconceivably, working the room, circulating flirtatiously.
Something untoward has occurred in the ladies' room. What appears to be salt is sprinkled liberally all over the floor; an unlabeled plastic container of this substance holds the door ajar. It appears to be a de-icing operation in progress, yet the ambient temperature is above freezing. There's a mop, a bucket. Over the sinks, half-full of foamy liquid, a hand-lettered sign urges ladies to exercise caution while washing their hands. It is quiet, empty; whatever has happened here keeps its secret.
Positioned in a row at the bar on the migratory path to and from the bathrooms, three males in baseball caps inspect bathroomgoers, swiveling their heads in unison, sweeping their eyes up and down with a stunning lack of subtlety. Presumably their attentions are reserved for the females only—lucky, lucky ladies.