Not long ago I made a horrible decision that is still haunting me. While in the midst of a heated argument with a moody, but sexy fifth year about the definitive ranking of greatest “Blink 182” songs, my friend asked if I’d like to accompany her to get some chicken nuggets from Empire. I declined, in the hopes I’d continue with mystery man and that some other things may get heated. We left the Union and once past the Vic, a group of his friends, clad in togas, ran by chanting “This is Sparta!” and swept him away from me. Too ashamed to walk back to Empire, I went home: No man. No food. Completely alone.

This past Sunday morning, I sat on the couch with my flat-mate as we filled each other in on the happenings of our respective Saturday nights. Typically, we spend our evenings out together charming people and hearing compliments in return like, “Ma’am, you can’t do that in Tesco,” before coming home to toast bagels and inevitably Snapchat our high-school bible teacher videos of us performing Kelly Clarkson’s “My Life Would Suck Without You.”
As I wiped the makeup from under my eyes, and counted the number of people I texted demanding them to bring me Chipotle at 4AM (15 including my confused eighty-three-year-old grandpa), she said something that would impart clarity on even the most tequila-riddled brain: “Men will almost never be a satisfying alternative to going home with cheesy chips.”

On the topic of food, we decided that we were in dire need of some. Fifteen minutes and two pain-killers later, we were out the door. I thought about what she said as we began our brunch quest. I spent the next hour of my life shuffling about the town, only to discover that the single establishment open prior to 9AM on a Sunday is Starbucks. This is not a suitable brunch option.
We needed our hangovers to give way to the delicate flavors of bacon and waffles. We needed a little TLC from our gin and orange juice. We needed a meal where it was socially acceptable to order a gin and orange juice before noon. We needed this brunch. But alas, the brunch gods were against us.

This made me realize both the abhorrent lack of hash-brown distribution facilities in a sixty-foot radius and the fact that I had never been awake earlier than 9AM on a Sunday in St Andrews. (Unless my mom is reading this, in which case I attend church every Sunday morning… Maybe real God was against me.) While the idea of a Dundee McDonald’s run popped into my head, I quickly sifted it aside. Considering I could hardly drag my ass from Northpoint to Bibi’s, there was no way in hell I would make it to the cab stand. (Let us not linger on the fact that the issue was the distance to the cab stand and not the fact that I am, at any given point, willing to drop a month’s savings on getting an illustrious Egg McMuffin.)

So what were two hung-over gals to do? We obviously went to Starbucks. Yeah eggs benedict would be nice, but we’re not going to not eat food when given the option. As I sipped my latte and ate my delicious ham and cheese croissant, I started thinking more and more about what she said. As far as I was concerned, she was so correct. I felt toward this croissant the way I would feel towards cheesy chips; the way I would feel toward garlic pizza bread or a doner kebab. It’s a brief moment so satisfying and wonderful, you never want it to end, unlike a short-lived rendez-vous with a drunk fourth year trying to seduce you with his knowledge of Prince lyrics at karaoke (not the way to go, bud.)
Unlike the men you’ll meet on a night out, the variety of post-drinking ecstasy is limitless. Why choose a hamburger or chicken nuggets? You can have both. Empire will give you chili jam and garlic sauce if you so choose. You can be as picky or liberal as you’d like. You can have it your way, and you know you won’t be left in a fit of passion wanting more. When you finish it off, you too will be pleasantly satiated. At least until you wake up in time for breakfast, and I’m talking full-Scottish.

Men, men can be fleeting and regrettable, but those calories will last… well, at least until 2PM when the vodka shits roll in. And while you may be disappointed that you unintentionally partook in the Michael Phelps’ 12k calorie challenge or that there’s a picture of you passed out on the couch with a slice of Pepperoni pizza hanging out of your mouth, can you ever really regret it? Maybe we just haven’t met the right guys. We’re constantly running auditions, if you’re interested. But in our experience, there’s always a downfall to the male alternative (whether it’s that he has the kissing abilities of a dog or you find out that he goes to Madras College) that’ll bite you in the ass. The wonderful men at Empire will never leave you hanging.