Avocado Toast Ate My Personality: Dispatches from the LA Brunch Industrial Complex
By the time my avocado toast arrived, I had already taken three personality quizzes, two photos of my water, and one long, meaningful look at myself in the reflection of a copper tabletop. This is what brunch in Los Angeles does to you. It doesn’t just feed you—it gently suggests that you could be a better person, and that better person probably eats more chlorophyll.
I ordered the avocado toast because, in certain parts of Silver Lake, not ordering avocado toast is considered a cry for help.
The server didn’t ask if I wanted it. He asked, “How are you feeling today?” which, in LA dining language, means: Are you emotionally ready for $19 toast?
I said yes.
The Arrival
It came out like a debutante entering society.
A single slice of sourdough—thick enough to suggest generational wealth—arrived crowned with avocado that had clearly been to therapy. It was not mashed. It was smashed, which is different in the same way that “going through something” is different from “having a breakdown.”
There were microgreens arranged like they had tiny publicists. Chili flakes placed with surgical precision. Olive oil drizzled as if it had been emotionally prepared for this moment.
There may have been lemon zest. There is always lemon zest. LA treats citrus the way other cities treat religion.
I took a bite.
It tasted… good. Which was honestly a little disappointing. I had hoped it would taste like transcendence, or at least a mild personality upgrade.
Instead, it tasted like avocado. On toast.
The Economics of Enlightenment
Here’s the thing about avocado toast: it’s not priced in dollars. It’s priced in aspiration.
At $19 (before tax, tip, and a mysterious “wellness surcharge”), you’re not just buying breakfast. You’re buying the idea that you are the kind of person who wakes up early, hydrates intentionally, and has opinions about turmeric.
People love to say avocado toast is why millennials can’t afford houses. That’s ridiculous.
We can’t afford houses because we spent all our money on parking while trying to get avocado toast.
In Santa Monica, I once paid $12 to park so I could spend $21 on toast. That’s not a meal. That’s a financial narrative.
Every bite feels like you’re investing in a future where you own linen pants.
The Ingredient Arms Race
Avocado toast used to be simple. Avocado. Toast. Maybe salt, if you were feeling reckless.
Now it’s a full ensemble cast.
There are seeds that look like they were foraged during a guided meditation. There are spreads underneath the avocado—ricotta, hummus, something described only as “whipped.” There are eggs that are either poached, jammy, or emotionally unavailable.
At some point, the avocado became the least interesting part of avocado toast.
It’s like going to a concert where the headliner is technically there, but everyone’s talking about the opening acts: “Did you try the fermented chili oil? It’s going through a phase right now.”
The Instagram Clause
Before anyone eats avocado toast, there is a sacred ritual.
Phones emerge.
Angles are negotiated.
Someone says, “Wait, don’t touch it yet,” as if the toast might flee the scene.
We photograph it like it’s evidence of a life well-lived. Proof that we, too, are doing okay. That we are hydrated, employed, and in proximity to edible flowers.
By the time the photo is taken, the toast is cold. This is acceptable. Avocado toast is not about temperature. It is about documentation.
If a brunch happens in LA and no one posts it, did it even spiritually occur?
Wellness, But Make It Bread
In West Hollywood, avocado toast isn’t just food. It’s a moral position.
It’s gluten-adjacent. Dairy-optional. Guilt-free in a way that feels slightly accusatory.
The menu will tell you it’s “clean,” “activated,” or “aligned,” which is impressive for something that is, at its core, a fruit on carbohydrates.
You eat it expecting clarity. You leave with crumbs on your shirt and the vague sense that you should start journaling.
DIY vs. Destiny
At home, avocado toast takes three minutes.
You toast bread. You smash an avocado. You add salt. Congratulations—you are now a chef.
It costs maybe $2. It tastes essentially the same.
And yet.
At home, it doesn’t feel the same. There is no reclaimed wood table. No playlist that sounds like a yoga instructor discovering indie pop. No server gently affirming your choices.
At home, you are just a person eating breakfast.
In a café, you are a person becoming something.
The Truth We Don’t Say Out Loud
Avocado toast is not a scam. It’s a mirror.
It reflects back everything we want to believe about ourselves: that we are healthy, intentional, aesthetically pleasing people who make good decisions and drink enough water.
It’s less about hunger and more about hope.
Hope that if we get the right toast, in the right neighborhood, under the right lighting, our lives will finally come together like microgreens on sourdough.
The Last Bite
I finished my avocado toast slowly, thoughtfully, like someone who might one day own a ceramic bowl.
It didn’t change my life. I did not achieve enlightenment. I still had emails.
But for a brief moment, sitting there in the filtered sunlight, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Which, I guess, is the real thing you’re paying for.
That—and the lemon zest.
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