It’s over. I’m through with brunch.

It’s gone way too far. Saturday and Sunday mornings in New York’s West Village, where I have lived for nearly 20 years, used to bring an almost pastoral calm. Now they’re characterized by the brunch-industrial complex rumbling to life. By late morning, crowds of brunchers — often hung over and proudly bedraggled — begin to assemble, eager to order from rote menus featuring some variation of mimosas and eggs Benedict.

But discontent is simmering. In an interview last month in GQ magazine, when pressed for an answer on why he left New York City for an unnamed “upstate” locale, Julian Casablancas, the lead singer of the Strokes, said, “I don’t know how many, like, white people having brunch I can deal with on a Saturday afternoon.”

His statement was picked up by New York’s tabloids and made headlines in London, signs of a percolating brunch backlash that comes not a minute too soon: The meal has spread like a virus from Sunday to Saturday and has jumped the midafternoon boundary. It’s now common to see brunchers lingering at their table until nearly dinnertime.

And for what? In his recent book “The Trouble With Brunch,” Shawn Micallef, a Canadian writer and academic, writes that the meal brings out the worst in restaurants and their patrons. “Chefs bury the dregs of the week’s dinners under rich sauces, arranging them in curious combinations,” he writes. “Brunchers treat servers uncharitably and servers, in turn, view them with contempt.” It’s as if everyone feels entitled to wring as much out of this bad deal as possible.