One would think that sparklers and downing liters of champagne have no place at any dignified Sunday brunch, but Sunday School at Hotel ZaZa's Monarch restaurant is rewriting the rules of the weekend. A score of tiny black dress-decked waitresses flit about, touting sparklers, dancing on tables and conducting costume changes before a cohort of ascendant twenty- and thirtysomethings nibbling on tofu benedict and nonchalantly mixing various liquors at high noon.

To be sure, it's a spectacle, but nothing less than what this group would expect as midday entertainment. This is a portrait of post-recession Houston, a city seemingly dominated by a new class of raging yupsters. More cynical than an average yuppie but less self-conscious than the loathed hipster, the attractive yupsters work overtime in a luxury-oriented industry, often unironically calling themselves "lifestyle curators," and are equally comfortable tweeting their way through a business deal or part-time experimental MFA program. This nouveau cafe society has leveraged knowledge gained in the recent austere years to maintain a sense of ambitious self promotion that permits a bit of harmless behaving badly (also known as getting smashed in the middle of the Museum District) — and they're not going to apologize for it.

Undoubtedly, much analysis of this species was performed before curating the Sunday School menu.The portions are just generous enough to maintain a consistent smokey bloody mary-fueled buzz. For the vegetarian yupster, there's the smoked tofu eggs benedict with Sriracha hollandaise; chicken and waffles goes to the ethnically enlightened; catering to loca-carnivores is a plate of green eggs and brisket hash; and the carbon-footprint-weary yupster orders a succulent Alaskan halibut with saffron-braised summer squash.

All of this follows brioche French toast bites dipped in vanilla bean maple fondue, of course.

Overheard among the bright young things are such lines as, "This cava is good, but not as good as the winery I stayed at in the foothills of the Pyrenees. The shipping is brutal, but I always recycle the bottles."

Pretense has no meaning to this group: Good taste is a fact of life, but that doesn't mean that one should refuse the stray coral-colored shot glasses being distributed by the waitresses, now dressed as delinquent school girls (cigarette-emblazoned blazer crest included). When asked what composes the shots, a waitress responds, "Something fruity. Cranberry? You have to try one. Actually, have three."

The yupster slings the shots without allowing a drop spill on his discretely paired couture jacket and self-dyed TOMS. Museum District pedestrians and bicyclists can be spotted around Mecom Fountain and on Main Street, spying on the raucousness (one voyeur takes off a bike helmet to better view the scene through a pair of binoculars).

Having come of age during a dismal near-decade of Bush, the yupster reaches for a nostalgic 1990s-tinged soundtrack while clinging dearly to his parent's record collection. During Sunday School, the crowd clinks glasses as a DJ spins a mix of Jock Jams beside Rihanna remixes and familiar chillwave selections.

As any literate magazine reader knows, the yupster is not a new phenomenon. In March 2006, New York magazine published a profile of the Grup, the yindie yupster who "owns 11 pairs of sneakers, hasn't worn anything but jeans in a year, and won't shut up about the latest Death Cab for Cutie CD." Times have changed (and in more ways than Death Cab losing its credibility). The yupster present at Sunday School is more brash, and has slinked the slight granola edge of New York mag's long-winded analysis.

Whereas the yupster of yesteryear donned facial hair, messenger bag and iPod nano, the Sunday School student prefers Gold Panda B-sides and the iPad 2 — and has begun to shave for meetings with important clients.

Some may say these haute bohemians suffer from a lingering case of Peter Pan syndrome. But maybe Sunday School isn't necessarily an indicator of the city's zeitgeist — maybe young people just relate to one another in the noble quest of fabulousness. Because for this crowd, the champagne flute is never half-empty — it's half-ready for another pour.

As the bottles become lighter and the all-out dancing scenesters grow weary, the sated crowd begins to disperse into the deliriously perfect spring afternoon. Some will return home to organize back issues of Domino and catch up on last week's New Yorker or Jersey Shore installment. Others are on their way to a home tour followed by volunteering with a local non-profit young professionals group, or, conversely, indulge in a spliff on the Menil lawn. Those planning the week's menu (or simply on the prowl) will scan for eye candy at the Discovery Green farmer's market.

However, the vast majority will head directly back to one another's townhouses and triumphantly pass out. Class dismissed.

The next Sunday School is this Sunday.