By: Becca

It was an Old Town weekend. After a long night of tapas eating, salsa dancing, and hookah smoking at Las Tapas (a dimly lit, sexy little hole-in-the-wall on King Street), I dragged myself back said neighborhood for an 11 a.m. birthday brunch.

We let the birthday girl, Liz, pick the spot, and she chose the laid-back hideout Chadwicks. But, first, everyone had to find it.

The restaurant is off Union Street towards the water. Its definitely off the beaten path, and as I was directing people to it, I realized I was yelling “Just walk towards the water and the big empty lot!” into my phone from the middle of the restaurant.

It was a cold, clear day. One of those days when there’s not a cloud in the sky but the air is simply frigid. The freezing wind was whipping off the Potomac’s water. I felt bad for my lost Bitches, wandering around the back roads of Old Town looking for this joint.

Brooke and I arrived early, so we plopped ourselves at a big round table on the second floor and ordered what looked like the best option to soak up our headaches—the beef brisket sliders.

Maybe it was our hangovers, or our hunger, but those sliders were delicious. Three bite-sized burgers, thick with meat, and succulent. They were piled high with pulled pieces of beef and covered in sweet barbecue sauce. The buns were slightly toasted buttered brioche, and there was a horseradish aioli on the side. Amazing.

OK. Now that we had some food in our stomachs, we could focus on our surroundings. The restaurant itself is dressed up like an antique ship. It’s all dark wood and nautical-themed knick knacks.

It’s been there since 1967, which isn’t really old compared to the rest of ancient Old Town, but it tries to be—down to the gold plaque by the front door that indicates the high water mark of the last historic hurricane. That would be Isabel in 2003.

There’s a converted alley to the side of their restaurant that they’ve turned into a sun room with tables. It’s got potted plants and windows, and the walls are exposed brick. Like the side room at Columbia Firehouse down the street, it’s a sunny alternative to the dark bar inside.

Sidenote: There’s a sign on the door that says “Sorry pardners. Unless you’re the law, please leave your side arms in the car,” that I found rather hilarious.

The server was laid back, and looked hungover himself. His hair was in a pony tail and he was scruffy. He quickly brought us water and coffee, and then handed us the enormous brunch menu. The menu is huge, really, but well-organized into sections: soups and starters, brunch classics, burgers, sandwiches, salads, comforts, chefs specialties, and sides.

There are some Cajun influences on the menu (the Jambalaya scramble), some Mexican influences (the burrito), even some New England influences (clam chowder—a house recipe for 32 years—and crab cakes). Hell, there’s even bangers and mash from jolly old England and a smoked Scottish salmon bagel from even further north. Either this chef is a worldly man or he’s having an identity crisis.

Once the birthday girl arrived, decked out from head to toe in her favorite shade of purple (really. Even down to the Michael Kors signature bag in purple. Where do you even find that?!), we started popping bottles like a G6.

Chadwick’s has a decent deal for brunch beverages: mimosas, Bloody Marys or screwdrivers for $3 a piece. Or bottles of cava for $9. The cava tasted pretty cheap, though, and on top of my hangover I couldn’t stomach much. But, it was ideal for toasting the birthday girl, Miss Liz.

We ALL wanted the burrito. It sounded perfect: three scrambled eggs with Andouille sausage, onions, cheddar jack cheese and salsa fresca. Then, the server said they were out of the burrito. We all cried loudly. “How do you run out of a burrito? Do you mean you are out of the tortillas? Or are you out of eggs? Because if you’re out of eggs we might be leaving.” and so on went our whining.

In my disappointment I ordered—what else?—the Benny. But this time I went with the steak Benedict, just to mix it up a bit. At Chadwicks they call it the Eggs Omar, and it’s two poached eggs on top of grilled tenderloin steak strips, which are on top of an English muffin. It’s topped with a Bearnaise sauce, which honestly didn’t taste of much. I gobbled up the dish because I was starving, not because it was awesome.

The croissant sandwich was greasy. It had baked ham inside, cheddar cheese, two eggs, and home fries on the side. It was one big plate of grease, and not so tasty.

Liz’s husband ordered off the “comfort” section of the menu and went for the fried chicken. The tiny, pathetic little piece of fried chicken was presented next to a buttermilk biscuit and a small dish of mac and cheese. I laughed pretty hard at this dish. All the pieces were sliding around.

Another Bitch ordered the three egg omelet. Along with three eggs, you get your pick of three ingredients, from peppers and spinach to sausage, bacon, and a variety of cheeses. You can also get toast or home fries on the side, but this bitch got a bagel instead. Meh.

Overall, the food was mediocre but the company made it a fun brunch.

The Bitches say: C. Subpar food, average service, an average drink deal, and a hard-to-find location.

Chadwicks
203 The Strand
Alexandria, VA 22314
(703) 836-4442

By: Cori Sue

For me, there is something inherently masochistic about experiencing and writing a bad brunch review. Like the asshole boyfriend you just can’t quit, or that fabulous skirt that makes your ass look enormous but you wear anyway—a bad brunch is pleasure-yet-pain.

Remember that awful brunch at Mei n Yu in 2010? Yes, well, Asia 9 is the 2012 version. The folks at Asia 9, that random but enormous Asian fusion restaurant in Metro Center, sent us numerous persistent e-mails inviting us for a complimentary brunch.

Fine, I acquiesced. I’m a poor non-profit employee and graduate student. I’ll go. Let’s see what this Asian brunch is all about. I took along Amanda Jean, our Baby Bitch, for the ride.

I arrived hungover, part of my whole I’m-single-and-irresponsible-yet-responsible December bender.

Upon arrival, Amanda Jean was seated at a table in the very empty restaurant. There were perhaps six other diners this morning (bad sign). A cherubic, rotund little Asian man leapt upon me as I walked in the door and led me to our table, handing me a press folder along the way. This little man would soon become my worst enemy.

I sat down, politely requesting a glass of water and a Thai iced tea. Then, said Asian chap opened the press folder and began a history lesson on China (in case you missed class in middle school, China has a very, very long history), and eulogizing the Chinese empire. Carrying on, he says, in a thick accent, “PAN-ASIAN means cuisine that goes from Thailand across Southeast Asia to China.”

“Yes,” I said. “I am aware of the definition of Pan-Asian.” My eyes bulging out of my head. This is going to be a long brunch. Amanda Jean looked at me, terrified.

Asia Nine’s brunch menu is as such: five dim sum choices for $25 plus $1 mimosas and Bloody Marys. Amanda Jean’s mimosa was heavy on un-fresh orange juice and low on the champagne. Additionally, at the bottom was a Maraschino cherry. (Who does that?)

My Thai iced tea was delicious—but saccharine—sweet and milky (as is the M.O. for Thai iced tea).

The first dish was the best, and it wasn’t that good. The shrimp shumai, a deep-fried shrimp dumpling topped with spicy mayo was yummy and tasted like shrimp—only there weren’t any inside.

Then, on to the traditional Thai rice wraps, what we know as dim sum dumplings, which came in three flavors. The rice wrapper was (a) coated in slime, (b) stuck to the dish, and (c) fell apart.

Says Amanda Jean, “Now, I’m no stranger to different cuisines, but I had yet to try dim sum, and I was actually pretty excited.  That was until I tried Asia 9’s dim sum.  The noodle outside of the dumplings clung to the tray like a needy boyfriend, and by the time I was able to hoist the dumpling onto my plate there was nothing left but a lifeless noodle carcass and strewn about insides.”

The first flavor, shrimp with bamboo shoots, again, didn’t contain any shrimp. The second, taro roots with peanuts with carrots and Chinese celery, was all peanuts and swimming in a thick dark-red sugary Cantonese sauce that is bound to give you a stomach ache. The third, sweet turnip and peanut, again, was all peanuts.

Then arrived the sesame tempura, which was extremely oily and lacked any sesame to be found. Sweet potatoes, zucchini and taro root were deep-fried and served with a crusted peanut sauce.

“The vegetable tempura was tasty, but was unfortunately a little too greasy and oily for my taste. Simply pressing the grease out would have made the dish much better,” says Amanda Jean.

On to the crispy rice cracker, a chicken and shrimp dish served in Thai red curry peanut sauce over crispy rice crackers. The rice crackers were, hard, stale and yucky. Again, you could hardly find the shrimp between the chicken. Most importantly, the sauce tasted nothing like Thai red curry.

Later, the chive pancake, chopped chives mixed with korean flour and fried, was undercooked and mushy. Yes, I said moosh-y.

The excruciatingly awful experience continued as such—the waitress would bring out an oily, un-fresh awful dim sum dish. The cherubic man would scuttle over and launch into a two-minute tirade, defining the dish, which encompassed reading the ingredients off the menu that was already sitting in front of both Amanda Jean and I. Then, he would stare at us while we took our first bites. Ignoring my clearly aloof and disapproving eyes and Amanda’s looks of horror that read “Ew” and “Eek”  throughout the process.

At one point, he sat down in the empty chair next to poor little Baby Bitch. Shooting him looks of death, I said, smiling through my teeth, “Are you joining us?”

He hopped up, nearly knocking the next atrocious dish out of the waitress’s hands. “Oh. Oh. No, no,” he chirped.

Before we moved on to the noodle dishes, I’m told the pork pot stickers (gyozas) were pretty decent,  as non-vegetarian Baby Bitch gave them a try. “Luckily the tasty dumplings made up partially for the poor dim sum experience.  They had just the right dough to meat ratio, and were served with a classic dumpling sauce which made for an overall delightful taste,” she says.

After this amalgamation of grease and horror, we were on to noodles and dessert.  The paid Thai was edible, bordering on good: chicken, bean sprouts, scallions, peanuts and noodles. Hooray! If you’re at Asia 9, you can eat something!

The other noodle dish, the rice noodle, was served with chopped frozen vegetables, like the kind you get in a cafeteria. Need I say more?

For dessert, Chinese donuts arrived. Chinese donuts are Malaysian-style deep fried strips of dough (like a Chinese churro) served with condensed milk. Again, too oily, and hard on the outside. Hard and oily. And the condensed milk frightened me.

Lastly, the jackfruit bread pudding, served with Indonesian jackfruit, sliced almonds and a creme anglaise. One of my pet peeves is when the accoutrements listed aren’t presented, and such was the sitch with this dish. Pray tell, where is the Indonesian jackfruit? Then, more condensed milk, more fear.

In conclusion, if Asia 9 put one iota of energy into creating decent cuisine, rather than overly unenthusiastic (and undeserved) public relations, perhaps their brunch would stand a chance.

The Bitches say: F. Awful ingredients. Disgusting flavors. Poor preparation. Bizarre menu. Painfully strange and socially awkward service. Stay away.

Asia 9
915 E Street N.W.
Washington, D.C.
(202) 629-4355

By: Becca

There was a table set out in the back of a restaurant just south of the Circle, and Tammy the March Hare and Becca the Hatter were having brunch at it. A Dormouse, Christina, was sitting between them, fast asleep from hangover, and the other two were using her as a cushion, resting their elbows on her, and talking over her head.

‘Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse,’ thought Alice, err, Alex; ‘only, as it’s asleep, I suppose it doesn’t mind.’

The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: ‘No room! No room!’ they cried out when they saw Alex coming. ‘There’s PLENTY of room!’ said Alex indignantly, and he sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table.

‘Have some mimosas,’ Tammy the March Hare said in an encouraging tone.

Alex looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but coffee. ‘I don’t see any mimosas,’ he remarked.

‘There isn’t any,’ said the March Hare.

‘Then it wasn’t very civil of you to offer it,’ said Alex angrily.

‘It wasn’t very civil of you to sit down without being invited,’ said the March Hare.

‘I didn’t know it was YOUR table,’ said Alex; ‘we’re here to talk about Uber.’

‘Your hair wants cutting,’ said Becca the Hatter. She had been looking at Alex for some time with great curiosity, and this was her first speech.

‘You should learn not to make personal remarks,’ Alex said with some severity; ‘it’s very rude.’

The Hatter opened her eyes very wide on hearing this; but all she said was, `Why is a raven like a writing-desk?’

… Poor Alex Priest. He had fallen down the rabbit hole that is a bottomless brunch with the Bitches. And, after four hours of brunching, this Mad Tea Party was definitely more Lewis Carroll than Disney.

We were also joined by Emil, who we’ll call the King (Queen) of Hearts, and Scott, who was our quiet but wise Cheshire Cat that day. And when this very odd collection of six Twitter friends gathered, we all collectively thought, ‘Well, this is what this place looks like in daylight,’ and compared our Madhatter happy hour experiences.

There’s a room in the back that’s made especially for a large mad brunch, with a long table in the center and a table on the ceiling. All the pictures are upside down. Wait, wait. The table you’re sitting at is on the ceiling. This is Wonderland, after all.

We were all starved when we arrived, and so before we even started the waterfall of mimosas, we ordered the item on the menu that was haughtily calling the most attention. That is, The Best Donut Ever. We ordered it to share, though this dish is probably not meant for sharing, being listed as a “sandwich” and falling to pieces once you cut into it.

We were slightly disappointed when it was presented because we were under the impression that it was going to be infused with its promised ingredients: scrambled eggs, sausage and cheese. Instead, it was a donut (and no Krispy Kreme—c’mon, it’s right across the street), cut in half, with those things piled inside.

Ah, well. We continued on Alice’s journey through Wonderland.

As Becca the Hatter is calling the shots, we went for the bottomless mimosas. At the bar, servers were pouring cartons of orange juice and bottles of Andre champagne into enormous plastic tubs, which was then transferred into carafes, which were then distributed to tables.

Yes, we said Andre (strike one) and yes, we said whole cartons of orange juice (strike two). We absconded with a carafe of champagne to reduce the ratio of juice-to-champagne in the beverages. But, you can’t beat $10 for bottomless.

Awoken from her hangover, our Dormouse, Christina, went to the bloody Mary bar, which was quite amazing—a wall of hot sauces and accouterments. She came back with a thick concoction with an asparagus sticking out. It served her hangover well.

Right after our first carafes of mimosas arrived, a basket of piping hot pastry balls was dropped on the table. Steam rose up as soon as you broke them open, and we dropped in slices of orange-blossom butter that immediately melted inside. It was delicious, gooey pastry inside, and a glazed crust on the outside. Wonderful little balls, indeed.

Alice, or Alex, had the Eggs Benedict and practically licked his plate. The two big poached eggs were served on thin slices of ham, folded over, on English muffins, with home fries on the side. The home fries were nothing special. So the March Hare ordered a basket of French fries to share with the table. They were served with three sauces: honey mustard, barbecue, and ketchup. We had to ask for it five times, but it was worth it in the end.

Our waitress had clearly just stepped into her own special Wonderland. She was rather excited and strange, though attentive to our needs for the most part. We asked her to tell us about the omelets, and her eyes opened wide with, “Ohh it’s an interactive omelet EXPERIENCE!” Her eagerness prompted the March Hare and Cheshire Cat (Tammy and Scott) to make their way through Wonderland and see for themselves.

It was, indeed, a magical experience; beginning with the mystical Staples-brand raffle ticket you’re expected to deliver to the happy chef at the station. Normally, omelet station guys are generally pretty grumpy. Think about it—they have to stand there all day and take people’s orders. The only exciting part of the job is the wacky permutations of omelets that people prefer. This guy, said the pair, was super friendly, and seemed to multitask both the omelet griddle and the Belgian waffle maker with speed.

For the Hatter, the Hangover Helper, which turned out to be rather gross—for lack of a better term. It was a big plate with various breakfast bits all slopped into one. The mess included biscuits, scrambled eggs, home fries, shredded cheddar cheese and bacon, sausage, or ham. It was topped with sausage gravy and served with a side of toast. I have to concede, however, that along with a stiff bloody Mary, this dish would probably swallow up even the worst of hangovers.

The Dormouse decided upon the breakfast burrito, which was packed with lots of scrambled eggs, sausage, and peppers.

The King of Hearts—Emil—had the French toast, which was three thick slices of Pullman white or raisin bread, dipped in the house vanilla batter, grilled and served with a side of sausage or bacon. He said it was tasty, and it’s a good thing, or else it would be off with their heads! It seems the waitress would live to see another day of painting the roses red.

You could tell the toast had just been made, said our King of Hearts, as you could taste the egg flavor, whereas in some places they’re overdone and covered with maple syrup.

The Mad Hatter’s final note, after my mad ramblings about the food, is that the bathrooms were atrocious. For a restaurant that large, having just one workable stall in a tiny ladies restroom is simply unacceptable.

The Bitches say: B- A good bottomless deal, with average food.

Madhatter
1319 Connecticut Ave. N.W.
Washington, D.C.
(202) 833-1495

By: Brooke, Guest Bitch

Our friends Katie and Matt used to keep us coming to Columbia Heights, but when they moved away to Tampa, we sort of lost touch with what had been one of our favorite up-and-coming neighborhoods.

Last weekend they came back to visit and so we wandered back to their old stomping grounds. We were thankful we did, because we discovered brunch at The Getaway, even though I barely remember brunch at The Getaway.

The restaurant is in the old space that used to house Social, a restaurant and bar just a few blocks north of the Columbia Heights Metro. When our party of seven arrived, there were just a few other brunchers who dared to venture out on that drizzly, decidedly gross February morning. We don’t think this place will be so quiet for long.

How do I even describe the madness of this brunch?

I, personally, was immediately enamored, because the place was playing alternative music reminiscent of my college years. There was some bizarro racing theme in the décor – and an out-of-place old upright piano in the corner. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t dive-y. It was casual and relaxed, and provided the perfect setting for a table to catch up and celebrate anything and everything that needed celebrating.

But, having brunched with the Bitches quite a bit, I know they are more serious about brunch drinks rather than brunch-time music and wall murals. Well, The Getaway scored big here. For $15, brunchers can imbibe in bottomless mimosas and Bloody Marys. And get this: You can switch back and forth.

The mimosas were really just champagne slightly colored with the juice of your choice – orange, passion fruit or mango. And the Bloody Marys came with the choice of mild, spicy, and super hot. I started with the spicy and they aren’t lying – it’s HOT. It comes with fresh jalapenos, horseradish, sricacha. It was absolutely delicious.

Which brings us to the food. While waiting for the perpetually late Bitches, our mouths were burning from the chilies in the Bloodys. So, we ordered bowls of the home-made tater-tots (you can get regular or sweet potato varieties). While we ordered them for the kitsch-factor, they were perfect and delicious. I wasn’t hungover, but members of our crew were – and this was the perfect accompaniment to Saturday morning headaches and spicy drinks. One recommendation from our group – please have honey mustard on hand for dipping. Just a thought.

As for the rest of the food?  I believe we were all members of the clean-plate club.

Matt, who declared himself to be starving, ordered the Getaway Burger. He was pleasantly surprised when it came topped with a fried egg – that wasn’t in the description, but added the perfect brunch twist. We didn’t time it, but I’m pretty sure he devoured the entire thing within three minutes. We saw the burger, and then we didn’t

For $11 dollars, you can get the Getaway Breakfast. What a deal. It comes with two eggs any style, choice of bacon, chicken sausage, or ham, more of those amazing potato tots, white or wheat toast and jelly. Both Saro and I couldn’t resist this breakfast smorgasbord.

I got mine with the chicken maple sausage, which I donated to the general cause of the table. No problem there – the plate had a ton of food regardless. The sausage was quickly gobbled up by the other Bitches. Overall, a simple, well executed brunch dish.

Both Becca and Katie ordered the Chorizo Grinder Burrito. It was chorizo sausage, scrambled eggs, pepper jack cheese, onions and peppers in a burrito. But, flour tortilla itself was grilled to a perfect crisp, holding the burrito together perfectly.

The entire hefty thing was placed in a spicy tomatillo sauce, which was so delicious Becca couldn’t get enough of it. Topped with pico de gallo, this might be the best breakfast burrito we’ve ever had in the D.C. area.

Joanna got dibs on the Chesapeake Benedict – usually Becca’s brunch-time domain.  Joanna liked it, but said it was slightly on the bland side. On the plus-side, it came with a side of asparagus instead of the usually breakfast potatoes. Nice touch.

Eric got the Nutella and Banana French Toast. It was small, but so rich and decadent it was almost like a dessert—so you don’t need much on your plate with this one. The Brioche toast is stuffed with bananas and Nutella, and then crusted with cornflakes and served with a spiced rum maple syrup.

The table also split the fruit and prosciutto salad.  I didn’t partake, but Becca said the fruit was super fresh, and the prosciutto tasty, albeit a bit fatty. It came with melon and pineapple, and was drizzled with raspberry balsamic reduction. A pretty dish to share.

The menu is far more expansive than our table of repeats indicates. There are three different benedicts to choose from, more substantial dishes (steak and eggs, grilled salmon), salad after salad, and a variety of other brunch-time staples. I think almost everyone would find a meal to satisfy their palette.

Oh, and we also tried all three of the dessert options they had, of which I will leave you with simply this food porn …

And I can’t forget the service. Our waitress, Alison, is my new personal hero. Regular readers know that I will judge a brunch based on the coffee service – and Alison filled coffee mugs before asked. She was patient with what became an increasingly rowdy crowd. She quickly saw that we were serious about taking advantage of the bottomless deal, so she started bringing carafes after carafes.

Alison also cleared glass after glass after glass of mimosas and Bloody Marys. She didn’t flinch when our entire table just up and left the table to relocate to the couches in the lounge area – even though it was clear we wouldn’t be ordering any more. And then she split the checks without us requesting that additional luxury.  Oh – and she appeared to be the only server in the joint! Bravo, Alison. Bravo.

Four hours after arriving, we all happily stumbled back into the street, heading in different directions for afternoon naps. It was the perfect scene for catching up with old friends, relaxing, and escaping a dreary D.C. winter day.

The Bitches say A+.  When you don’t want something chi-chi, but you’re hungry and thirsty, this is the place.

The Getaway
1400 Meridian Place NW
Washington, DC 20010
202.299.1162

By: Cori Sue

When the folks at Irish Whiskey Public House invited us in for their first day of brunch, I knew exactly who I’d take as my date—none other than the whiskey-loving, Mighty Pint regular and gorgeous girl-around-town K Street Kate. I’d last seen Kate at the Irish Whiskey opening party the week beforehand—where she told me of her plan to work her way through the restaurant and bar’s whiskey club and snag a trip to Ireland. A go-getter, that one.

The space is decorated by Maggie O’Neill, the designer behind SAX, the burlesque nightclub, and Lincoln, my favorite Logan Circle locale. With plaid, brass, wooden bars and booths, the space is a modern, unique spin on a traditional Irish pub. Oh, and it’s three stories, too.

The boys behind the bar are the owners of neighboring Mighty Pint, a popular spot for Pennsylvania sports fans. Sean McIntosh, an authentically Irish chef with a heavy accent, swoon-worthy smile and a ponytail, is the wunderkind in the kitchen, whipping up pretzel bites and delicious arctic char among other dishes.

As I am the girl who loves both a $16 cocktail at an upscale hotel bar and a PBR at a dive bar, Irish Whiskey Public House is my new go-to, as it appeals to both relaxed and refined clientele with its upscale Irish pub vibe.

As it was the first day of brunch, Chef Sean was popping over to check in and asking for tips from Kate and I.

For starters, we began with strong Irish coffees, served in a glass mug rather than a coffee cup. “Best coffee I’ve had in a while … adding whiskey would have made it even better!” was Kate’s tip.

Then, never shy, we dove right in to the entrees.

Kate ordered the loaded baked potato hash with bacon, scallions, Cabot cheese, two poached eggs and country Irish gravy, which came served in a cast iron put. It was heavy, filled with eggs, cheese, potatoes and gravy—but not a lot of bacon. The dish was very hot, which served to cook the egg more thoroughly while it sat on the table.

For me, the “From the Coast,” two poached eggs on toasted Irish soda bread with smoked salmon and seared potato puffs. With regard to the potato puffs, they are gnocchi … only Irish. Chef Sean came out to inquire about the food, asking, “Aren’t the gnocchi delicious?”

“Don’t you mean the potato puffs?” I replied. “You’ve got to make them Irish somehow!”

For the record, the potato puffs were light, flavorful and delicious—yet different enough to be puffs, rather than gnocchi.

My dish was essentially a salmon benedict. The salmon was fresh, the Béarnaise perfection, and the eggs perfectly poached. However, the dish was served on Irish soda bread—traditional bread made with soda and raisins. I’d prefer it with different bread, and, according to my sources, the chef has made the menu adjustment, now serving it with brioche.

Along the way, I gave in and ordered the house-made Bloody Mary, topped with an onion, olive and shrimp. It was so spicy—I love spicy—not too thick, and packed with flavor. The shrimp, pepper and horseradish flavors were strong. It was by far the best Bloody Mary I’ve had in recent memory—this pub definitely knows its cocktails.

We ordered the Irish soda bread French toast, served with house-made Jameson whipped cream and syrup, as “dessert.” Oddly, the French toast came served with latkes, a strange combination. The thick, fluffy French toast could have been battered more heavily with eggs, and topped with more Jameson whipped cream.

The whipped cream was amazing—and I can certainly see it making me tipsy had there been more of it. This is a really unique dish—and worth going back for. Both Kate and I suggested they ditch the latkes, add fruit, and amplify the egginess (that is so a word) and whipped cream on the dish. Such food critics, we girls.

(For the record, you can substitute a side of fruit for anything on the menu).

A handsome gentlemen at the table beside us ordered the eggs veggie—sautéed vegetables and pasteurized eggs baked and served in a cast-iron pot. This looks like a great option for brunch, as it is lighter than what Kate and I ordered.

Additionally, I was drooling over my neighbor’s roasted beet salad, served with fried camembert cheese, shredded cabbage slaw and honey orange vinaigrette. Those of you who follow me on Twitter know I’m on a beet kick—I’ll definitely be back to try it for myself.

Because I was waxing poetic over the pretzel bites from the opening party, Chef Sean sent out a half-batch (in order to prevent Cori Sue and Kate over-carbo-loading). The pretzel bites are fluffy, salted and fried, arriving with a side of spicy honey mustard dipping sauce. This is the snack I would like to have appear in my home for late-night post-bar snacking, as I can literally imagine nothing better.

As for Kate, she says “There is no lighter option on the brunch menu—I know it’s Irish traditional—but for a gal looking to watch her weight, this place would be a tough sell.” Thankfully, neither of us are much for calorie-counting. But, health maniacs should take heed.

The Bitches say: A-. Irish Whiskey Public House has a great ambiance and talented chef that uses fresh ingredients and quality preparation. A few adjustments need to be made to improve their fledgling brunch menu—but we’re thinking they can only move up from there!

Irish Whiskey Public House
1207 19th St. N.W.
Washington, D.C.
(202) 463-3010

By: Becca

Brunch with my mother and my best friend goes something like this:

“I’m dating the man of my dreams. We’re going to get married and have lots of babies.”

“Ugh. I can’t even think about men. Who needs them?”

“I’m in a relationship with my kitchen. It’s quite a healthy one, actually.”

We were sitting in the back of the Warehouse Bar & Grill, an Old Town restaurant right on King Street that could easily be mistaken for a tourist trap from the outside. It was just the three of us, and we were quite cozy, sipping our delicious cappuccinos in the charming restaurant, and gossiping about life, love, and real estate.

It’s funny what happens when I put my mother with my girlfriends. There is no age—they are all my closest friends, the ones I share my deepest secrets with—when we’re around a table.

Warehouse is an older (“historic,” they say) restaurant, but it’s well kept. There are white linen table cloths and mahogany accents throughout. The walls in the entrance and along the stairs to the second floor are lined with original artwork—caricatures, faces of the local gentry, some three-dimensional, in squares.

The name doesn’t do the place justice. This is not a warehouse, nor is it a bar-and-grill-type pub. At first impression, it’s a café of sorts, with a long bar connecting two dining rooms.

The service was fantastic. Our waiter was exceptionally attentive and kind. In fact, the service was so good it made us overlook the flaws in the food. He just swept us off our feet with his charm. Our coffee was refilled without asking, our plates whisked away without us even noticing. It made the brunch flow smoothly—and it’s wonderful when you don’t have any interruptions to a meal, especially when you’re in the thick of some good gossip.

With your brunch order, you get a choice of champagne with strawberries, or strawberries and cream with powdered cinnamon on top. I got the champagne, which was warm and tasted a bit like the bottle had been open for a day or two. But, even though it was no ice cold Veuve Clicquot, it was still a nice complimentary touch to the meal.

The strawberries and cream dish was so simple and refreshing. This should be served before brunch everywhere. It refreshed the palette between multiple cups of coffee and our brunch entrees. Also, they do leave a basket of bread slices on the table, but the bread is a bit tough, and the butter hard to slice into. Perhaps that’s their unintentional nod to tough French bread.

Warehouse claims it is expert in aged steaks and seafood, but really the menu showed it to be a southern Louisiana-style French restaurant. There’s everything from Po’Boys to Creole Alligator Stew to Crawfish and Shrimp Beignets.

The best part of the brunch was that the dishes came with a side of steamed vegetables—instead of the normal greasy breakfast potatoes. It was a great surprise, and we ladies felt slightly more healthy because of it. The eggs Benny was standard—the egg properly poached, with a Tasso ham hollandaise.

The Eggs Hussarde was similar. The New Orleans specialty was simply Eggs Benedict with the addition of grilled sliced tomato and a red wine sauce. Though, the tomato wasn’t really grilled. And, also, we suspect, it might have made the Bitch who ate it a bit ill later that day. Oof.

The open-faced omelet came covered with ruffle chips. They weren’t particularly spicy or tasty, but added a nice texture to the dish once they were broken up. The omelet itself was covered with onions and andouille sausage.

For dessert, I really wanted chocolate beignets, or some kind of fluffy dessert beignets. Alas, they had none on the menu—a big disappointment considering the rest of their menu is so Cajun. Instead, we ordered the chocolate hazelnut crème brulee, which was a beautiful dish, very rich, and perfect to share between three gossiping girls.

The Bitches say: B+ Great service in a welcoming restaurant with personality, average food but with a few creative touches.

Warehouse Bar & Grill
214 King Street
Alexandria, V.A.
(703)683-6868

Warehouse Bar & Grill serves Saturday and Sunday brunch.

By: Cori Sue

“Summer lovin, had me a blast. Summer lovin, happened so fast. Met a boy, crazy for me,” I crooned, batting my eyelashes, flipping my hair, and envisioning myself a blonde in leather pants akin to Sandy in Grease.

“Met a girl, cute as can be,” replied my dance partner, in a Spanish accent so thick I’m not sure he even knew what he was singing.

“Summer days driftin’ away, to uh-oh those summer nights. Uh well-a well-a well-a huh,” we continued on emphatically. My hardly-21-year-old Colombian dance partner spun me around, dipping me as my costume crown falls to the ground.

I am sunburnt (from climbing a mountain), wearing a tiara and a sash, along with various other assorted props. I’m drunk off of bad oldies tunes and one far-too-strong-and-larger-than-life mojito. It’s New Year’s Eve. My teeny bopper dance moves are unstoppable.

Where the hell am I?

Andres Carne de Res, a five-floor amusement-style restaurant-turned-night-club that boasts a 15-page menu, overpriced and oversized tropical beverages and more steak and frivolity than even the most American of Americans could fathom. Waitresses wear an assortment of buttons. Other employees assault you with puppets. People put crowns and sashes on you. It’s like TGIFridays, or Fudruckers. But on steroids, and in Colombia.

In Colombia? You say. Like the country?

Yes, Colombia, that drug-invested dangerous country where you’re sure to get carried off by the FARC and held for ransom, according to my overly concerned relatives.

Why, you ask?

In another one of my hair-brained whirlwind plans, I’d dragged my god sister and oldest friend, Anna, off to Bogota for New Year’s holiday (much to my god-parents’ dismay). Because, it would be fun, and well, why not?

Why Colombia? (Everyone asked).

Well, allow me to elaborate … and then get to brunch. Here’s my short list on why—and what you should do—when you visit Colombia.

1.) Have fun. For starters, there are spectacular establishments like Arnes Carne de Res where you can stuff yourself with delicious cuisine, flamboyant cocktails and dance to Euro House music, Spanish salsa tunes and American pop all-at-once.

2.) Experience an amazing country. I’m not here to give you a geography or history lesson. But, Colombia is one of the most beautiful countries out there—there are mountains, jungles, tropical and Caribbean beaches. There are bustling and thriving cities—epicenters of culture for you to enjoy. You can climb a mountain in the jungle one day, relax on a Caribbean beach the next, and visit world-class museums another.

3.) Be cheap—and go shopping. The exchange rate of U.S. dollars to Colombian pesos two-to-one and everything is dirt cheap. Spirit Airlines and Jet Blue fly to three major Colombian cities—Bogota, Cartagena and Medellin—and you can snag a ticket for less money than it takes to get to California. Colombia is the emerald capital of the world. In addition to emeralds, there are all sorts of authentic, hand-made indigenous gold jewels and beaded baubles, Panama hats, tapestries, hammocks. You name it.

4.) Have an adventure. While in Colombia, we climbed a tropical mountain. We also took a bike tour through the very hilly and traffic filled downtown Bogota. Ecotourism, tropical wildlife, scenic hikes, hang gliding, scuba diving and whale watching—you can do all that and more in Colombia.

5.) Eat fresh. Colombia has an abundance of tropical fruit. Every morning, everywhere, you can drink fresh-squeezed mango, orange, lemon, pineapple or coconut juice. There are street stands selling fresh cups of mango, papaya and pineapple for two pesos, or less than a dollar, on every corner. On the weekend, there are markets filled with tropical fruits like you’ve never seen in your life.

6.) Drink beer. Like everything else, Colombian beer is cheap, and light. One of the nation’s signature beverages is a cerveza michelada, basically a beergarita—lime, salt, and beer. It’s delicious, trust me.

7.)  See beauty—even in fat people. Bogota’s Museo de Oro, or museum of gold, has the world’s largest share of gold artifacts and is listed in the Thousand Places to See Before You Die. Additionally, Fernando Botero, the Colombian painter who paints morbidly fat people and somehow makes them cute, has his namesake museum around the corner.

8.) Brunch (or breakfast). One day, we hopped over to La Puerta Falsa, an adorable breakfast café hidden in la Candelaria, the historical part of town, that was founded in 1816. We climbed up the wooden stairs to a loft-style portion of the restaurant and ordered Colombia’s three traditional dishes.

First, huevos pericos, scrambled eggs with tomatos and onions and served in a cast iron skillet. No matter where you go in Colombia, huevos pericos are served the same way.

Then, a tamale, a combination of yellow cumin rice, chicken, onions, and peppers served inside a banana leaf. Warm, delicious and filling.

Saving the best for last, Colombians eat cheese dipped in hot chocolate for breakfast. Sounds bizarre, but it’s not. Rich, dark hot chocolate comes served with huge slices of fluffy buttered bread and a soft, mildly flavored cheese, which you dip into the hot chocolate.

Though at first hesitant, I can honestly say it was delicious. But, feeding me bread, cheese and chocolate in one meal is likely to garner positive reviews

La Puerta Falsa
Calle 11 No 6-50
Bogota, Colombia

Also, in Colombia, they have llamas, which is clear reason to buy your plane ticket.

By: Becca

The Passenger is suffering from multiple personality disorder. But I think it’s comfortable with that—and its customers are, too.

When you walk in, you think, oh, laid-back hipster bar … let me saddle up in my skinny jeans and order myself a PBR. But then you scratch the surface a bit, or perhaps walk further back towards The Columbia Room, and you realize that there’s much, much more to the place than you originally thought.

The split might be because it’s owned and run by two brothers, who have each put their own very unique stamp on the place. Tom is at the front of the house, with its cracked old booths and refurbished wooden bar. Derek is the master of the back of the house, or The Columbia Room, an upscale 10-seat cocktail club in a dimly lit private room that requires reservations way in advance.

Together, the brothers have quietly turned the creation of ingenious cocktails into a science. And The Passenger is their laboratory, complete with self-made cordials and bitters, and hand-carved ice.

And then there’s the brunch, which isn’t served in The Columbia Room (c’mon Derek, give us a Columbia Room brunch and I might just die). Instead, it’s in the main part of the restaurant, and is a self-proclaimed “hangover brunch,” meaning they don’t even open their doors until 2 p.m. It also means the cocktails are strong enough to destroy even the worst of hangovers.

I should have been really, really hungover to properly experience this brunch. And Lord knows I usually am at brunches. The irony—I spent that morning sober, working out, doing laundry, and generally being rather productive. So I was surprisingly alive when downing these “Hair of the Dog” cocktails.

For nostalgic reasons, I ordered the Sherry Cobbler. My grandmother drinks sherry, and when I visit her in England, she urges me to have some, and serves it in tiny crystal sherry glasses. But when not appeasing grandma, I’ve generally avoided the stuff. It’s just not my favorite. But then the Passenger suggests it makes a good cocktail, and so I can’t resist. For this drink, they’ve made it like a sangria, with orange juice and fresh fruit bobbing about. It was completely refreshing, and didn’t taste of sherry much at all.

Cori Sue went for the most mimosa-like of the cocktails, the South 75. It was served in a champagne flute, but the bubbly was mixed with grapefruit juice and gin. It was slightly sweet and had a berry at the bottom. Delicious.

Being very manly, Saro ordered the Aperol Spritzer, which was a bit bitter, but the most mellow of the cocktails. In addition to those we tried, there’s also the Danish Mary, a Red-Eye (beer and spicy tomato juice), and the Corpse Reviver, which is reputed to rise the dead. And in addition to the actual brunch cocktails, there’s also the ever-revolving list of unique daily cocktails that are on the chalkboard by the bar.

The hangover brunch itself is tiny—only six things to choose from, one of which is vegetarian. We started off by sharing the biscuits and gravy, which was actually only one biscuit in a bowl of gravy. But our disappointment at the size of the dish was quickly replaced by satisfaction when we actually tasted the stuff.

That pork gravy was warm, tasty, and had big chunks of pork throughout. By far, it is one of the tastiest biscuits and gravy I’ve had in D.C.—I just wish they served this as a full dish with more biscuits.

The single vegetarian option was the Chilaquiles, or Javier’s hangover cure, as touted on the menu. Cori Sue, of course, went for that. It was crispy, spicy tortilla chips, served with avocado and a fried egg.

Cori Sue loves herself something spicy—take note, future Latin lovers—and really enjoyed the chili-dusted strips. However, the whole plate was a mess of chips with one meager egg and a few avocado slices. There just simply wasn’t enough avocado to go around—and soon enough she was left with a plate of spicy carbs and no real food.

Never fearful of carbs (or cheese), we then opted to dig in to the black-truffle mac and cheese, one of the finest in the city. Cori Sue has eaten a lot of mac-n-cheese, and even makes a dish that’s better than sex, but this truffle concoction is definitely one of the best.

It’s served in an iron skillet and baked so there’s a gorgeous layer of crusted cheese on top. It’s not on the brunch menu, but you can order plates from the bar menu during brunch if you’d like.

Angie’s Birthday was two pancakes, or bacon jacks (cooked in bacon grease, how pancakes should be), with an egg sunny side up. It had fresh berries on the side, as well. Saro ordered this, and was fine with it, though it wasn’t anything special.

The Waffle Sandwich (sounds amazing, doesn’t it?), was two waffle quarters with bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiched in between. Like the biscuit and gravy, this dish was so delicious I wanted more. Why can’t I have the whole damn waffle as a sandwich?

On the side, there were fresh berries, and of course a saucer of syrup to pour on the waffle sandwich. We didn’t try the Corned Beef Hash or the Pork Belly Bowl, as they were a bit too carnivorous for our liking that day.

The restaurant was just named one of the 50 Best Bars by Food & Wine magazine—and you can see why. If you’re too hungover to eat, I would suggest just sitting at the bar and nursing yourself with hair of the dog. It’s such a neighborhood joint, you wouldn’t even have to worry about being bothered by tourists.

In fact, the place is so very D.C., down to the three-starred flag weaved into its logo on the front windows. Great music is always pumping through the speakers, and there’s very little decoration besides some time-lapse photography of the city, and of course the beautiful curved wooden ceiling—made from reclaimed wood from the building—in the back room. It’s clearly the product of the Brown brothers, even if they have such different personalities.

The Bitches say: A. Amazing cocktails, great food (though we wish some of the best dishes were a little bigger), and a true D.C. neighborhood bar, with dual personalities that make it both upscale and down.

The Passenger
1021 7th Street Northwest
Washington D.C., DC 20001
(202) 393-0220

By: Becca

Over the weekend I flew south to defrost. I hadn’t been to Key West since my 21st birthday, during which I got sloppy at Sloppy Joe’s and did other things that were equally as cliché. I thought the little island would be worth a second visit now that I’m slightly older and wiser and not as much of a lush (OK, I’m still a lush, but that’s beside the point).

I needed a weekend to decompress and unwind—because clearly seven days in the Caribbean was just not enough—and I was lucky enough to be treated to a weekend at the Waldorf Astoria’s Casa Marina resort, which provided that relaxation to the extreme.

The resort is stunning—worthy of expensive weddings and resortwear fashion shoots. The lobby opens up to a grand promenade leading down to a pristine private beach. Hammocks swing from slender palm trees, waiters scuttle about answering to your every whim, and two pools mirror each other, serenely inviting you for a dip.

My whim, for practically the entire weekend, was to lounge in a hammock. In fact, on Saturday, my entire day consisted of getting out of bed, getting in a hammock, ordering brunch from said hammock, and then slipping in and out of consciousness until it was dinner time, which was again ordered from the hammock while watching the most beautiful sun sink below the horizon.

It was bliss. That’s not all I did, though. I was a rebel. I looked up the top things to do in Key West, per various travel blogs and magazines, and I completely blew off all the suggestions, which included such things as the Hemingway house (nope, not with that line), the lighthouse (meh), the Southernmost point (zzzzzzzzzzz), and touristy Mallory square (I think I’ve seen enough cruise ship passengers this month).

Instead, I give you …

The top five things to do in Key West, if you’re a Bitch:

1. Spend at least 12 hours in a hammock at Casa Marina (see above).

2. Giggle in delight over the ridiculously naughty dessert menu at Better Than Sex. All the cocktails have rim jobs (read: dipped in dark Belgian chocolate), and all the desserts are extravagantly rich and decadent. We had the namesake Better Than Sex, a cake baked in a “ménage a trois” of chocolates. There are even books full of dirty questions on the tables as conversation starters.

3. Have a fancy-pants seafood dinner. It’s fresh as can be, and island chefs know how to prepare fish right. We went to Hot Tin Roof, right on the water in the Ocean Key Resort. The service was excellent, the lighting perfect (the menus lit up when you opened them), and the food fresh.

4. Get up early to brunch at Blue Heaven. The place is known for its eclectic character and charm, with chickens wandering around at your feet, and a reggae musician hitting the metal drums from a stage. You eat in a rustic back garden, and the food is supposed to be superb. There is reportedly a lobster Benedict with key lime hollandaise sauce that is to die for. Alas, we got there at 1 p.m., and so the wait was an hour and a half. We were starved, so we waddled across the street to …

5. Brunch at La Creperie. Sit at the bar, which gives you direct view of the most hardworking couple of French women I’ve ever seen slap crepes around. It was mesmerizing watching Yolande Findlay and Sylvie Le Nouail spread the gooey buckwheat mixture on three crepe makers, and pile up the fresh sliced strawberries, pears, apples, Brie, goat cheese … you name it.

The breakfast crepes were phenom. We tried La Complète, which was filled with egg, Swiss cheese, and sausage (though you could have bacon or ham, if you prefer). The lunch crepes were even better. I had one with Brie, bacon, and chopped Granny Smith apple, which came with an apple slice on top. It sounds like an odd combination, but it was extraordinarily delicious.

We were so impressed—and mesmerized by Yolande and Sylvie in action—we went for a dessert crepe, the special, which is filled with homemade chocolate ganache, fresh strawberries, almonds, and raspberry coulis. And on top? Whipped cream, a big scoop of ice cream, sliced bananas and strawberries, and all of this topped with chocolate syrup, powdered sugar, and almond shavings. Out of control.

So there you have it. While you’re in Key West, I recommend you do nothing but stuff yourself with the island’s food. Because nothing makes a better vacation than that.

La Creperie
300 Petronia St.
Key West, FL 33040
(305) 517-6799

By: Cori Sue

Though I frequent Jose Andres’ other restaurants—Zaytinya, America Eats Tavern, Oyamel—I’d not visited Jaleo in years. So, naturally, I decided to head there for brunch, and invite along Heather and Josie, two blonde bombshells who are on the board of The Madison with yours truly.

We were all late (no surprise), and were seated at a round tiled table in the middle of the restaurant. The ambiance aims to be reminiscent of Spain, with bright colors (yellow, red, blues and whites) and lots of festive mosiacs. However, the large, open space is not overly decorated.

Heather, who is a very talented production designer at True Line Publishing, says of the space, “The ambiance was nice and casual. The restaurant was very festive in decorations (loved our tiled table—very unique!) and the atmosphere was equally fun enough to recap loudly about our prior weekends.”

The two-page brunch menu is small yet sufficient, and the lunch menu is also available during brunch hours. We began with rounds of Mimosas de Frutos Rojos (read: berry mimosas) and coffee. We were all happy to try a variation on the traditional mimosa. The cocktail was made with fresh berries and champagne, and was thankfully not overly sweet.

The first dish we ordered was the Tostada con salmón ahumado y huevo duro, smoked salmon on crisp while toast, smothered with goat cheese and topped with hard-boiled egg, and capers. This first dish was by far the best—fresh salmon paired with warm creamy goat cheese and still hot toast. The chef did a spectacular job of taking a traditional dish with reliable flavor pairings—lox, cream cheese and capers on a bagel—and making it his own with a special twist. From now on, I’ll be having my lox on toasted French bread rather than a bagel.

Josie, girl-about-town, president of The Madison and event planner at the Ronald Reagan Building, agrees, saying, “The salmon dish blew me away. I wanted to order more!”

Then, on to a more Spanish tapas dish with the Bombas de la Barceloneta, mashed potato fritters with a goat cheese and a Catalan pork sausage center. These were the least popular item on the table. For starters, the waitress (more on her later), described them as “goat cheese potato fritters” and neglected to mention the pork sausage center. (We had closed the menu and were gossiping.) So, I leapt at the words “goat cheese” and “fritter.”

Thankfully, when they arrived, I cut them open before biting, noticing the pork sausage inside before compromising my morals. In a city filled with health-conscious women with its fair share of animal-loving liberals, Jaleo should be a bit more vegetarian-conscious. It’s certainly not the reason D.C. was dubbed “most vegetarian-friendly city.” But, regardless of your opinion on that, quality restaurants should train their staff to be aware of the menu items and courteous of dietary restrictions. (Remember the days when you could trust your waitress?)

Then, came the olive oil pancakes, served with honey, rather than syrup, and a very small portion of fruit. The fruit was fresh, and I would have liked more. The pancakes were delicious—I could tell they were made with olive oil. Personally, I would have preferred syrup to honey, but I can appreciate the desire for differentiation. Meanwhile, Heather thought it was a “nice twist on a classic breakfast item.”

We also ordered the revuelto de queso and setas, scrambled eggs with enormous fresh, wild mushrooms and manchego cheese. This was a phenomenal dish and I would definitely go back and order it again. Adds Heather, “This was my favorite dish for its amazing mushrooms. It was the perfect combination of savory and cheesy while not being too filling.”

Because I had run 10 miles that morning (I am training for the Boston Marathon in April), I was starving. So, I ordered some beet soup all to myself (I’m totally on a beet kick). Much to my dismay, the waitress forgot to place the order, and I waited a good 20 minutes to quench my hunger. When it did finally arrive, the soup was impressive: enormous chunks of roasted beets, mandarin oranges and goat cheese, covered with a chilled beet soup poured by the server. A happy conclusion to a roller coaster brunch filled with ups-and-downs.

The Bitches say: B. Brunch was yummy, but the tapas brunch at Estadio is far better. We enjoyed the food, but it was nothing ground-breaking, and the service was sub-par.

Jaleo
480 7th St. N.W.
Washington, D.C.
(202) 628-7949