By: Laura Jayne, Guest Bitch

There’s a really good pickle place … somewhere. These restaurants are often very loud.

The best cure for a hangover is greasy food.

The best cure for a hangover is more alcohol.

The best cure for a hangover is wearing expensive sunglasses and not eating or drinking anything.

The best cure for a hangover is nonstop jazz featuring a blaring trumpet, according to this restaurant stereo.

The best cure for a hangover is yelling your story over someone else’s story, while they yell their story over nonstop jazz featuring a blaring trumpet.

Malcolm Gladwell is a real person, not a spokesperson for trash bags or diet cookies, and not in the middle of anything.

If you do fewer repetitions with more weight, you need extra rest. The same is true if you do zero repetitions, but are planning to do a lot of them at some point.

Second-day hair is not hair that was shipped very quickly with extra postage.

There are three acceptable pronunciations of ‘quinoa’, so everyone can just shut the hell up.

Some people still haven’t read Freedom, and they don’t even feel guilty about it.

It’s “Dude looks like a lady,” not “Do it like a lady.”

Now, for a segment I like to call “The News, as I heard it at brunch”:

There was an important election in France last week. Also, in Greece. Also, on American Idol. It was an extremely contentious competition, the voting was incredibly close, and some people think the guy who lost is kind of a jerk. However, I, for one, am looking forward to buying Sarkozy’s cover album, “Nicolas was here”.

There’s also been a ton of weather this week. It was cloudy, but also super sunny and the wind was nuts, yet calm. It was weirdly cold for May, except for that one day, and those other few days that were scorchers, but then again, it was really hot/rainy/global warming-y in April. Most times though, the weather is just unseasonably beautiful and stoic, and we’re totally going to pay for it later—or perhaps we’ve already paid for it last year when it was sweltering/tiny/iceberg.

Sometimes, sports happen. This week? It was basketball and the Knicks are a team. Also, the Celtics are doing great, although there are some other opponents to watch out for and she can’t use hair dye because she’s pregnant. (Okay, perhaps I was sitting a little too close to a conversation border during sports.)

Most importantly there was a Supermoon, which is another word for a horse race celebrating Mexico’s unlikely victory over France in the European Cup. (Things may have blended together once my food arrived and I found it difficult to focus.)

Also, Port Wine is in. See you next week.

Originally appeared in Thought Catalog. Republished with permission.

By: Cori Sue

Because I was sure to wander around like a lost puppy in a sinner’s paradise upon my arrival to Las Vegas, I was fortunate enough to receive plenty of tips from friends of mine.

For Friday brunch, a friend e-mailed, “Society Café, because CSM will love tweeting about this place—one of the best brunch spots on the strip. The floral arrangements are spectacular, too.”

Upon arrival at Society Café, we discover a restaurant laden with fuchsia, tufted couches, black-and-white damask and stripes, and chandeliers—a color scheme very similar, albeit more ostentatious, to my home décor.

“Oh my god, this looks exactly like your apartment,” surmises Linds.

Tweeting and eating and plenty of pink—I am just so predictable.

We sit down in a pink-tufted booth and I squeal with delight. Our waiter, Charlie, is full of smiles and menu tips. I order a Blood Orange mimosa, why not?

The restaurant brings over salted pretzel rolls served with a Dijon mustard dipping sauce. The rolls were both white pretzels and pumpernickel—both delicious—and the differentiation from a typical bread basket was both noted and appreciated.

The brunch-all-day options include pancakes, omelets and the like. However, what struck our fancy was the three-course lunch bento box for $23.

Lindsey’s Bento box included fruit salad, a market chop salad, and a charred tuna slider. She says, “Society Cafe was absolutely perfect for a girl looking for a light-but-delectable brunch pre-Vegas pool bender. The box lunch was simply an improved American twist on the bento box. After biting into the mini Market Chop Salad, I felt like I was detoxing with the array of fresh veggies including avocado, carrots, celery, tomatoes, and hearts of palm. The charred tuna slider was a little smaller than I would have liked, but the delicious steamed bun that substituted for the standard boring roll made up for it. Finishing with a small bowl of berries, I was perfectly satiated and ready to hit the pool!”

Meanwhile, my plate of pizzazz also included a charred tuna slider. I also ordered a caprese salad made with mini heirloom tomatoes, chopped basil and melt-in-your-mouth mozzarella. It was perfect—I only wish there had been more.

Best of all, cinnamon sugar doughnut holes served warm in a paper bag. Adorable, and delicious. (You know how Bitches and brunchers love doughnuts).

The service at Society Café was splendid. The manager charged my iPhone for me—waiting patiently for me to finish snapping pictures before I reluctantly handed over a technological device that is more like an appendage than object nowadays.

The chef came out to say hello and brought out complimentary dessert—just to be nice. He was Italian, handsome, and made miraculous ice cream sandwiches. (I wonder if he’s married?)

The ice cream sandwiches, like the rest of the brunch, were miniature. House-made ice cream between hard-yet-moist wafer cookies in three flavors: Oreo, chocolate peanut butter, and rum raisin. Lindsey loved the rum raisin while I went wild for the chocolate peanut butter.

An adorable Friday brunch in Las Vegas followed by catching up on my Vogue magazines poolside—we were happy girls.

The Bitches say: A. Adorable ambiance, spectacular service, splendid cuisine.

Society Café
The Wynn
3131 Las Vegas Blvd. South.
Las Vegas, NV

By: Becca

When The Cajun Experience opened for brunch a few years ago, I dragged along college friends Fontaine and Liz for a debaucherous afternoon of Abita Purple Haze and hurricanes. You see, Fontaine (real name: Scott, last name: Fontaine. Therefore, obviously, he must be called Fontaine) is from New Orleans, and his lovely wife Liz (my former college roommate) has since adopted his hometown as her own.

The pair are very particular about their Cajun cuisine, and I value their opinion a great deal. At the Cajun Experience, they were initially impressed at the authenticity of the food, but after returning for many crawfish boils and brunches, the place has since (they tell me) gone down hill. They even took Purple Haze off the taps—the horror!

So Liz suggested we trek out to discover other D.C.-based New Orleans brunch spots. First up, TruOrleans, which is right on H Street in that newly restaurant-heavy block of the Atlas District. I arrived early with my beau, and it was a beautiful day, so we sat at a patio table on the street level.

We sat there because there was, to my disappointment, a private party on the open-air upper level. I had wanted to sit upstairs. But the downstairs patio was cutesy, with strategically placed beads hanging from the lamp posts as if it were the morning after a ridiculous Mardi Gras down H Street.

We ordered bottomless mimosas. The mimosas were extremely orange juice heavy, and got more so as the brunch continued. We tried to ignore this by lapping up the sun. Liz, Fontaine and Brooke arrived shortly thereafter and were pleasantly surprised that the place had their beloved Purple Haze on draft.

But, after that, it all started going down hill quite quickly.

I think it all began when we were ordering our food, and the waiter told us, simply, “We don’t scramble eggs.” Excuse me? You don’t scramble eggs?

“A little bit of me just died inside,” my boyfriend mumbled to me. “Can you just serve me an omelet with nothing in it, then?” he cheekily asked the waiter.

We shared the Cajun wings to start, which were fine, but unfortunately ended up being the best dish that we would eat at brunch.

The French toast tasted simply like bread with egg seasoning. There was little to no batter on the dish. It was accompanied by two little plastic containers of syrup.

So the egg issues went beyond their unwillingness to scramble them. The French toast tasted like expensive toast.

My boyfriend said he could have forgiven this if he was served some booze, and not simply orange juice in a champagne flute.

The grits were uninspiring and crusted nicely in the sun. The potatoes—which were touted as hashbrowns on the menu, but what we actually got were breakfast potatoes—arrived cold.

Brooke had the veggie omelet, which was fine. Just fine. She wanted to customize it, but apparently that wasn’t allowed. And what sort of omelet doesn’t come with cheese?  And why can’t you prepare scrambled eggs, again?  If you make both omelets and poached eggs, I know you aren’t using egg beaters. Seriously, get a line cook and figure it out.

As for me, I ordered the eggs Benedict, which was actually the most disgusting Benny I’ve ever had. The eggs were not only undercooked, the whites were completely runny. They might as well have cracked an egg open on a stale muffin.

A couple of quick notes on the service:  I know we are sitting outside, but bring things when asked. It’s not like we were making ridiculous requests or asking for things that are not standard. Coffee should come with sugar. Waffles should come with syrup. Patrons should have silverware. Those are just a few examples of the many things that went missing.

It’s not a big deal if things are forgotten and you have to ask once. But when you have to ask two or three times, it’s no longer OK.

As for Fontaine and Liz, I can do nothing except let Liz tell the story in her own words …

“The waiter brought everyone’s food except mine and didn’t say a word to me about it. Typically an ‘I’ll be right back with yours’ or ‘Sorry, your order is taking a bit longer’ is fine, but we got nothing. I did hear him mumble about a missing fruit bowl as he walked away, but no one ordered a fruit bowl.

“Then, five minutes later, he came to fill water and asked if we needed anything. I said, ‘My lunch!’ I think he was a bit surprised. I assumed he forgot to put it in, but 10 minutes later when everyone was done eating I decided I was over the wait and went to cancel the order.

“I even asked if he forgot to put in my order because at least that would make sense, but he said no, that crawfish just take a while to cook. (A) This is not true. My in-laws are from Louisiana; we know exactly how long crawfish take to cook and it’s not 20 minutes. (B) If that’s truly your stance, why didn’t you tell me that when everyone was served lunch except me?

“Of course, two minutes later my food was magically ready and he asked to box it up for me. Nope! Who wants soggy bread for $15?

“Then the bill. We were charged a 15% ‘service charge.’ It did not say tip or gratuity. Since I didn’t get to eat at this eating establishment, I did not feel a mandatory fee was acceptable. I spoke with the manager who was very taken aback. He pointed to the menu that had in small print that every patron (regardless of group size) is charged a 15% service charge. I asked what for and he could not answer.

“I offered my own answer: crappy service and not getting to eat brunch. He wasn’t amused. He said there was nothing he could do; the fee was mandatory. I said, we aren’t paying it. He said he’d give us a credit for the same amount, but not reverse the charge.”

“Low and behold, the new bill came and the charge was indeed reversed. Thankfully, we didn’t get locked in the restaurant like these people.

The Bitches say: D-. Barely edible, horrible service, and other ridiculous things such as required gratuity and the inability to scramble eggs. The only saving grace is it has a decent patio.

TruOrleans
400 H ST NE
Washington, D.C. 20002
(202) 290-1244

By: Cori Sue

Confession: I’ve never been to Las Vegas. Yes, I’ve traveled nearly the whole world round, but I’d never had a burning desire to visit this strange, contrived Disney Land for adults that’s absorbing all the water and all the sin for the entire Western United States.

Put simply, I had no desire to gamble or to get sleazy with strange men on the dance floor. Then, I went to Vegas and didn’t gamble or get sleazy with strange men on the dance floor. Turns out, you can behave in in the City of Sin.

Despite an utter lack of debauchery—the weekend was still marvelous, filled with shopping, laying by the pool, people watching, sneaking in Beatles Love and seeing my ultimate fave DJ, Avicii, with one of my best gal pals, Lindsey.

We stayed in the epicenter of cheesy Vegas make-believe, Caesar’s Palace. The hotel—like everything in Vegas—is enormous, confusing, and filled with fake historical relics, slot machines and tacky tourists. Nonetheless, it was really really nice. The rooms were luxurious and filled with enormous comfy beds. Our room in particular had a spectacular view of the strip and the Bellagio fountain. I was charmed.

On Sunday, we marked the conclusion of a successful Las Vegas weekend with brunch at Michel Richard’s Central, which also has a DC location in addition to Chef Richard’s famous Citronelle. Sitting on the patio in 80 degree weather and sunshine, we were feeling mighty fine.

We began with a fruit plate—watermelon, cantaloupe, strawberries and blueberries served with granola and yogurt. The fruit was fresh and delicious. Lindsey’s table manners went out the window—I looked over to find her biting into watermelon slices and dripping juice everywhere. A perfect breakfast for a hot Nevada morning.

The service was spectacular and our waters– and my fresh-squeezed OJ– were always refilled.

Lindsey ordered her favorite brunch dish—an egg white veggie omelet, fresh fruit, and hash browns. The omelet was the perfect portion size and the hash browns were a bit greasy for her taste. I, however, thought they were delicious.

Meanwhile, I went in for the kill with the crème brulee French toast. The dish was perfectly presented with the toast round rather than square and topped with a lovely dollop of whipped cream and fresh berries. The bread was fluffy and moist, caked in egg, and tasted very strongly of vanilla and cinnamon. The dish was very rich, however, sandwiched between the bread was rich creamy crème brulee custard. I topped it with maple syrup and devoured it nonetheless—and had a sugar-induced headache shortly thereafter.

Best of all, the folks at Central boxed up croissants and coffee for us to take to the airport. How nice!

The Bitches say: A. Fresh, delicious food in large portions from an amazingly gifted chef.

Michel Richard Central
Caesar’s Palace
Las Vegas
Central is open 24-hours and serves brunch and breakfast Saturdays and Sundays.

By: Cori Sue

With all this raucous brunching, drinking, dancing and partying that comes with being a Bitch, sometimes a girl just wants some endorphins and Vitamin D.

So, I rounded up some friends for Cherry Blossom Yoga on the Mall followed by a healthy brunch. Three-quarters of my squadron bailed. (“I’m out of town!” “I’m hungover!” Lame.) Tried-and-true-but-hesitant pals Ed and Tristin were there bright and early, mats in hand, for yoga.

It was a gorgeous, bright Washington morning when half of the city—clad in obnoxiously bright workout gear—turned up alongside the Washington Monument for a free yoga class taught by Lululemon instructors.

The sun was shining. The breeze was blowing. Friends were smiling. The yoga class was surprisingly challenging yet relaxing. Ten minutes in, as I proceed through my down dogs and sun salutations, sandwiched between Ed and Tristin, I look over and my jaw drops.

Poor Ed. He’s contorted himself in some bizarre position and is cringing. “CS, I must confess, I’ve never done yoga,” he whispers in a heavy Australian accent, clearly out of breath.

(Ladies, Ed is devastatingly handsome, sweet as pie, and as genuine as they come. He’s climbed a mountain in Borneo. He has a badass job I can’t tell you about. He loves his Mama. He’s also single—and going to kill me. You can thank me later).

I burst into giggles. The serious yogis around me grimace and glare.

The rest of the class was spent fixing Ed’s feet, stance and guiding him through sun salutations as I hop from Warrior Two to Warrior Three and then back to Down Dog.

“UP DOG!,” I yell (Whoops!). “Shoulders back. Head lifts. Tuck your butt—don’t hurt your lower back,” my staccato instructions punctuate my own movements. Never fear, I’m actually a certified yogalates instructor. However, unfortunately for everyone in the vicinity, my personality is much more 80s highly caffeinated aerobics instructor than zenned-out yogi.

An hour-and-a-half later, Ed has survived his yoga. I quite enjoyed the class. Tristin—who claims to be accident prone—has also survived. One of our neighboring yogi novices even thanks me—citing my instructions to be quite helpful. I’m relieved my comrades have come out alive—and hungry.

We stroll through the National Mall over to Penn Quarter for lunch outside at Teaism, the perfect continuation to our healthful start. Teaism is hands down the best lunch spot in the city with its affordable, healthy, natural Asian cuisine. Only recently did we discover they served brunch.

You order at the counter at Teaism, then receive a number and wait patiently for your food. The menu is diverse—bento boxes, sandwiches, salads and other lunch fare are available all-day-long. Desserts include green tea crème brulee (amazing) and heavenly salted oatmeal cookies. The teas and beverages are unique and satisfying.

The brunch menu is equally fun, offering dishes like cilantro scrambled eggs, French toast, scones, gingerbread, chicken sausage, tofu scrambles and more.

For the table, I ordered carrot cake scones—which tasted exactly like the description. They were moist, tasting much like carrot cake muffins but with the more solid consistency of a scone. By contrast, Ed says, “The carrot cake scones, whilst tasty, were dry and didn’t bring much to the party.”

For my entrée, I chose the tea-cured salmon, naan, and raita, a dish off the brunch menu. Fresh salmon, moist flavorful naan and raita, essentially a yogurt cucumber dip similar to tztaziki. Really just a yummy, healthy, hit-the-spot plate of food.

Ed opted for the cilantro scrambled eggs with tea-cured salmon. The cilantro was a nice touch in the eggs—adding flavor. Fresh salmon was an added bonus. He said it was “a very tasty dish with a dash of Indian style, and well worth a return visit.”

Tristin ordered an amalgamation of side dishes. First up, the cucumber and ginger salad, a healthy and refreshing post-yoga dish with a generous helping of ginger.

She also ordered a side of fruit, which was unfortunately filled with Honeydew. You know how the Bitches feel about honeydew, which Tristin adequately referred to as the “redheaded step child of the fruit world. She clarified, “Please don’t take offense to this any and all redheaded readers for there are plenty attractive red heads. I am thinking more along the lines of Honeydew being the Lindsey Lohan of the fruit world. In any event, if you enjoy Honeydew you will enjoy the side of fruit at Teaism.”

She also had a side of the naan, which is served with an apricot spicy fruit spread.

For “dessert,” the table shared the sourdough waffle, a Belgian waffle made with sourdough batter that was warm, crispy and perfectly cooked. It was served with orange butter and maple syrup—which made for an amazing unique flavor. The citrus from the butter—and I believe it was also in the syrup—really permeated the whole dish, making it an out-of-the-ordinary waffle. The sourdough was a nice touch, too.

The Bitches say: A- for healthy, affordable and quick cuisine. Get rid of the honeydew and it’s an A.

Teaism has locations in Dupont, Penn Quarter, Alexandria and Lafayette Park. Brunch is served at its Dupont, Penn Quarter and Alexandria locations.
Teaism serves brunch on Saturdays and Sundays.

By: Becca

It had been a long week. In fact, it had been a long few weeks. I am nearing the close on my condo and my love just left for a war zone. And Brooke found herself actually in D.C. between two of the million business trips she’s taken recently.

So, we needed pampering. After I had the most miraculous spa manicure and pedicure from Red Door and Brooke indulged in a facial and a pedicure, we waddled from the spa to Boqueria on 19th and M. Little did we know that the pampering would continue through brunch.

Boqueria is trendy. Really trendy. Yet somehow it’s still welcoming. It’s a bit retro, with light wood paneling and cream leather booths. The tables are all high-tops, with chairs that are upholstered in brown leather with orange trim, like a 1960s gym outfit. However, it’s still contemporary and warm, with sleek bars and tables, but chalk boards and stands of fruit. Oddly, it’s right above the Chipotle, but it does have a gorgeous outdoor patio on 19th Street.

As soon as you walk in the front door, you’re greeted by a bouquet of gourmet meats and cheese behind glass, where you can see one of the chefs preparing desserts and tapas. They’re just tempting you, giving you a taste. You are also greeted by some sort of suckling pig, plopped right there on the counter. Just staring at you. Brooke was slightly disturbed, but then quickly distracted by the hunks of Spanish cheese on display.

We went on Saturday, which was day one of their first weekend serving brunch. We were greeted by a chalk sign outside that announced “Brunch is here!” The restaurant itself has been open for two months, serving dinner, and has already made itself into a bit of an evening hotspot for  downtown worker bees like me. Not yet for brunch, through. The place was empty, as it was the first weekend. But a few other tables trickled in.

We sat down at a high top that was bathed in light from the big windows. Immediately, we ordered coffee from our very tall but very lovely waiter, who told us that they just printed the brunch menu the night before, and whipped out his cheat sheet, which he had clearly studied. We could tell by the scribbles and drawings all over it.  He even let us take a glance at it, and we saw he had carefully drawn sketches of what certain dishes looked like. He was clearly prepared but nervous for the new menu.

No coffee machine yet, he apologized. But he got us cappuccinos and Americanos (Brooke crisis averted). We eyed big pitchers of what looked like fruit cocktails being made at the bar. “What are those?” we asked. Sangria, of course. He brought us a taste of the blood orange beer sangria. It was delicious, so we ordered it—but with cava. It was made with blood orange puree, lime-infused tequila, and house-made lime cordial.

Yes, Brooke and I split a pitcher. A pitcher holds about five drinks. And they were pretty potent—yet you couldn’t taste it. But we could feel it.

One thing I loved about their drinks menu—besides the selection of sangrias and other cocktails, including a Bloody Mary that looked absolutely divine—is that two out of their three beers on tap are local: Port City and DC Brau. This New York transplant could have easily just kept at it New York-style, but instead they’re embracing their local sources. Kudos. (The third beer, fittingly, is Estrella Damm, from Barcelona.)

We ordered two starters. Well, actually a side dish and a brunch entrée to share. First, the Churros Rellenos, which are nutella stuffed churros coated in cinnamon sugar. They were warm and spongy inside, but crispy and had a kick on the outside. It was a heavenly way to kick off brunch, and gave us good feelings for the food to come.

And this point, I whipped out my camera – amazingly suspicious in a nearly empty restaurant.  The waiter wandered over and asked shyly – are you reviewing the restaurant?  Should I know about this? I told him it was for the ‘food porn,’ which made him a little comfortable. Then defensively blurted out “It’s a hobby!” Yeah, those drinks had a kick to them. Why don’t more restaurants add tequila to their sangria?

We also split the pan con tomate, which is grilled bread rubbed with tomato, garlic and olive oil. The bread was long triangle pieces of fresh bread, and the tomato was spread on the top. It had a bit of a garlic kick, and was soaked in oil, but the bread was crunchy on the bottom.

It came with a little bowl of Spanish olives. Our waiter, who we had now become buddies with, encouraged use to try the pickled garlic that it came with. So we did, and he stayed to watch our reactions to the decidedly bizarre taste and texture. He smiled and wandered off.

For our entrees, I ordered the cochinillo al horno, on the waiter’s recommendation. He had tried it the night before, and described it as a fried egg set atop a bed of house-made potato chips. Just split the yoke, he said, and it will cover the potato chips. Eat it with the roast suckling pig, and it’s so delicious, he promised. I caved.

When I got it, I was a little confused. I hadn’t had roast suckling pig before, and wasn’t ready for what I got. To me, it was a steak of pig fat, with a crispy top, and I felt like I was chewing pure greasy fat. It grossed me out. I think our waiter saw my faces and rushed over. Let me get you something else, he insisted, it’s no problem. It’s the first time I’ve ever not felt guilty about sending something back to the kitchen. It wasn’t bad; it just wasn’t my cup of tea.

When adventure failed, I went to my standard—the Benedict. This time, the huevos benedictios was atop an English muffin, with Serrano ham, piquillo peppers and hollandaise. The ham was paper thin and simply delicious. The egg poached absolutely to perfection. The Hollandaise was amazing, and the pepper gave it a nice kick. The perfect Benedict? Close to it.

The fries on the side were OK. They tasted much like fries I’ve had at restaurants that aren’t as nice as Boqueria. I expected more—more crispiness, more kick—just something more.

Brooke wanted to get the Huevos con Bistec, Boqueria’s steak and eggs, which is hanger steak a la plancha with one fried egg, fingerling potatoes, shishito peppers, mojo verde. After the waiter’s descriptions of the other dishes, she changed her mind—that doesn’t happen often with brunch dishes, as she always researches the menu the night before.

She went with the Tortilla de setas, a rolled omelet filled with the things she loves the most: mushrooms, caramelized onions and goat cheese. It may not sound particularly unique, but she said is was absolutely delicious. An aspiring food snob, she said that it was amazing what a difference it makes when restaurants prepare the most simple foods very, very well. And that was done at Boqueria. The dish was served with French fries on the side, and also Catalan tomato toast, which we wished we would have known before ordering the pan con tomate—as it was the same thing.

Besides the 10 Spanish brunch dishes, you can also order their classic tapas, salads and sides. Also, they presented us with a dessert menu, but we were completely stuffed. We tottered out, slightly drunk, but very happy.

The Bitches say: A- But it was day one, and I could see this being an A+ brunch with a coffee machine and a few tweaks. The quality is nearly there, and the ambiance is so perfect.

Boqueria
1837 M Street N.W.
Washington, D.C.
(202) 558-9545
Serves brunch Saturday and Sunday.

By: Cori Sue

Arriving in Boston for the first time, I was completely charmed by the city. The colonial architecture, beautiful brownstones, parks, the swan boats in the Boston Common, the sailboats on the Charles River—there were captivating sights and sounds on every corner.

Granted, it was Boston Marathon weekend, so the city was abuzz with elite runners from across the country—and the world—getting ready to run 26.2 on Patriot’s Day. Meanwhile, the rest of the city was getting ready for the huge all-day boozefest that accompanies the marathon.

Moreover, the weather was absolutely perfect, so the Boston Common was filled with attractive young people playing sports, reading in the sun, or coupling up on blankets. The whole experience was energizing and motivating.

Shortly after landing and checking in at the Park Plaza, we headed to the South End of Boston for brunch at South End Buttery, a corner bakery and café. As you arrive, you see plenty of couples with their pets sitting under the restaurant’s yellow awnings enjoying coffee and croissants from the bakery.

The restaurant was bustling with a busy brunch crowd, despite the clock striking two in the afternoon. The hostess whisked us—my mother and me—downstairs to a comfy but slightly too cozy corner booth. The waitress was patient and kind, allowing us to wait about thirty minutes for my Aunt Debbie to arrive from the airport.

As we waited, our coffee mugs and water glasses remained filled. We opted for some hand-cut garlic Parmesan fries, served with ketchup and truffle mayo (my fave). The fries were piping hot and very crispy—twice fried, I’m told—and sprinkled with Parmesan and parsley. They were very garlicy, which I personally love. These fries were absolutely delicious and nearly as good as those by District fry king Granville Moore’s.

When Auntie Deb finally arrived, we put in three very different orders. One thing to note: The restaurant does not tolerate substitutions so I was stuck with home fries (a blessing in disguise) despite wanting a salad following the Parmesan fries. Tough cookies, says the chef.

I selected the smoked salmon and eggs, which was organic cage-free eggs scrambled with chives alongside fresh smoked salmon, mixed greens and home fries. The plate was absolutely enormous—and there was no way I was finishing it. The eggs and salmon were healthy and fresh, leaving me guilt-free. The home fries were enormous chunks of crispy fried potatoes that were the perfect amount of fried and salty without being too much.

Cindy Sue (my mother) selected the huevos rancheros, which wasn’t really huevos rancheros but rather eggs, black beans, a cheese quesadilla and home fries with sides of tomatillo sauce and sour cream. She enjoyed in nonetheless, combining the eggs, home fries and quesadilla into her own style of breakfast. Likewise, her dish was absolutely gigantic—too big for one person, that’s for sure. She says, “My scrambled eggs/huevos ranchero with freshly made salsa was very good but lacked pazzazz!”

As she was brunching with the Bitches, Auntie Deb went wild by selecting the banana and chocolate chip pancakes, topped with banana slices and an enormous dollop of house-made whipped cream with a side of Vermont maple syrup. My mouth was drooling in utter jealousy. The pancakes were moist and fluffy on the inside and slightly crispy on the outside—pure pancake perfection. I have no idea how you make them that way—but kudos to the kitchen for doing so.

Also on the table was a side of fruit, which possessed both necessary requirements: (1) freshness and (2) variety. The bowl was filled with grapefruit slices, strawberries, raspberries, bananas, grapes, kiwi and cantaloupe—and no honeydew, thank goodness!

Throughout the meal, our waitress was kind, friendly and helpful without being over-bearing—adding to the experience rather than taking away.

All in all, a lovely little Boston brunch for the Bitches.

The Bitches say: A+. Delicious, fresh food, crafted from quality ingredients, in large portions, at a pleasant cafe—can’t get much better than that. One of the better brunches I’ve had in ages. Too bad it’s in Boston, or else I’d be back more often.

Note from Becca: Modest Cori Sue doesn’t mention it in this post, but she was in Boston because she ran the Boston Marathon. She kicked major ass in what was the hottest Boston Marathon on record. Go Cori Sue!

South End Buttery
314 Shawnut Ave.
Boston, M.A.
(617) 482-1015
South End Buttery serves brunch on Saturdays and Sundays.

By: Becca

A couple of weeks ago we were invited to speak on a panel at the Social Learning Summit at American University, along with Mark Gunderson from Dunkin Donuts, the prolific D.C. food writer Nevin Martell, Alejandra Owens née Frijolita, and Tammy Gordon of Florida Girl in DC.

After yapping for an hour about food and tweeting, and tweeting while yapping, we were hungry. Famished, in fact—even after all those delicious Dunkin Donut holes put before us.

We nipped over to nearby Wisconsin Avenue, by the cathedral, to Café Deluxe, which touts itself online as Bethesda’s favorite brunch. The patio was packed, but we snagged a table inside. We were meeting with a potential web designer.

Yes, you read that right. The time has come, loves. After two years, we think we need a little touchup here and there. Perhaps a few ways to make these brunch reviews more searchable and easy for you to reference. So, we found ourselves a lovely, amazing, talented web designer. (And if you have any suggestions of how you’d like this site to work, we’d love to hear it.)

There we were, sitting at a table in the back of Café Deluxe. The tablecloths were paper and so we were scribbling away our big ideas for a fresh new Bitches look right onto the tabletop, lovely Laura patiently listening and taking notes.

We were seated right by the entrance to the kitchen, right by the servers’ computer, and there seemed to be hundreds of servers buzzing about. Sadly, our service in this pseudo-diner was slightly atrocious.

We never had the proper silverware, nor the proper plates. We got moldy fruit (yes, really, more on that later). And even though we were routinely “checked on” in passing by what we assumed were managers, they never actually bothered to stay at the table long enough to hear our complaints.

Deluxe is sort of an upscale diner. The tables are close together, so not a place for private or business conversations. The restaurant is loud and buzzing. People are reading their newspapers and doing their crosswords at tables by themselves. The place is packed, but I’m unsure why.

Where to begin? How about the bread basket, which was big hunks of bread–fluffy and fine. It came with standard butter. I should mention that they do offer Marys and mimosas, for $7 and $6.50 respectively. Not a bargain, but not extortion either. The coffee was subpar.

I ordered the Benedict, of course, which was a slice of what seemed to be deli ham on two slices of mushy toast. It was topped with a creamy Hollandaise that unfortunately crusted before I could finish the dish. One of the eggs was undercooked, the other, cooked all the way through. How does that even happen?

Might I add that this was touted as the “Deluxe Benedict” on the menu. Their signature brunch dish. The toast was sourdough and the ham, supposedly, black forest ham. The Hollandaise was meant to have a sun-dried tomato taste, but I didn’t catch it.

I also ordered a tomato soup, as I was pretty sick that day and suffering from a bad cold, but it never found its way to the table. I was disappointed, but it was one of those service situations where it would have made it painful to bring up their slip.

Laura had the omelet. The omelet was nothing to speak of, filled with spinach, feta, and tomato. There are other omelet options, too, but they’re probably just as bad. They serve these dishes with breakfast potatoes and a biscuit, so you have the carbs to fill your belly after you’re disappointed by your main dish.

My boyfriend ordered the steak and eggs, cooked medium. When he got the dish, it was a rubbery piece of meat placed on top of another soggy piece of toast. This was supposed to be a New York Strip. Instead, it was more poorly cooked fatty flank. The dish was cold—so we sent it back—and they microwaved it (seriously), making the steak even more rubbery.

Cori Sue got the scrambled eggs mixed with salmon and green onions. The onions were chopped fine and the salmon was mixed into the eggs. The eggs were cold when the dish arrived—and nobody likes cold scrambled eggs. It was supposed to be served with a toasted bagel and cream cheese, but she didn’t get that.

Instead, she got a side of fruit. And, this fruit was rather gross. She picked up a strawberry off her plate and the entire underside was moldy, as if it had been sitting on that very plate for four days. She made a face, and put it down on the table beside her plate, and then failed to get the attention of one of the rushing managers sweeping by.

Later, when they were clearing the plates, the waiter looked at the strawberry, and said “My my! What a large strawberry!” clearly perplexed as to why it would be on the table, rather than the plate, or in her stomach.

“It’s covered in MOLD,” CS replied curtly, content she’d already filled the Twitterverse with pictures of her fruit woes after failing to get managerial attention at Cafe Deluxe. (Never mess with her when she’s hungry.)

“Oh,” said the waiter, and everyone present—including the waiter himself, I’d venture—seemed shocked he showed such little concern.

I was rather disappointed with this neighborhood diner brunch (to quote my love: “That place sucked”), but we got our business done and left. In hindsight, we should have sat outside, as the patio is quite lovely. It has red umbrellas and wicker chairs, sort of like a Parisian café. It probably would have boosted my opinion of the place.

The Bitches say: D. Boring and barely edible. Don’t venture out if you’re not in the ‘hood.

Cafe Deluxe
3228 Wisconsin Avenue, NW
Washington, DC 20016
(202) 686-2233

Brunch is Saturday and Sunday. Four locations, including Bethesda, Tyson’s Corner, and Gaithersburg, in addition to this Cleveland Park one.

By: Becca

Party brunches are popping up like spring tulips around D.C. First there was L’Enfant Café & Bar’s La Boum. Then, the boys at Napoleon Bistro & Lounge decided they were going to break off from the La Bouming and start their own party. More recently, we’ve seen invites for Lost Society’s Champagne Campaign and Neyla’s Koodeta brunch.

But what makes a successful, fun party brunch in D.C.? They are notably different from the ragers in New York (most things in D.C. are, after all). I liked La Boum because it started off as a restaurant brunch, then they zipped up the blinds, pumped up the music, and started spraying champagne. Maybe it was the progression and pace that I appreciated.

Last Saturday I went to Napoleon Bistro & Lounge to check out its party brunch, called Le Cirque, which Timur Tugberk started with John-Michael Villarama. Instead of taking over the beautiful, vampy, baroque restaurant upstairs, Tim and John-Michael send their guests down into the basement and into the little bar underneath the restaurant.

This dark room with gold damask wallpaper would be a great place to brunch in if you were coming off a 14-hour cocaine binge and desperately needed to keep the party going. It would also be great if the weather outside was total shit. Alas, I was experiencing neither of these scenarios. It was a beautiful day, and I was sober and not really in the right state of mind to be jumping into a club atmosphere at 2 p.m. on a Saturday.

The brunch started off fine. Timur and John-Michael were extremely welcoming and kind hosts. The carafes of mimosas and Marys were always full at our table. We even got a “you Bitches aren’t drinking fast enough” playful slap on the wrist from Timur, who was clad in a cardi with a big red bowtie.

We were a table of six, which included one random person who had decided to join us from another party. I loved that first impression: that other tables were welcoming and eager to meet other people. It, unfortunately, ended with that one person. As much as I drunkenly attempted to start conversations with other people during the course of the party, I was woefully unsuccessful. And I’m usually pretty good at making new friends in drunken situations.

There was a huge, long table in the center of the tiny room, which was reserved for a big birthday party. Those guests started to arrive, decked out in campy gear, masks and wigs. We clearly missed the masks-and-wigs memo. Besides our table and that long table, there were two corner couches with low coffee tables. That is the extent of the seating. So, a small party in a small room.

The DJ is set up on a pedestal at the entrance to the room, and there’s a long bar against the far wall, to which you pay you $35 upon arrival. The music is loud and thumping from the beginning, and it’s slightly hard to talk to others at your table. There is no “kick off” to the brunch party, really; you just arrive and the party is already going. At some point the lights dim a bit.

We were urged to get food from the buffet, and told that there would quickly be a line forming. We jumped at it. In the metal heated cases were French toast, spiced potatoes, and scrambled eggs. There was no bacon. In fact, that was it for food. It wasn’t anything amazing, and so it doesn’t merit much more description than that.

We ate quickly, some went back for seconds, and we drank as fast as we could in our attempt to push ourselves into the party mindset. Soon, Timur and John-Michael were clearing tables and people were standing. Some were dancing, but there weren’t enough people to fill the entire room, and so we stood along the perimeter, observing, somewhat awkwardly, much like a middle school dance.

At one point a burlesque dancer took the stage. Except there was no stage, and so this strange creepy woman just sort of circled people in the room, taking bits of clothing off, until someone realized that she was a performer, and then we made some space. As the clothes shed, a circle grew and cameras came out, but she didn’t take much off—she just got down to her skivvies and then shimmied off. Lame. And awkward.

Timur and John-Michael kept bouncing around with carafes of mimosas, refilling.

The birthday girl from the big table got a cupcake cake lit with candles, presented to her by a pimp with a black wig and big gold chain. The music stopped. The entire room sang happy birthday. Who the hell is this girl? I have no idea. Again: awkward.

We stuck around for three hours, attempting to enjoy ourselves, attempting to get drunk, attempting to talk to other people, but eventually we lost patience and nipped out to get back into the sunlight. It was a beautiful day outside, and so we sat out on Napoleon’s gorgeous patio, on its comfy cushions outside, and lapped it up.

After a few glass of champagne and some delicious, incredible desserts, I went back downstairs to use the restroom, and poked my head in the party room, to see how it was raging. It was desolate. Everyone had cleared out well before the expected 5 p.m. kick out. Sad.

The Bitches say: C+ Too trashy nightclub, not enough fabulous, friendly brunch rager.

Le Cirque at Napoleon Bistro & Lounge
1847 Columbia Road Northwest
Washington, DC 20009
(202) 299-9630
Le Cirque brunch is Saturdays at 2pm. Email Timur for a rezzie.

By: Cori Sue

I may be a little Bitch (truth), but my friends—who aren’t all Bitches but are definitely all fabulous—are crucially important to me. So, I make the trip down to Raleigh, N.C., regularly to visit a couple of my besties, Steph and Lauren, and an amalgamation of other pals, both old and new.

The North Carolina capital city is actually growing in notoriety for both lifestyle and cuisine. The farm-to-table movement is huge, there are loads of cute Southern boutiques and it was recently named the best city in America for young professionals. Yep, it’s a good time.

Saturday, the gang headed for a delectable Southern brunch at Beasley’s Chicken & Honey, which is one of four restaurants by local chef Ashley Christensen. Along for the ride was Sierra, a close friend from UNC who now lives in Capetown when she’s not globe-trotting with her hubbie; Lauren, my brilliant and stylish Aspenite turned Southern belle; and Lauren’s harem of guy pals.

Beasley’s is an open, light-filled space with hardwood floors, metal stools and a rustic feel—diners are seated at picnic tables and the menu options are written on chalkboards on the walls.

Drinks were in order after a fun Friday of dancing the night away. I opted for a Bloody Mary, because my mission in 2012 is to try ‘em all. Unfortunately, holy horseradish, this one was loaded with too much! Too much pepper, too, and it was frankly just foul. The rest of the beverages, mimosas, were fresh light and delicious, with a lovely orange peel inside.

Sierra says, “The mimosa I ordered was very good. It was obvious they used fresh squeezed juice and my only complaint was I wish the glass was bit fuller when it arrived.”

While we were most certainly not in Mexico, churros were an option that I leapt upon. They arrived hot, fried but not greasy, and covered in the perfect amount of cinnamon sugar. They were nearly as good as the ones you get in Tijuana.

Then, for the entrees. Allegedly, Beasley’s has the best chicken and waffles in the state of North Carolina. Several boys had the sandwich option—fried chicken topped with a fried egg and gravy on Beasley’s biscuits. The boys chowed them down, but of course.

Sierra and I opted for the vegetarian Benedict option—the Eggs Beasley. The dish looks like of foul, but it tasted absolutely delicious—much better than I was expecting, to be honest.

Sierra says, “I know I probably should have ordered the signature fried chicken, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I love breakfast foods and had to go with eggs. I couldn’t really read the menu, so I went with the first thing that sounded good. The Eggs Beasley was poached eggs atop cornbread with a vegetarian gravy. I am a little high maintenance with my poached eggs and asked for them soft-medium. Surprisingly, they came out done exactly the way I like them. The gravy was surprisingly light … not like any gravy I’ve had before. I was most impressed with the speed of which the food came out. Impressive for a party of our size.”

Also on the table were the huevos rancheros, a crisp tortilla round covered with black beans, fried egg, tomatillo sauce, guacamole and white queso. For Southerners, the folks at Beasley’s sure do Mexican cuisine well.

I ordered a side of biscuits, which were heavenly—as they should be. The Southern carbs were soft, moist, and buttery and brushed lightly with honey on the top. Definitely some of the best biscuits around.

We concluded with another Southern favorite—chocolate pecan pie topped with house-made rich vanilla ice cream. It was literally the best pecan pie I’ve ever had—so so rich, with gooey warm chocolate and a crumbly moist crust. Best of all, it came served with a spork.

The Bitches say: A for top-notch Southern cuisine in a chic environment when you’re in Raleigh. Just don’t order the Bloody Mary.

Beasley’s Chicken &  Honey
237 S Wilmington St.
Raleigh, N.C.
(919) 322-0127
Beasley’s serves brunch Saturdays and Sundays.