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: Becca

St. Patrick’s Day broke a few brunch records for me. Those being earliest, biggest, longest, and perhaps rowdiest brunch ever.

It happened like this: The kind managers at P.J. Clarke’s succumbed to my week’s worth of begging and gave me a much-coveted table for that Saturday morning. Even though they were hosting a massive St. Patrick’s Day event, I kept pushing my luck by making it larger and larger until, eventually, I found myself emailing lovely Emily, the manager, that I’m so sorry, but I actually have 20 people coming. Yes, twenty.

No problem! She replied. Life is just so easy when you’re planning on dining at a restaurant full of ridiculously nice people. Her great attitude extended to the hostesses and bartenders, and especially to our two great servers that morning, GeGe and Dan, who were patient and kind to our increasingly drunk, and increasingly rowdy, party.

When we arrived at 10 a.m. (10 am! On a Saturday!) we compared our shades of green attire and ridiculous statement shirts (“Green Shirts Are For Pimps,” ahem, Frenchy), and immediately asked for pitchers of mimosas, Bellinis, and Marys. No can do, they said, claiming it’s the law (really?!), promising us that our glasses would not be empty for more than 30 seconds.

We drank our hardest to make them falter, but GeGe and Dan kept that promise. If my mimosa glass was half-full, and I quickly glanced to the side to chat with my neighbor, I turned back and it was topped off. If someone took their last sip, Dan was pulling the glass from their hands and immediately replacing it with a full one. Amazing. Why can’t every brunch have servers with a full glasses of champagne constantly at the waiting?

The bottomless deal wasn’t just for brunch cocktails that morning, though. Thanks to our luck of the Irish, Guinness and Harp were bottomless, too. The Kegs & Eggs deal on drinks came with your choice of a brunch entrée and side, all for only $35. What a steal. It lasted until 1pm, at which point we waddled off to other watering holes.

Brooke’s sister, Brenda, arrived from running the Rock and Roll Half Marathon, to thunderous applause, and immediately the two sisters slammed Irish car bombs, to even more thunderous applause from all sides of the restaurant.

We chose to be seated in the main level (we want sunlight! and lively people!), but the basement level, known as P.J. Clarke’s Sidecar, was equally as packed with revelers. P.J. Clarke’s is very K Street D.C., meaning, around happy hour it’s full of downtown workerbees, lobbyists, and people generally trying to look important in suits. They all gun for tables in the Sidecar, downstairs, which typically serves a different (and presumably more upscale) menu to those who are lucky enough to snag a spot.

We were quite glad we were sat upstairs, in the end, because traversing up and down those stairs to play some cornhole and get some sunlight would have become tiring. The weather was perfect on Saturday; gorgeous, not a cloud in the sky. The restaurant had set up a big tent over what’s usually its front patio (overlooking 16th Street), and there were high tops, a bar, and cornhole, which we dominated, obviously.

There were also the His-and-Hers Vespas that the restaurant raffled off to raise money for the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial Fund. For a $20 raffle ticket, which bought a spiffy P.J. Clarke’s St. Patrick’s Day 2012 T-shirt that will likely stay in my drawer for the next three years, two lucky people won those gorgeous shiny red and white Vespas. I’m slightly sad that it wasn’t me. I was beginning to day dream about zipping to brunch on a red Vespa. No, really.

Soon a bagpiper arrived and started marching around the restaurant, as we egged him on with our hooting and clapping. Tammy started a GroupMe text to communicate around the enormous table, and we immediately started chattering about what we were all to order.

There were only six options available on the brunch menu that morning (or if you didn’t want to do the $35 deal, you could order from the larger menu), so there were a lot of repeat orders. The crisp apple pancakes were by far the prettiest dish.

A stack of small cakes were piled on top of each other, with sliced apples, whipped cream and cinnamon butter on top. The whipped cream tasted homemade—not from a can or tub. On the side, an adorable pouring cup of syrup. So lovely.

The spinach and coach farms goat cheese omelet was rather plain. It was nothing to write home about, but it was cooked well and had a good amount of spinach. I wished it was slightly more customizable (perhaps some tomatoes, please), and the goat cheese could have been better distributed. But on St. Patty’s day, I am sure the kitchen was working on overdrive.

The Parmesan crusted garden fritatta was the most popular dish on the table. It looked much like an omelet, and was topped with a bit of fresh greens. It had a good amount of vegetables, but was fairly bland. Also, the Parmesan crust was not so much a crust as just a little bit of Parmesan sprinkled on top.

There was a burger option, which lots of people had. It was the morning “Cadillac” burger, served with a fried egg on top. The egg broke apart immediately and was super runny, which kept the burger nice and juicy. It came with bacon, lettuce and tomato.

I had the eggs Benedict, of course. It was served with thick slices of Canadian bacon and hollandaise sauce. I wasn’t that impressed with this Benny, sadly enough. Even after many, many mimosas. The egg was completely overcooked – hard all the way through, not poached. The hollandaise sauce had dried into a crust on top of the dish. The biscuit was just an English muffin, as far as I could tell. Le sigh.

There was also the option to get the country breakfast, with eggs any way you want them, home fries, and choice of bacon or sausage. With your entrée, you could have a side, and choose between three options: smoked country bacon. Chicken apple sausage, and buttered potato home fries. All the bacon on the table was cooked perfectly—just a bit crispy. As for the potatoes, I had one, which burnt my mouth, and then they were given to the general cause of the table.

It wasn’t the food that was memorable at this brunch—but I suppose it wasn’t meant to be. Of the four hours we were there, we only spent maybe 30 minutes devouring the food. Rather, we had a ridiculous amount of fun. As soon as the plates were cleared, we were up, chatting, switching seats, running amok. It was great to have all my Bitches together for one massive brunch. After all, P.J. said it himself, this is the party that was 129 years in the making.

The Bitches say: B for bottomless! Great service, great brunch deal, food was average, but this might have just been because it was a special holiday event. So, try it for yourself.

PJ Clarke’s
1600 K Street NW
Washington, DC 20006
202.463.6630

By: Miriam, Guest Bitch

Note from Becca: I went to the Mansion on O Street nearly three years ago, when I had just arrived in D.C., for a friend’s birthday dinner and scavenger hunt. The food made me ill, the labyrinth of kitsch freaked me out, and I vowed never to return. Intrepid Guest Bitch Miriam offered to check out the brunch.

I have a friend who has been raving about The Mansion on O Street, saying it’s like walking through Alice’s looking glass. The place offers a big brunch, and it’s a must see, but not a must eat.

The day before brunch, I went online to make a reservation. I was about to click on the 12 p.m. – 2 p.m. Champagne Brunch when my eyes popped out of their sockets at the price tag: $65. That’s sixty five dollars. Per person. For brunch! Granted, it includes bottomless mimosas, as well as a sumptuous spread of brunch favorites and delectable desserts. But I would never pay that much for brunch, and I’m recommending you don’t either.

The online form provided 12 other Sunday options, including a $75 afternoon high tea. But I opted for the cheapest: the $30 breakfast, which is available 10 a.m. to noon and includes made-to-order waffles and omelets, as well as bottomless coffee and all-you-can-eat oatmeal, fruit, yogurt and toast.

At 11 a.m. on Sunday, I walked up the ancient steps of the mansion (which is really five conjoined row houses) and stepped into another world. I had no idea that I had been living around the corner from this gem. The Mansion on O Street is what you’d imagine your eccentric, rich aunt’s house to be. The 100 rooms are filled with secret doors and passageways. Every inch of wall space is crammed with mirrors, framed art, and old books.

Photo credit: Miriam Berg

Meandering hallways and themed bedrooms overflow with knickknacks like antique Santa Clauses, cherub sculptures, Pee Wee Herman and Betty Boop dolls, rare Beatles memorabilia, and Playboy bunny paraphernalia. All of it—from the chandeliers to the tchotchkes—is for sale to keep this nonprofit/restaurant/hotel/museum/private club going.

I came hungry, along with my friend and her three-year-old daughter (children under five are free and children five to 11 are half price). The staff welcomed us warmly. After trying on hats that could have been worn to a royal wedding, we followed a hostess with an easy smile to our table.

Photo credit: Miriam Berg

On our way, she pointed out three small stations of breakfast food, and a grand space where three enormous tables were piled high with all the brunch food you could ever imagine. And the dessert table! It glistened with colorful frosting on cupcakes, a huge chocolate rendition of Congress, and full cakes almost too pretty to cut. That strategically placed smorgasbord was tempting, but off-limits for us breakfast goers.

We sat down to an intimate room of about 20 lace-covered tables and nearly as many chandeliers. While other brunch hotspots a few doors down were bustling, here just a few tables were filled with ladies in their 60s and 70s.

And the food? It was tasty and satisfying, but not outstanding. The waffles were moist and chewy, and came with your choice of staple toppings like maple syrup, Nutella and whipped cream. My whipped cream came out runny, but the staff promptly replaced the bottle. I like berries on my waffles but didn’t see any; the only fruit was brandied figs, a bunch of bananas, and slices of grapefruit and oranges. Regardless, the three of us chowed down on our waffles, toast with cinnamon butter, and steel-cut oatmeal with brown sugar.

Photo credit: Miriam Berg

Bloody Marys are my favorite drink, so I was excited to try one at the mansion. Upon asking our waitress for the drink, a man named Daniel appeared. He was the bartender serving table-side to personalize all cocktails. I requested medium spice, lots of olives and celery. Daniel delivered, but I was disappointed that my Bloody didn’t have spices around the rim. Daniel explained that he uses a special hot sauce that is more consistent than granular spices. It was good, but not yummy.

Photo credit: Miriam Berg

I like to drink my Bloody while eating eggs, so I got an omelet. The cook made it just how I like it: with lots of veggies and a bit of cheese. It was far better than what I could have made, and moderately above average for this city.

As the happy tunes from the bluegrass jam started up, my stuffed friend and her daughter went to a nearby room to watch the musicians. Meanwhile, as I was taking pictures of the forbidden brunch and grilling the kind manager with questions, I spilled the beans that I was reviewing for the Bitches. He offered me a free upgrade to the brunch, and I couldn’t refuse. I filled two plates with a little of everything: bagel and lox, peppered salmon, white fish, steak tenderloin, green beans, tortellini, and salad on one plate; and sweet bread, chocolate cake, trifle, fruit tart, tiramisu, a crepe, and a triangle of something fudgey on the other plate. Now we’re talking!

Photo credit: Miriam Berg

I also had the refreshing mimosa that came with the brunch. It all reminded me of the Bellagio buffet in Las Vegas, although a grade higher quality. My friend suspected that the desserts may have been frozen goods from an outside bakery, but the founder of the mansion—who was bustling about and is married to the manager—told me the desserts are baked in-house. Just like the O Street breakfast, the brunch food didn’t leave a strong impression on my palate. And it certainly was not worth $65!

By the time I couldn’t eat any more, I saw that the bill on the table included my credit card info from the online form. I just needed to sign, so I did. (This system proved a bit annoying later when my friend had to get cash to pay me back.) I was now free to explore. The manager gave me a tour, and that’s when my real experience began.

This Bitch’s bottom line: While the food is slightly above average for DC, it is overpriced and not anything to write home about. However, the bizarre/homey ambience makes for a brunch that’s as psychedelic as a tea party with the real Mad Hatter, and as comforting as grandma’s kitchen.

So, if you’ve got parents in town who want to go off the beaten path for brunch—but aren’t wild enough for a drag queen brunch—then have them take you to The Mansion on O Street. Warn them that they’ll be paying for the experience, not the food. And what an experience it is.

If you don’t have kooky parents who want to spoil you at brunch, just take a $5 self-guided tour!

The Bitches say: B-. It’s an A experience with a C- value for your dollar.

The Mansion on O Street
Open for brunch on Sundays
2020 O Street Northwest
Washington, DC 20036
(202) 496-2020

By: Becca

There is no better way to celebrate your best friend’s birthday than having an old fashioned Sunday Funday with a big group of friends. Fortunately for Brooke, her birthday coincided with President Abe’s birthday, and so for her celebration we went to the most appropriate brunch fiasco that we could find on that particular Sunday: Lincoln, of course.

We definitely got what we asked for. The Nationals’ mascot (yes, that massive Lincoln head) was parading around the brunch revelers. A performing duo called “The Sexy Man Group” (which was actually a server and a dude on a keyboard) was crooning from the omelet and waffle bar. Hell, we even jumped into the Lincoln-Birthday celebration ourselves by challenging one another to come up with the best Lincoln pickup lines.

Saro: “The Gettysburg Address was short, but let me tell you what isn’t.”

Tammy: “I’m gonna reunite my north with your south, baby.”

Brian: “You must be Seward authorizing the purchase of Alaska … ‘cause I’m experiencing some unprecedented growth.”

Oh yes, it was one of those Sunday Fundays where you’re drunk by 11 a.m. and everyone else is, too. Let me tell you how this happened.

First, they place two massive antique-looking punch bowls on your table, one with crushed orange concentrate, one with pulpy Bellini bits. Then, they start popping bottles, and mixing your punch, and you scoop the bubbly from the bowls in big spoons into your goblets. Oh, it’s glorious. By the end of your brunch you likely have mixed both types of champagne juices together, but that’s OK. No one is looking.

Or, if you’re not into that, there’s bottomless Marys, too. But they’re super spicy. Like, break-a-sweat spicy.

Our server, Dave, was hilarious. Right off the bat, there was no pressure. He made sure we were always set with booze and were having a good time. He chatted with us; he was attentive. We spent three hours with him. I feel like we knew him well by the end of the brunch. We even got his phone number (I told you it was one of those brunches).

I wished there were rolls or some kind of app dropped on the table as we arrived. In fact, Dave took a bit of a minute to get our service started up. We were all starved, and getting tipsy, and so we dove into the menu as quickly as he would allow.

The brunch deal at Lincoln that day was as follows: $36 all you can eat and drink, made-to-order omelet and waffle bar with two sides and unlimited mimosas, bellinis and bloody marys. Or, the a la carte menu, with which for an additional $19 we got unlimited mimosas, bellinis and bloody marys.

Most of us ordered a la carte (picky Bitches). But those few who ventured to the omelet and waffle station got their food fast and early as the rest of us salivated and appeased our empty stomachs with more champagne.

The omelet and waffle station was located at the front of the restaurant next to the DJ and the Sexy Man Duo. The station was kick-ass because there were chocolate chips and fresh fruit. Better yet, you could choose between buttermilk or gingerbread waffles with seasonal berries, New Jersey peaches, cherries, hazelnut butter, whipped cream and an assortment of syrups. The chef-made omelets had a variety of seasonal fillings.

The group was pleased with their omelets and waffles, yet it was strange that certain people got their food right away while the other half of the table had to wait. The trade off for getting your food so fast? A few poor souls heading for those waffles stepped too near the Sexy Man Duo and were accosted by a man in a vest crooning love songs in their ear. Suddenly, everyone in the restaurant is looking at them. They just wanted their waffles, dammit!

Mike was a station guy, but he wasn’t as impressed as I was with the bar. In fact, he thought most of his food was rather mediocre, including the waffle, omelet, biscuit and gravy, and cheese grits. He said the gravy was very tasty, but the biscuit was sweet, which was disappointing. But then again, waffles, omelets and grits aren’t exactly complex.

Mark had the Lincoln Country Breakfast, but substituted the biscuit for butter-and-garlic toast. The eggs were too cooked, and a bit greasy but tasty. The sausage was grilled and had a nice apple taste to it. The two slices of bacon were good, and so were the potatoes. He thought it was the perfect portion. However, another Bitch who had this same dish claimed it average and said that next time he would just go for the omelet bar.

Derek had the steak and eggs with a side of cheesy grits. He says, “The steak was served just how I ordered (medium rare). It was tender and juicy but the taste was so so. It was served on a hash of some sort that was sweet and actually made the steak taste better. The eggs were nothing to write home about. The cheesy grits, on the other hand,  were delicious! They were creamy, perfect consistency, and had great flavor.”

Tammy, who likes anything you can put an egg on, had the breakfast burger. She particularly loves when you can add eggs to burgers, because it’s not something you typically find in the U.S. It was served with an egg, arugula, bacon, and cheddar. Delicious and not too big.

The bananas foster oatmeal did not live up to my expectations. We wanted more bananas foster and less oatmeal. Also, it was piping hot when it arrived, but the dish cooled down quickly. I guess that’s just oatmeal though. I felt pressure to eat it fast, when really I had just ordered it as a side. The bagel dish was the winner of the table—beautifully presented with salmon, eggs, capers, and more.

The Benedict was great. It had a big slice of tomato, and crispy bacon underneath. There was lots of Hollandaise sauce, and even after the last few bites were all egg yoke, biscuit and ham mixed together, it wasn’t mushy and still tasted great.

We shared a lot of other dishes. Like the mac and cheese, which was served in a cast-iron skillet, and was gone immediately. It was listed as a main entrée for brunch, even though it should be under the sides. We weren’t big fans of the thyme potatoes. The cheese grits were good, but the cheese was hardened on top so you had to crack through it. I wished the cheddar would have been mixed in a bit.

We weren’t ready to wrap up brunch when the music jilted to a halt at 3 p.m. We were still raging and boozing and ready to dance to more Sexy Man Duo! They brought Brooke out a complimentary cake with a candle in a jar, without anyone asking for it, which was nice. The cake-in-a-cup was topped with fresh fruit, berries, whipped cream and a candle on top—a thoughtful, delicious gesture.

We ordered her shots of tequila, passed around a bunch of scratch-off lottery tickets that one of the Bitches brought, then snapped photos of our empty bottles of champagne and waddled off into the afternoon. Happy Birthday, Brooke!

The Bitches say: B+ Great bottomless deal, beautiful restaurant space, fun brunch entertainment, but just slightly better than average food.

Lincoln

1110 Vermont Avenue Northwest
Washington, DC 20005
(202) 386-9200

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

What is it with Washington women and hotel bars? We’re not escorts, nor tourists, yet we flock to hotel bars for cocktails with the rest of them.

Maybe it’s the mysterious and worldly businessmen drinking whiskey at the bar. Or the snazzy yet undeniably overpriced cocktails. Or, perhaps it’s the complimentary cocktail mix and olives they have at the bar—I certainly do love corn nuts and Cerignola olives.

One of my girlfriends is a regular at the Jefferson’s Plume, where she positions herself on a stool at the mahogany bar with a glass of red wine. Another prefers champagne and elderflower cocktails amid the bright-red seating and loud music of the W Hotel lobby. Yet another adores the martinis and plush velvet cushions at the St. Regis Bar.

While I’ve sampled all three locales, personally, I prefer to nestle in to the comfy, worn-in couches for hot toddys by the fire at the Tabbard Inn. Then, I have a friend who told me she likes the bar at Nage Restaurant, located in the Marriott Courtyard, nearby both our homes. This friend is clearly confused—and needs to re-prioritize her locales.

Though I’d heard mixed reviews on Nage—from both friends and Yelp—I went ahead and snatched up a two-for-one brunch deal on Open Table Spotlight (big mistake).

My date, Tristin, and I arrived at Nage at 11:30 a.m. on a Saturday, and the restaurant was about half full with brunchers, mostly groups of girls chit-chatting while downing mimosas, which are $15 all-you-can-drink.

The brunch menu at Nage focuses on the wow factor, but lacks quality in any way, shape, or form. There are plenty of unique options: from red velvet pancakes to duck confit frittatas to the “Kill-It Skillet,” with mac-n-cheese, chorizo, bacon, truffle frites and a fried egg. While everything on the menu sounded inventive and delicious, in reality it lacked decent ingredients, skilled preparation, culinary finesse, and edibility.

The brunch deal included bottomless mimosas, coffee or tea, one appetizer and one entrée for each guest. Due to a week straight of drinking, both Tristin and I skipped the mimosas, opting for orange juice, coffee and tea. As for the food, we chose to share everything.

The first appetizer to arrive was the cinnamon rolls, which were actually two enormous sticky buns that arrived cold, slightly stale, and with a paltry portion of pecan sauce. However, they were the best part of the meal, as they prompted me to take more than three bites.

Then, the cheddar biscuits arrived. Says Tristin, “I didn’t mind the cheddar biscuits. I would say they ranked better than quiche but not the cinnamon buns. They were cold when they reached the table, which was a disappointment. I do feel that they would have tasted much better had they been warm. However, this having been said, they were not terrible.”

Next, the vegetable quiche, which was billed as loaded with fresh seasonal vegetables, and arrived as a mess of egg and pastry mushiness (yes, I said mushy).

“I can’t recall what was supposed to be in said quiche because there didn’t appear to be much else in it except for eggs and pastry. I must say that the portion size was very generous. However, I would much rather have a smaller portion of quality cuisine than a larger dish of mediocre quality. Quality over quantity, just like mamma always said,” Tristin expounded.

The crab Benny arrived with those nasty frozen home fries you find at an assortment of awful restaurants. You know what I’m talking about—the kind that are cut in perfect squares, pale white, and definitely came from the freezer. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, look at the picture or take my word for it.

As for the Benedict itself, the muffin was fine, correctly toasted and crispy. The crab cake, however, was almost entirely filling, and the Hollandaise sauce was scandalously horrific. Having had crab cake Benedicts across the city, this certainly will be remembered as one of the worst.

In conclusion, says Tristin, “Overall, I would not recommend Nage for brunch. The main dishes certainly need work but the sides were not so bad. You are not going to brunch for biscuits and cinnamon buns alone, however. So, if you are simply on the prowl for a decent amount of food for a fair price (read: tourists who stay at the Marriott) Nage would be the place.”

Oh, did I mention the orange juice wasn’t fresh? Another pet peeve of this Bitch …

The Bitches say: F. Yuck.

Nage Restaurant
1600 Rhode Island Ave. N.W.
Washington, D.C.
(202) 448-8005

By: Becca

Remember when I huffed and puffed my way through a sorry 5k last month? Well, I’m back. Officially. After a month of training, two weeks ago I blew through the Marine Corps 10k and could have kept running, save for my hunger. The finish line was in Rosslyn, and we were looking for some post-race fuel, so we went up the street to Whitlow’s for their Sunday brunch buffet.

I had been to Whitlow’s once before, at the tail end of an epic bike ride, but had just stopped at the bar for a quick bite before I pedaled on. This time, I was ready to gorge myself. But, if you’re not that ravenous, you have the option: the $18 buffet or brunch a la carte, of which the menu is pretty extensive.

Whitlow’s is like one massive diner. It has rooms that latch onto rooms that latch onto rooms. This labyrinth of a restaurant gives each room a different name and adorns the walls with enough kitsch to make it feel like a neighborhood joint.

The draw here for brunch is not just the buffet, but also the bloody Mary bar. However, we were a bit disappointed by both. We ordered the requisite bloody Mary (to be made at their bar), and was presented with a massive glass of well vodka. Ouch. The bloody Mary bar itself has all sorts of spicy sauces and accoutrements to gussy up your drink, but it was all a bit old and sketchy looking.

Our mimosas were just as sad. I ordered a pitcher (for myself; don’t judge; I’m allowed when I just ran six miles) but instead I was presented with a pathetic carafe. Another Bitch ordered a mimosa by the glass, and I swear that $6 glass had more mimosa than my $14 pitcher – and neither had much champagne. Slightly absurd and overpriced.

The buffet itself is frightening. It’s in a long room made for pool tables, and those billiard lights instead become the food’s heat lamps. Not sure if this is intentional or if that’s just how it worked out for the owners. All the food is in metal trays, side by side, stewing there for hours.

Before 11 a.m. there’s a selection of breakfast dishes available. Sliced fruit, bagels, cereal, and more. The hot breakfast includes biscuits and gravy, sausages, bacon, eggs, breakfast potatoes, and a made-to-order omelet bar. We should have gotten a really good omelet cooked right with cheese and onions and mushrooms and bacon from that bar, but our omelet wasn’t cooked all the way through, and the ingredients weren’t good options, and it just tasted straight up bad.

The bacon was the only decent option of the breakfast dishes, and even that wasn’t that great. Also, the lox are at the opposite end of the room from the bagels, which is perplexing.

After 11 a.m., they pull out the big guns: crab legs, smoked salmon, fried chicken, pastas, and pasta salads of all different varieties (what do you want with your mayonnaise?). There’s macaroni and cheese, lasagna, and a number of other heavy dinner-type pasta dishes. I should have gone here the night before the race.

The desserts made me sort of sad. There were a few cakes, all of which tasted like they were straight out of the CostCo freezer. In fact, everything in the buffet tasted like it came out of a CostCo freezer. We poked at the purple cheesecake and didn’t get past a few bites.

Our big group was seated in the very back room, which is obviously the patio in warmer weather. They’ve covered it and brought in some heaters, and so it was quite comfortable and open enough for us to gather a large, rowdy group that wanted to take pictures with race medals.

Sadly, the quality of the food and the drinks just weren’t up to par. This Sunday I’m running in the Veterans’ Day 10k in West Potomac Park, so come cheer me on – and give me a better post-race brunch suggestion.

The Bitches say: C-. As buffets usually suck, this one is pretty standard suckage. Also, the drinks are overpriced. But, this place is good for massive, hungry parties roll out of their Clarendon apartments and don’t care about the quality of food or drinks. But definitely don’t go out of your way.

Whitlow’s on Wilson
2854 Wilson Blvd.
Clarendon, VA 22201
703-276-9693

By: Cori Sue

I’m a vegetarian (pescetarian, actually), so brunch at a restaurant with a limited, no-fuss, steak-centered menu was tricky for me. Unabashedly carnivorous, Becca had dined at Medium Rare once before—for dinner—and she found it very odd.

There was no menu, just simply, “How do you want your steak cooked?” ‘Medium rare’ seems to be the only acceptable answer at that point, and so the waiter scribbles your request on your paper table cloth and disappears. After a little while, they return with steak, fries, and a mysterious brown sauce in a metal jar.

‘Wouldn’t this get boring?’ she thought after dinner. And, ‘Why would you go back when there’s only one dish to try?’ But the steak is good, the sauce is delicious, and you can’t get enough of the bread. And then, just when you think you’ve cleaned your plate, suddenly another waiter appears at your side with a skillet full of hot steak, pushing it onto your empty plate.

So you begin again, and you continue in this carnivorous fashion as long as you may like. And that’s why you go back.

Brunch, however, was quite different. The menu seems overwhelming when compared to the dinner menu. This might be because the owner contacted us a few months prior for some advice on their then-new brunch menu, and we offered up a few basic tips: give us options, and make it bottomless.

So they reformatted it with a spectacular deal: bread, two courses, and bottomless mimosas, coffee or orange juice for a mere $23. They invited us back to try it out.

The mimosas, the perfect mixture of fresh-squeezed orange juice and excellent champagne, were served promptly, and then promptly refilled, over and over again, as we sat outside on Medium Rare’s patio on a simply gorgeous fall morning.

Along with the mimosas, the first (of many) servings of bread arrived. If anything, I’d dine at Medium Rare for the bread alone. The bread, a high-quality French loaf, is also served at Michel Richard’s Citronelle. With a crispy, crumbly outside with fluffy melt-in-your-mouth inside, it’s served in a tin tray alongside room-temperature butter that we promptly globed on with steak knives. It was positively gluttonous in the best way possible.

For your first course, you may choose fruit or yogurt, and, in the name of blogging, we chose one of each. The cup of fruit was fresh and fine—filled with pineapple, honeydew, grapes and cantaloupe.

The creamy Greek yogurt comes served with granola, dried fruit, and amazing berry preserves. I’m not typically crazy about dried fruit, but this concoction was the perfect mixture of sweet, crunchy, chewy and savory. I enjoyed every bite.

Becca had the “famous” steak Benedict, because, how can you not? It seemed to be the item on the brunch menu commanding the most attention, so she went for it. The Benedict itself was only one-half of the English muffin, but that was alright, as it was overloaded with steak, eggs, and sauce. The restaurant, of course, substitutes its secret steak sauce for the normal hollandaise, and so this Benedict tastes quite different, much less brunch-y, save for that egg on top.

The entire thing gets a little mushy if you let it sit too long. It is filling, however, and you end up sopping up the sauce and runny poached eggs with the muffin, the steak, and eventually with the fries and the bread that came as an appetizer.

I ordered the only vegetarian option on the menu—the French toast, and a side of frites. (Bread, French fries, French toast, mimosas … I’m a beacon for healthy eating.) The French toast is right on par with the heavenly concoction at Granville Moores.

The dish was phenomenal. The chef takes the ends of their infamous French bread and soaks them overnight in their cinnamon-egg-cream concoction, and then they flash fry, rather than bake it, so that it is moist, fluffy and sweet on the inside and crisp on the outside. It’s sprinkled with powdered sugar, topped with fresh berries, and served with a side of real maple syrup.

Instead of being baked into the toast, the Logan sausage that comes with the French toast is served separately on a dish, looking rather sad—but enabling me to give it to Becca. It’s delicious, though, by itself, she says.

The frites were delicious as well, served with Medium Rare’s uber-secret special sauce. Unfortunately for yours truly, I had been dipping them lavishly into said secret sauce throughout brunch with reckless abandon. Near the end of the meal, the waitress, with a look of appall, says, “Miss, you’re a vegetarian? That sauce … isn’t … I’m so sorry.”

“No problem,” I replied. “It’s only my moral convictions, no big deal.”

Her jaw dropped further.

Aside from that little snafu …

The Bitches say: A. High-quality cuisine, gorgeous patio, good service, and a spectacular brunch deal—with more options than dinner. This brunch is a hidden gem.

Brunch is served on Sundays from 11 a.m. to 2:30 p.m.

Medium Rare
3500 Connecticut Ave N.W.
Washington, D.C.
(202) 237-1432

By: Becca

Do you know Stef Woods?  She’s that tall, striking, vivacious red head that you probably keep running into at events about town. I know I did. Repeatedly. To the point where I started to feel like I knew her just from the occasional chat over mediocre hors d’oeuvres.

But we didn’t really know one another at all. And so we kept saying, we simply must get together. So I invited her to brunch.

I suggested Vento on P Street in Dupont because the website touted “Open for Brunch!” and because it is one of the few places on P Street that I haven’t tried. We showed up. It was closed. I was embarrassed. So we wandered around the corner to The Front Page, where Stef said she’s had many a brunch in her day, though I hadn’t actually made it there yet.

Turns out Steph is amazing, and I have a girl crush. A lawyer, she writes about her dating and sex life on City Girl Blogs and teaches at a local university. She also acts as an ambassador (and model) for countless D.C. organizations, such as the Humane Society and its Fashion For Paws event.

Oh, and she’s been battling breast cancer for the last year. Yesterday was her last chemo IV. To celebrate, she’s hosting a happy hour tonight at Lincoln, which you should go to and say congratulations and give her a hug for me. I wish I could go, but I’m in New York this week (sending my hugs from afar!).

Next month, she’ll be a model in Pink Jams Rocks the Runway, which is bringing in Christian Siriano himself to show his spring collection. Have I told you how excited I am for this event? I am really excited. Buy your ticket. Or go to the launch party at Dirty Bar on Tuesday and get tickets there.

That Sunday Stef and I sat on the patio outside The Front Page chatting about these things for hours. We talked about men, about blogs, about work, about cancer, about DC’s events, about people. Like I said: girl crush.

The Front Page is a traditional D.C. brunch place. It’s huge, first of all, so you could fit in a big party at the very last minute. There’s lots of rooms and different bar areas, stretching the width of its city block. Also, it’s been there forever.

For brunch you can order a dish off the menu, which I would suggest, or you can go for the buffet, which we did against our better judgement. We eyed it, we were starved, so we went for immediate satisfaction rather than the smarter idea.

The buffet is lined with silver trays serving greasy sausages, bacon, biscuits, scrambled eggs, home fries, corned beef hash, and grits, all of which looked like they’d been sitting out for a while. There were made to order omelets and waffles, and the omelets offered broccoli, mushrooms, peppers, onions, tomatoes, ham and assorted cheese. The waffles had Maple syrup, fruit toppings, or whipped cream to pile on top.

There was a carving station of pit roasted ham and roast beef. Again, it looked a bit dry, as if it had been sitting under the heat lamps for a while. The fruit selection was similarly aged. There was caesar salad, muffins, danishes, and breakfast pastries. Also, there was some cubed cheese, and a table with bagels and lox, which looked rather frightening.

The entire buffet is $20.95 per person. You can tack on unlimited champagne for $3, unlimited mimosas for $4.50, or Perrier Jouet Grand Brut Champage, for $16.95. Oh, and there was a bloody Mary bar, though it wasn’t very big. Not a bad deal, but you have to take into account that it’s buffet; and with rare exceptions, buffets are never very good.

The trick is to go with someone fabulous who will distract you from the sad state of buffet affairs. Stef and I only went for two rounds at the buffet, and picked at our food when we were back at our patio table. We were too engrossed in conversation to be bothered by the food.

The Bitches say: C. There are much better quality buffets in town, but if you’re desperate for a last-minute large party, give it a whirl, as the price is right.

The Front Page
1333 New Hampshire Ave NW
Washington DC, 20036
202.296.6500