- Who: Cyril, Greta, Baby Daddberg (in utero)
- Where: H Street
- What: Beignets for the table, veggie omelet (fries instead of home fries), bloody mary
Okay, well Hurricane Irene kind of sucked. At least in the 15 block region of DC I frequent, it sucked. Walking out of my apartment on Sunday morning, I was encountered with the devastation below (note the Geo in the bottom left—luckily it was unscathed):
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Sorta reminds you of the aftermath of the great DC Earthquake of 2011, right?
Since we couldn’t get our hurricane fix from Irene, we had to go el
sewhere to find it. Tru Orleans, a NOLA-themed restaurant/gallery on the hill was clearly the only pun-intended choice. Beads on the ceiling, Abita on tap and three types of, you guessed it, HURRICANES on the menu—we couldn’t have been any more New Orleans if we’d actually been sitting at Cafe du Monde.
But was this a tasteless choice? Is it wrong for us to associate 2011 New Orleans, a city rich with so much culture and history, with the Super Dome, George Bush hating black people and Zeitoun as readily as we do with the French Quarter, Louis Armstrong and the Saints? Or is the 21st century version of New Orleans just as much a part of the city’s culture and history as King Cake, Dixieland and drive through Daiquiri stands? Never having lived or worked much below I-70, I don’t pretend to know the 
answer to this question. I do know that six years after Hurricane Katrina and Hurricane Rita, there are still abandoned houses in the 9th ward with spray painted x’s on the doors and mildewed family photographs on the floor inside—along with tens of thousands of people who will never be able to return home. So while H St NE may always be Bourbon Street’s ugly stepsister, New Orleans should feel the same in DC as it does in Louisiana—the good and the bad; the fun and the sad. Hurricanes, Jazz Fest, Mardis Gras beads, and all.
llas flipped inside out, and strollers veered off course. Gays throughout the greater metropolitan area were forced to throw off their shirts and rip off their pantlegs in order to wade through the rising waters.
manchego cheese in their reusable bags, ransacking the stores for flashlights and car chargers for their Kindles and Ipads, taking every necessary precaution in case the predictions were right and the power was truly out for hours.
שָׁלוֹם עֲלֵיכֶם מַלְאֲכֵי הַשָּׁרֵת מַלְאֲכֵי עֶלְיוֹן מִמֶּלֶךְ מַלְכֵי הַמְּלָכִים הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא בּוֹאֲכֶם לְשָׁלוֹם מַלְאֲכֵי הַשָּׁלוֹם מַלְאֲכֵי עֶלְיוֹן מִמֶּלֶךְ מַלְכֵי הַמְּלָכִים הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא בָּרְכוּנִי לְשָׁלוֹם מַלְאֲכֵי הַשָּׁלוֹם מַלְאָכֵי עֶלְיוֹן מִמֶּלֶךְ מַלְכֵי הַמְּלָכִים
anymore. I’m talking the kind of days we had growing up—where yesterday you were elementary school but TODAY you are in junior high! Or yesterday you were in brownies, but TODAY you’re kissing that ugly sash goodbye because now you’re a real full-fledged girlscout! Becoming a camp counselor, losing your virginity, getting your drivers license, graduating from college—these are all pinnacle DAYS when something happened. And as much as we’re all glad to not worry about getting our 
onumental DAYS in our lives to look forward to anymore.
t that life behind to become… just another non-practicing self-deprecating JEW, living in a mildly religious home with some minor community-based G-d association centered mostly around food and some token quotes from an ancient historical text. (Man, I should have been around during the 
Patty, forever in your life you will look back on your bagel sandwich from 
exists that far down Long Island), Joni’s seems to have developed a wide variety of regular loyalists who know to get there early, order without looking at the menu and head straight to the beach with their food rather than attempt to hunt down a spot at the communal table inside.
estaurant:
Joni’s—just to see. I googled “Best of Montauk.” Nothing. “Breakfast in Montauk.” Nada. “Lunch in Montauk,” nothing again. (Hopefully nobody is actually tracking my Federal Government search history, because not sure how I’d explain this. I guess it’s a better search than ‘tittie bars in Montauk’). Finally I just thought I’d look for “restaurants in Montauk.” A bunch of different sites came up, I clicked through all of them, and saw a bunch of places I recognized (including 
after a weekend of unmentionable activities with unmentionable individuals. It is always nice to have some off the grid time, so why not end it with an off the grid brunch. If Joni’s teaches us anything, it’s that things still seem to function okay without the benefits of social media. So no website for Joni’s, and no photos from Montauk on facebook. The End. 
Cousins, Emily Kaye, Jenny Bursky, Kath, Hilary, Liz and Isabelle
ds from college never meet friends from highschool who certainly never meet family of any kind. There are no introductions, no overlapping inside jokes and no competing stories. No fear of your colleagues finding out about the bald guy you kissed in 4th grade, and no stress that your gym buddies will ever tell your fam about the time you flipped off the spin bik
e and landed on the instructors lap. Life is streamlined, simple and clear. 
e the most convoluted combination of women ever brought onto this farthest remote tip of Long Island. One sister, one grandma, three cousins, one best family friend, one soon-to-be sister-in-law of best family friend, three best friends from growing up, five best friends from current life and one best friend from college, many of whom have lived together, worked together, are otherwise related and/or know each other through some entirely different way. The ultimately complicated life friend family tree.
that you have excellent, discerning taste and that everyone you love will seamlessly love each other by the end of the weekend.
stronger as the final exit was made through the awkward gift store at 
ble to get it locked back up again. Part of this may have to do with the Vacation Beast’s unhealthy appetite for beach umbrellas, fried food/pizza/alcohol, navigable waters and leisure. Those four elements, when packaged together, form an impenetrable new compound that dangles tauntingly in front of the vacation beast’s black oversized Raybans, preventing the crazy animal from going back in its cage and keeping it loose in the wild. The vacation beast may pretend to be docile, sitting lazily in a beach chair pretending to watch little kids play in the pool, but under that chest hair and bright pink skin, the vacation beast is ready to pounce on the next available wine spritzer in 
site—and will stop at NOTHING to get it.
ates. Second, remember to stay calm when the phrase ‘free towels’ arises. Free towels tend to imply benign lounging for hours on end by the pool, but don’t be fooled—free towels mean that the Vacation Beast is just around the corner, ready to pounce unsuspectingly. Most importantly is the Vacation Beasts’ love of bocce or any other lawn or beach sport—that game with the two Velcro paddles and the tennis ball, 
ought we were safe at Maggie’s wedding in Northern Maine. Weather called for wind, highs in the low 70’s and chance of rain every day. Apparently, though, the Vacation Beast didn’t do well in the 4th grade spelling bee, because it confused Maine with Mexico and sneaked up on us at the 
n Main Street USA surrounded by a bunch of other random restaurants on Main Street USA—there’s no way to really predict. It probably won’t be anywhere centralized, or flashy or glitzy. It will probably not be very convenient. And most likely, it will be the last place you want to go since there will be about 9000 screaming toddlers, old couples with matching sweatshirts and college kids home for the summer who haven’t showered since last school year, all waited to get seated before you. This when you fight your instincts, turn off your big city brain and use every once of willpower to not run to the nearest Starbucks to get a scone. THE spot is worth it. 
with avocado and polenta, Flying Dog IPA
What it did have, however, was a giant crowd of people waiting outside, a million cars idling in the driveway and a porch filled with very content looking people scarfing down their food. It was clearly THE spot.
It took about 3 minutes of seeing Rockland (which, coincidentally only takes about 3 minutes to drive through) to realize that anyone who was anyone who was eating brunch in this town was at 
e went—to a scenary-free patio in the middle of a parking lot facing the highway to have one of the best brunches of 2011. A delicious menu to beat all menus. One avocado-based egg product after avocado-based egg product. Ignore the guidebooks. Ignore the 15-year-old stoners. Ignore your aversion to lines and crowds and kids and old people. Always go to THE spot.
s, the breakfast sandwich combines all the best parts of brunch into one simple, portable little package. One might think that all breakfast sandwiches are created equal—how much variety can there really be in the combination of three (sometimes four if you’re going for the meat, TWSS) basic ingredients? So as we headed from from Boston to Portland
, ME on the Downeaster last Thursday we put it all on the line and decided to test out this theory: Dunkin Donuts, the old school New England staple vs. small, local ‘whatcha want you’se guys ovah theyah’ Cambridge deli. The Battle of the Breakfast Sandwich!
t being too bready, toasted without being burnt, flavorful without being overpowering. Sweet Touch: 9 Dunkin Donuts: 2
and, similar to its cousin the egg, actual cheese. Sweet Touch: 9 Dunkin Donuts: 0
major, it seems safe to say that there is a clear leader on the scoreboard. Sweet Touch: 1 million Dunkin Donuts: -50 So why, with a million neighborhood delis up and down the eastern seaboard run by real small business owners with real kids who work there in the summer and real cheddar melted on their unmicrowaved egg, do we still insist on stopping by Dunkin Donuts on our way to the office/grocery store/train station? Probably the same reason that Bostonians set cars on fire when the Patriots win the Superbowl. Or we pay $3 at the ATM rather than get cash back at CVS across the street.
mes to have a conversation with someone five decades your senior to get a different perspective on what’s going on in the world. Suddenly, what you thought was a standard conversation about how long it took to get across town because of some road race, turns into a discussion of how long it took get places BEFORE the BQE ever existed. Or a story about a recent trip to Florida suddenly morphs into an analysis of whether someones grand-niece should just settle for a short man s
ince ‘we’ve all seen there are no tall boys in Coral Gables.’
at’s staring up at you from the buffet—and while you would probably just dump a pile of mustard on the plate someone in the room knows the exact 5 ingredients to pick up at the corner store and whips up something magnifique.
Housewives of Miami to doubt that time ever existed. In the end, though, it doesn’t matter if you’re a grandson or a grandfather, or just an old friend from down the street, it’s still nice to be together.
Who: Dan, Lisa, Jeff, Pat ‘mom’ Kalik
tanding in front of you when someone in your group finally stops walking, throws a mini tantrum and says ‘That places looks FINE! Can’t we just sit down somewhere already!?!?’
even lower on the barometer?
One year, one girl, one hundred brunches.
No repeats.
/brʌntʃ/ [bruhnch]
–noun
1. a meal that serves as both breakfast and lunch.
–verb (used without object)
2. to eat brunch: They brunch at 11:00 on Sunday.
