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What is with the strata of D.C. that must shower on a Sunday, first of all, and then top that off with some sort of put-together outfit that may or may not involve heels, sunglasses too big for your face, and possibly a shave? Why on earth do people want to sit for hours over breakfast? I must admit I don’t get brunch. In fact, I loathe it. Whenever I am asked if I would like to go to brunch in D.C. on a Sunday I say no thank you, but what I am thinking is: Fuck no. I would not like to have eight cups of coffee just because it’s there and then fight the jitters for the rest of the day, I do not want to listen to you and people I don’t know gab on about politics because it bores me, I do not want to pay $20 for pancakes, and I prefer not to drink Champagne unless someone I know is celebrating something more significant than eggs, much less mix Champagne with orange juice, which is all together a stupid idea anyway. Don’t get me started on bloody marys. They’re gross.
So stay home, is what you might say. And, pretty much, that’s what I do, or I grab a bagel and eat it in a park. But sometimes I actually do want someone else to make me a hot breakfast—-not a “brunch” mind you, but a breakfast. Good luck getting that in my neighborhood. In Adams Morgan, my go-to is The Diner. But on Sunday, you can’t even pull off the counter trick. Everyone and their cousin from Maryland and the cousin’s four kids and their family dog are congregating outside. And they’re dressed up. And it’s the fucking Diner, people. This scene repeats itself all over 18th Street. What I’m saying is this: When there’s a line at Asylum for food and the people in line look like they just spilled out of Chloe, you know something’s wrong. And what is wrong is brunch culture in D.C. It’s phony, it’s stupid, it sucks.