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The transition from student to semi-young quasi-professional is one of self-discovery. Goals that were once as clearly defined as a single letter (the “A” if you will, or the “B” in any class with a “400“preceding it) are now ambiguous. I’m self-discovering the hard way that things that were once nuisances are now expenses: I have to pay money to have a dentist orally assault me? You expect me to not only clean my bathroom, but pay $20 for the supplies necessary to do so? But above all of this adult squalor, life after college has defined a novel new companion: the Sunday brunch.
Yes, I know that publicly embracing brunch immediately puts you in the company of those that say they work in “fa-nance,” but the meal has done little to deserve such ignominy. Brunch fills a societal vacuum and asks for little in return. Brunch’s de facto marriage to Sunday mornings makes Beckham and Posh look chaste. It kindly lifts you from your sleep and nudging you into the new day. Brunch and I were formally introduced only a year ago but it already feels like we're old friends.
We Washingtonians that don’t hang posters of Jose Andres (DC in-joke) on our walls can only describe DC cuisine as “hit-or-miss” (a topic I will get into soon and often, I assure you) but brunch is an agreed-upon bright-spot.
Next week, I'll speak a bit more from the head than the heart: navigating brunch through Chesapeake Eggs Benedict