Au Pied Bistro, Georgetown

When Monkey and I are feeling kind of cavalier, (sorry, I had to), we sometimes use Google to help us find a new place to eat. Usually, it consists of “Best X in DC” and seeing what we get.

On this day, we decided we were in the mood for brunch, so we tried “best brunch.” We got a couple of hits, and of the few that seemed to pan out, only one actually offered breakfast as opposed to light lunch fare. This turned out to be Au Pied Bistro, in Georgetown. What ultimately sold us was the repeated reference to their “lobster-half-bottle-of-champagne-breakfast-bar” prix fixe special on Sundays. After assuring ourselves that it was Sunday and that we were willing to spend a significant sum on brunch, (it basically counts as two meals, since you do a later dinner anyway,) we got suited up for a nice brisk autumn walk to Georgetown.

On the way there, Monkey and I got into a bit of a fight. I was being snarky about the people we would see, and basically, generally truthful about the outrageous and other-world-ness that Georgetown sometimes exudes. (Monkey had never ventured before.) He felt I would embarrass him, because I am psychotically liberal and still a little punk at heart (pay no attention to the normal colored hair and the 40-hour-a-week job), and he is serenely liberal and still rather straight-laced, albeit easy-going. (Lord knows what we see in one another.) This hurt my feelings a bit, because I took it as a jab at my maturity and not an observation on my understanding of appropriateness, so I was rather infuriated with him for the beginning of and halfway through our breakfast. (More on this later.)

That anger only seethed more as we sat down to find that there is no such lobster-gorging breakfast. Perhaps there once was, but there is no sign of it now. As I looked and looked to find something I was interested in, I was overwhelmed by the feeling of just-not-wanting-to-be-there. (Perhaps it was the fact that Monk and I got dirty glasses while everyone around us did not, and while this was almost surely accidental, in my raging state, it was a direct stab at my indignant little heart.) Eventually, I decided to get a mushroom omelette, disappointed that the prospect of a mushroom omelette was nowhere near the amount of food necessary to sating the hunger I had saved up for brunch.

The food came rather quickly, so much of our time was filled with silence rather than pleasantries, and then we able to indulge in the “can’t-talk-mouth-full” understanding that long-running couples are able to master together.

Surprise! Pretty much everything at APB comes with French fries. I do not understand this, and I don’t think the French will either, especially as there is no mayonnaise offered. My omelette, to my surprise was somewhere in between the size of a 3-4-egg-omelette. I was sad that my mushrooms were simple button mushrooms, but there was further surprise. The omelette came with a chunky tomato-vegetable sauce, which actually was particularly tasty, and exactly what the omelette needed. (I don’t understand this either, but having given it a try, the chef obviously knew something I didn’t.) I ended up eating only part of my fries for two reasons: first, the omelette was so big that I shared a third of it with Monkey; and second, the waitress was too busy having her time monopolized by the couple next to us for me to be able to ask for malt vinegar, which Monkey cautioned against to begin with.

Which brings me to a small discussion of why I am always right. We were seated next to the most uncouth, abominable nouveau-riche EVAR. The woman, who surely would give Jocelyn Wildenstein a run for her plastic-surgery budget (and who I cannot bring myself to link to, but feel free to Google her,) was so inane it hurt my brain. She kept going on about how God would surely bless her for [insert some trivial thing one does to edify oneself here, such as donating an old coat or bringing a sick friend a cake.] Apparently also, the sudden encounter of lots of money in one’s bank account does not fine graces give. Nobody told her that no amount of snootyness towards one’s dining neighbors will forgive that it is always déclassé and rude to apply lipstick at table. Her husband, a gruff, bulldog version of herself, wasn’t much better. As Monkey and I conveyed our true thoughts about the couple next to us via glances and eyebrows and head-tilts (a language we speak with deadly skill), he leaned in to tell me, “remind me to apologize later.”

Apparently, he realized that there was a grain of truth to my snarking on the “Place Where Metro Dare Not Go.” Who would have thought?

A final thought on APB: the food was fairly good, and definitely filling. We are sad that the prices are extraordinarily good and incomparable to prices where we normally seek out breakfast. If the experience had not been so uncomfortable (and the walk a little longer than we’d like), we would go back in a heartbeat. If, however, you find yourself in Georgetown and you’re wearing a pink or green polo with your collar appropriately popped, definitely stop in.