The Mclean Family Restaurant

So this past weekend, my darling friend Mo invited me for a weekend of wholesome fun in the sweet suburban land of lovers. Most of you by now can probably tell that I am a bit DC-centric, and may be shocked when I took up this offer. I happily accepted of healthy eating, dog walking and trees and grass, drinking and no need to drive. I actually really like Mclean. I am not sure if like is the correct word for it, I am in awe of this place, were town parades are almost a weekly event, Santa rides around on a fire engine during the holiday season and DC politicos ride around in their red convertables with the top down. Mclean is a parallel universe that gives even the most jaded of its visitors an elementary school innocence.

So that I might enjoy my suburban bliss to the fullest, I requested, actually flat out begged, to go to the Mclean Family Restaurant for brunch on Sunday. It was just what I wanted, down to the undrinkable bloody mary. To get a clear view of the Mclean Family Restaurant ("MFR") picture yourself in a strip mall, not like a mid-western one with a wal-mart and a dollar store, but a NOVA strip mall, with a wine shop, espresso bar, marvelous market and an cute little shop that sells all of the latest Nantucket imports, so essentially every sub-urbans volvo driving soccer mom's wet dream. Okay, back to the MFR. So on the outside of the crystal-etched, cloudy-glass, gold-trimmed door is a line of people dreaming of the plate they will be promptly served in a short matter of time.

Mo and I arrived before the rest of our party, stood in line, discussed the local theater's most recent production of the King and I. After a few short minutes, we were seated. This was amazing to me, they seated us without our entire party being there, and as a former DC hostess, I know this is not kosher in town. Already I am excited. Though we were definately hungry, being seated early allowed us to consume numerous cups of delicious coffee. Seriously the coffee was delicious. I am not sure if this was because half & half is a treat for me or it was the oh-so-retro-without-trying-to-be-mugs, but the bus boys kepts coming by and I just couldn't say no.

The decor was quite interesting, kitchsy with lots of fake plants, a greekish murals, which made all the more sense when Mo informed me that the family of the MFR were actually greek. However it was not the walls I was scoping it was the clientele. So this is clearly the where the whose-who of the post-Sunday church crowd goes to be seen and eat their pancakes. I was surrounded by a number of gray hairs, floral dresses and sunday bests. And lots of hung-over looking preppy high-schoolers that drank too much Captian Morgans last night. I also was pleasantly distracted by the Wimbeldon finals which I could see from my seat(I am so proud of Nadal, who knew he was so good on grass!)

Once the rest of our party(who also happened to be MFR vets) joined us we ordered up some delicious grub. The service was probably the best I have had in a while, which is pretty easy considering the inability of all waiters to do their job in this city. I got an omlette with Spinach and Feta. One of the greatest things about the meal was when I said I didn't want potatoes or grits they offer you sliced tomatoe, that rulz. The tomatoe was almost decent too. My omlette was good, not great, just enough food, my appetite had wanned from the excessive coffee. They didn't bring me toast , which was fine, as I stole a piece from Courtney.

Oh and the beverage. I was shocked to learn that they served booze there, so naturally I order what was probably the most foul bloody mary I have ever been in the company of. It was essentially watered down tomotoe juice, a few sprinkles of pepper and the most dirt cheap vodka around. It was perfect, undrinkable and just what was necessary for the MFR. It is like I was repremanded for my audacious-ness of thinking of drinking an alcoholic beverage on Sunday morning. Apparently my vulgarity is not welcome in the suburbs. Though it is not an experience I plan on repeating with any sort of regularity, nor has my dc-centrist heart crossed the potomac, if I ever get an urge to I do, to find some authentic kistch that hasnt been perverted by hipster indifference I am headed straight to Mclean, VA and a little restaurant called the MFR.