Purgatory for Brunch – Kramerbooks and Afterwords Cafe in DC

When you have two newly-engaged friends visiting you in lovely downtown Washington, DC, (congrats, Justin and Allyson!) and it’s a pleasant, lazy Sunday morning, what’s the obvious thing to do?

Go to brunch!

What’s that you say? There’s an ultra-hip indie bookstore attached to a cafe-with-an-attitude right off Dupont Circle? Why, we just happen to be a group of leftward-leaning intellectual wannabe’s who wish to appear discerning without being stuffy!

Say no more, my friend. I’m there.

But let me tell you something. Having all the right ingredients does not mean you mixed them correctly. Let me tell you about my culinary experience at Kramerbooks and Afterwords Cafe.

We showed up for Sunday brunch, just as cherry blossom madness was gripping the Diz-trict, so of course it was crowded. That’s no slight against the establishment, it just means a lot of people wanted to be there! Way to go!

The brilliant moneymaking strategy for this particular place is to have you wait in their trendy, hipster bookstore until your table is called. So you browse, and maybe, just maybe, pick up a little reading. Ka-ching! Of course, it was too crowded to stand in any one place for more than two seconds, so browsing becomes something of a slalom course through a china shop.

Hey, look at that new book on quantum theory – whoa, hungry diners coming through staring at their Blackberries as they blunder buy – Dodge! Dodge! Gasp! What section am I in now? Gardening? Crap. Hey, look at that book on Japanese flowers – knocked aside by a posse of arrogant, guffawing Hill staffers! Boy, what this place needs is a good book on getting rid of clutter. Hey, speak of the devil! *Thud* Ow!

But it was not only the physical challenge of staying on your feet that was daunting. One also needed to be prepared for the psychological abuse. My poor wife, for example, in need of the lavatory, had this experience (note: some of this will be lies):

She politely asked the maitre d’ for – not a key – but a bathroom token. Why on God’s green Earth they use tokens for bathroom access I’ll never understand. The point is, however, that she asked him several times, mere inches from him, and he ignored her over and over, going about his table assigning business. Finally, she seemed to win his attention.

Jess: May I please, fine sir, have a token with which to utilize the facilities?

Maitre D’: How many?

Jess: I’m sorry? Just one token, I would simply like to use the bathroom. Sir.

Maitre D-for-douchebag: How many? [pause for douche effect] In your party?

Jess: No, you misunderstand – I respectfully point out, and may I say what a nice, trendy shaved head you have. We have already signed up for a table. I only wish to visit the ladies’ room.

Maitre Might-As-Well-Be-Hitler: Ich quäle Ihre Familie und töte Sie mit meinen Winkelstücken!

Jess: Oh my!

See? Totally uncalled for. I also heard Herr Säuglingsmörder berating several other patrons, notably someone who missed their name being called. The patron tried to insist that he had been in the store the whole time, but Lord Testicalshredder at his little podium of power called him out for having a Starbucks cup in his hand – BUSTED! But something Yelly McImpatient said to the now-indicted customer struck me:

You can’t leave the store! You can’t leave the store!!!

My god, I thought, he’s right! You can’t leave! That’s what they’re doing here! They are amassing bodies in this bookstore – for what? To harvest their body heat for energy for Testy Von Why-Am-I-40-Years-Old-And-Shouting-”Party-of-Three”-For-A-Living to devour? To muster a great hipster army bedecked in vintage tees?

A wine club?

It was all too horrible to think about. To make matters worse, there was obviously some kind of mental torture being attempted – the sound system played this atrocious indie/alt/folk crap (which is my genre, dammit!), which consisted of a guy with no ability (or at least inclination) to hold a pitch as he wailed his hipster-angst over muted instrumentation. It was the best kind of hipster music: pompous attitude without all the talent getting in the way. This was aural waterboarding, like the proprietors were daring us to stay in the store. They know you’ve already waited 40 minutes for your eggs and coffee – but what else can you endure?

Finally, after what my watch told me was about fourteen hours (note: I do not have a watch), we were seated. Aaaaaaand the food was pretty good and the portions were sizable and it was a little overpriced but it’s DC and whataya gonna do and the waitress was really nice but whatever!

The thought I took away from the experience was that this place was very much like purgatory. It’s not eternal damnation, you’re not burning in hellfire…

…but God’s not there.

Paul’s dining advice: if you want a taste of Kramerbooks and Afterwords Cafe, I would recommend you either

1. Get a job there, and never have to dress like a grownup or shave again
2. Kill yourself

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