Jackie's

What happens when two girls who have been cooped up all weekend long from the cold are let loose for brunch? Seven mimosas, seven donuts, and one Bloody Mary find themselves on our table then in our bellies. Hundreds of dollars are spent on shoes, Starbucks is raided, and cheapie cubic zirconia-esque earrings get bought.

Before closing down Jackie's this past Sunday afternoon, Dotti and I had an exquisite brunch. Jackie's, #82 on the top 100, is nestled among laundromats, a Jamaican restaurants serving ox tail, potholed alleyways, and a particularly divey Greyhound bus stop--and yet is just blocks from a Reston-like town center in Silver Spring, Maryland. With a velvet curtain hung outside the large wooden doors, quirky pink tables, chairs, and back lighting, and construction lamps floating like lightening bugs above the dining room, it's the type of place I'd open if I sought to highlight the best of Barbie and Bjork.

I had a head start before Dotti so had a thick, spicy (the flecks of white are pepper seeds) Bloody Mary. When I said I'd just be waiting and when my friend did arrive, we'd probably stay awhile, our waiter underscored that the restaurant was pretty laid back and that'd be fine. It was: as a spoiler, even after the restaurant closed, our water glasses kept getting filled up and we were joking with the kitchen staff. That's because I was staring at the donuts they were carrying around and Dotti was looking for the bathroom in the kitchen.


We started with the cinnamon sugar donut holes as an appetizer. They were chewy and soft and more like marshmallows than greasy cake. Even the cinnamon sugar was appropriately proportioned so we got enough cinnamon to make them very autumnal.


Dotti got an English muffin sandwich (cleverly wrapped in patterned wax paper) and potatoes.


I had the poached eggs set atop slices of baguette with a potato/cabbage/bacon/onion hash. I've probably mentioned that gooey egg yolks remind me of my grandfather--who ate them long before I gained an appreciation for them--so meals like this seem as classic yet anachronistic. Salt and Tabasco helped me reach a new breakfast plane.


But, then we were done with breakfast. With much more gossip and life discussions to delve in to, we had.. some more Mimosas.


Like two or three more. Each. Oops.


In between topics of conversation, our eyes would wander toward our lovely waiter and the handsome bartender yonder. While watching the movement of plates and drinks, waiters and busboys, and other diners to and fro, a chef approached us and asked if we had the donuts. Technically yes, but only the hole variety. He brought us a raspberry donut, with sprinkles, on the condition that we speak positively about the restaurant (something to this effect; I think I had Mimosa in my ear). I didn't think I was compromising my food objectivity--if I was going to write effusively anyway--by greedily nodding and having a simultaneously cakey and airy donut that matched the decor.

Not wanting to still be at the restaurant when they began serving dinner, we decided to wear off excess Mimosa at DSW. We both found it much easier to be decisive when posed with shoe-buying dilemmas: get both. With the end in sight--there are only 19 restaurants left on the list--I hope to soon by more pairs of shoes than pairs of Mimosas. Maybe.