On Sunday, I dined with three esteemed colleagues at the hottest ticket in town: Mas brunch.
For those of you not invited to either this or last Sunday's trial runs, well, I guess this
is for you, as it was easier to invite one wookie than any combination of the multiple thousands of his daily readers. Or, unlike said literary juggernaut, you haven't spent half of an African protectorate GNP on dinner and cocktails at said establishment.
Just as Sunday was a "soft" opening, the following review of the brunch will be "soft" as well. And not in the "it was free and I was excited to be invited" sense.
Since the food was free (the prices weren't even written on our menus), and there was no "Eggs Benedicto", I am unable to rate the restaurant on said quality and
hence, I can not complete the "overall" category as well.
Which reminds me - the review. HOLY SH*T the oysters were good. Left untouched by two of our foursome for fear of "eating things that taste good",
Dr. Eramicus von Slantensberg and I attacked the half-shelled gems. Basking in a tarragon-infused vinagres (sp?), they could have contained little spikes that shredded my internal vitals on their descent and I still would have made an effort to finish them.
NOTE: Mas's brunch menu, like it's dinner menu is in Spanish and all of the dishes have very long names. This is fine for tapas, where you mark the menu in the appropriate space, but when you have to, at brunch, tell the waitress what you want, you will embarrass yourself. I promise.
Didn't try the scone, but it looked pretty darn good. The biscuits and gravy looked excellent, but the pork was of too lean a hog to render a truly eat-it-'til-ya-die-then-eat-at-it-sum'more gravy...the true je ne sais quoi of the discipline.
The bloody marys were unremarkable. SKYY or Absolut is the rail, and while presented nicely with a full celery stalk in a juice glass, there was no need to get fall-down pissed simply to keep the taste in my mouth.
I had the salmon bocadillo (?) which was a little sandwich with goat cheese and spinach and it was excellent. Very light, which for me is a refreshing rarity on Sunday mornings. The hangar steak is server rare. Not medium rare, not rare-ish: cold-in-the-middle, that-thing-is-still-moo'ing, purple rare. I'd tell you how it tasted, but I wasn't offered a bite before it was slurped away. The french toast with fresh apricots and heavy cream were good, but creamier than they were sweeter, and it was no surprise that they sat largely untouched on my associate's plate.
I had a double espresso that kept me up all afternoon and never once gave me the jitters. Seriously - 5 of 5 on that sh*t.
Our server was lovely, and was augmented by anyone who happened to pass us by, which has always been the strong suit of Mas's service credentials. We were allowed to smoke inside, and although the AC was surely attempting to counteract the previous evening's devilishness and the music was too loud at almost every juncture, the setting of the meal was plush, and made the experience that much more enjoyable.
The brunch will run from 12 to 5-6 (not sure) and is intended to service the large number of service workers who are the true brunch mavens, but often find themselves timed out of an opportunity to enjoy it. Or too incapacitated to remember their mother's name. And also too incapacitated to not pick up the phone when she calls.
Tipped $40 (4 a piece) because it was free and our waitress was pretty. (You hear that, Carwile? I hope you did...)
Ed. Note - Listen - I am
not above trashing a free meal at a restaurant I enjoy going to on a regular basis if it fails me. Or telling the people how wrong I was about a joint after it blows my mind. You hear me dining establishments of Albemarle? Feed me, don't f*ck up, and the world is your oyster.
Budweiser rules. The people who sell it rule. That f*cking eagle rules, too, which is pretty great because as a general rule I hate eagles.
With no more job to stand in its author's way, one of the greatest blogs ever to owe its origins to both the owners of every lot's three-legged dog population and bass-playing extra-terrestrials, WOOKIEMANIA returns. For the fourth time.
The cover story of the most recent issue of 
Dear Trey,
It'd binna long day by the time I got up there. Not quite sure what I done, but I'd had plenty of time to think about it. And when I wasn't thinkin' about what I wasn't quite sure I had done, I was thirsty. Not thirsty like a drunk, believe me.
If the first day of training camp is any indication, the Washington Redskins will most certainly go undefeated this season.
