One recent Sunday morning, my family and I went to Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport for breakfast. This may seem at first blush like an odd thing to do given the fare commonly associated with airports (although I do love those cinnamon buns) and the fact that most people would rather clean the garage than hang around an airport.

"The airport?" Jessica asked, when I suggested it.

She was comfortable, curled up on a chaise longue and reading the paper, as if posing for a photo spread in Real Simple. Meanwhile, Sam, our 14-year-old, was enjoying his morning listening to the sound of punk rock blasting from the stereo speakers.

I knew that there was nothing more they could possibly want than to simply be left alone to luxuriate in their private enjoyments. Nothing, that is, except maybe for dad-slash-husband to suggest something. And that something was airport dining.

"A woman on a flight told me about a kingly Sunday brunch there," I said. "I know it sounds unlikely, but she said it's just incredible. Salmon. Roast beef. Omelets made to order. The whole bit."

A cloud of doubt crossed their faces as they conjured the airport restaurants. Fast-food joints. Chain eateries. The afore-touted cinnamon bun place. Nope, no sumptuous dining experience.

"Apparently it's between terminals, which is why we've never seen it," I explained. "You walk from the A to the B, down this long hallway, and there it is. She said it has huge windows that look out on the planes coming and going. Cool, huh? It's one of the city's great secrets. Ever since she told me about it, I've wanted to check it out."

Families are complicated organisms. Sometimes members do what dads, I mean, each other, want so as to keep the larger unit happy and functioning properly.