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
"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
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