Snowy days, meringue nights

Go ahead, but use your spoon.
 This is a community park.

Seattle, you are my own personal, high-risk snow cone today. It's been raining ice since before dawn, and the view out my window couldn't be better. Last night I went outside for the first time to check things out, and came upon a snow fort that had been built, defended, and stormed all before I'd happened upon it. It was there, around 10pm that I fortified the walls and took up residence in my first ever snow shack. Just four walls and one big sky light. Bill joined me and off we went exploring in the dark. Whatever tracks left in the landscape were easy to ignore, as the rest was dolloped with extra smooth whipped dream.

Last week I had a special adventure with strangers. In preparation for joining a food tour team, I was treated to dinner by way of a three hour fermentation tour in Capitol Hill. To begin, we sampled ten different brews at Elysian Brewing Co., starting with their palest pale, The Slight Return, and finally rewarding ourselves with the deep, dark Dragon's Teat Milk Stout, a splendid milk chocolatey, roasted coffee dessert brewed with milk thistle - almost health food really. Out of the ten, the Poison Dwarf Scottish-Style Ale was my favorite, taking the seat I usually save for a nice, crisp bottle of Newcastle and replacing it with a decaying folding chair. Then it put that chair outside. In the rain.

Tavern Law's Lusty Lady, photo thanks to MJ A

Having tried a fine array of brews, we picked up and headed out for our next stop, Tavern Law. This place is handsome. Unpretentious, dimly-lit and smartly decorated, the revolving menu is chalked up each day by servers in waist coats and watch fobs, (tethered, no doubt, to a USB drive containing their thesis.) We were quickly served two cocktails: the Tittsnascot - a bright and fresh gin and elderflower concoction with a soaked cucumber coin, and the Lusty Lady - a gin and lavender infusion with the creamiest egg white froth you could possibly imagine. Having trouble? Ok, I'll help you. Close your eyes and go to your happy place, fill it with the makings of the finest lavender meringue, dress yourself in full petticoats and replace your feet with balloon whisks. Now hit frappe.

Our imbibing was politely interrupted by buttery fois gras on warm toasts, a warm beet salad with hazelnuts and ox tail ragout over potato gnocchi. It's really an injustice to squeeze all that into one sentence, so please, let me gush further. Fois gras, for all it's worth, is best kept to a few rich bites anywhere you go. Tavern Law adds an Angostura Bitters gelee, which serves as an extra flavor worth detecting while chewing the fat enjoying this dish, but I found it overly rich, per usual. The warm beets had me at first bite, the textures, the tang, the vinaigrette, but were nearly forgotten when I tried the ox tail. If you've ever had roast beast with gravy and liked it, you owe it to yourself to explore what savory glory they're selling over here. Shards of pecorino take the plate over the finish line uncontested, adding a little something you didn't know you wanted.

"I'll take that one, with the beard and moon eyes."

Days later, having barely recovered from my night in Capitol Hill, (those flavors linger still,) Bill and I walked down the beach to Bamboo Bar & Grill, a Miami Vice-flavored former smoking section of a Red Lobster-themed "beach tavern" - the beta version. It's Moon Doggie meets Gidget's drunk stepmom with a brown-bagged beverage after sunset in an ally. I know,  but somehow, this place calls to me even now, from 5 blocks away. They have first-rate french fries, a full bar with sensible happy hour pricing, (which you'll have to remind your waitress about), and draw a pretty rowdy crowd on game days. We always sit in a booth with a built-in aquarium housing three fish and a mini crab who has a crush on Bill. We tested this theory by switching seats and watched the crab follow Bill to the other end of the tank. Hey, I totally get it. 

    Faux fire-resistant parrots!

A poor vehicle for some sad rye

We like the mozzarella sticks, (thick, sturdy fried cheese logs with a chunky marinara) and the wings (regular or Caribbean cooked to order with optional nitro sauce), (nitro!), but when we stray from the happy hour menu, things get dicey. For some reason, I ordered the Reuben, which our waitress admitted to never trying, but did recommend West 5's version. The waitstaff here is made up of girls no taller than 5'5", in short skirts and indefatigable stores of good cheer. They're sweet, helpful and busy, just like I like 'em. It's really been a toss up on customer service here in Washington; sometimes you get a super helpful, bubbly assist from a gas station attendant but a dour, begrudged pass from a manager behind the counter somewhere else. Bamboo Bar & Grill is nothing but helpful, unless you're trying to enjoy the perfect reuben sandwich. Too much thousand island and forgettable rye barely deserve to be on the same plate with their slammin fries. They might be double fried and breaded, but they've got their siren song down, putting them in first place for beach front french fries. And we've got three fish & chip joints. 

For breakfast, it was finally time to patronize Alki Cafe, and what a job we did. We waltzed in around 2:35 on a Saturday, sat down and started perusing the menu. Our waitress materialized out of nowhere to let us know the kitchen had just officially closed and the quicker we could order, the better luck we'd have getting served. I was thrown into panic mode. Flashes of images assaulted me - I saw the business hours sign, kitchen staff facepalming in unison, grill flames flickering out across the range, doors closing, waitstaff sneering as their afternoon plans were pushed back even further... As an Empathic Diner, I knew at once the roles we'd unknowingly walked into. Bill and I had "last table" syndrome. 

Last Table Syndrome:

"The group or party who walks in shortly before, during or just past closing time, making them the last table after what the establishment had already considered to be the last table of the day. Effectively, heartless/oblivious assholes with nothing better to do than to go out to eat. Dicks."

Remarkably, I was able to choose quickly and just five minutes later, our server was back with our order. As though the kitchen through it together extra quick to express their feelings of "get the f*** out we're trying to clean in here." I should add that there were no obvious displays of animosity from the staff, and maybe there were no hard feelings, but I felt the weight of a hundred grudges before us for every minute that we lingered. Bill ordered a Mr. Pibb, which needed it's syrup levels adjusted but I kept my trap shut, content to be allowed to enjoy my late breakfast. Luckily, there was a real table of lollygaggers camping out a few tables away, so that eased my tensions a little. And the food was a welcome distraction. I ordered the salmon omelet with russet potatoes sliced thick on the bias, fried crisp and dusted with an appropriate amount of Lawry's. Yelp is pretty good about bragging on these potatoes, and rightly so.

But wait, something's missing!

The Dine of the Week

Halfway through my omelet, my rye toast arrived. The toaster had to warm up, (which I deserved) then some kind soul in the kitchen buttered that deep dark bread until it reached perfect coverage and dropped it on some flashy Fiesta ware. Rye has made a big come back for me, and I'm proud to say that my very own Alki Cafe, a mere two minute walk from my home, has the best damn rye toast in town. Thick, high fiber, perfectly-carawayed rye. I'll be back for you. At a reasonable hour. And yes, the best thing I ate all week was a slice of buttered rye toast. 

Unless you count the mouthful of free snowflakes. Which were phenomenal.