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.

One last Christmas story for the road

New Years Eve on Alki Beach
The destination to burn your tree.

Oh shit, Christmas. Every year. I hate to say it, but I collapsed during the "move on with your life" dance. Yea, I redecorated my Christmas tree this week. It just needed a little more jazz in the right places, and a little industrial rock in others.

Probably time to take this one down.

 I've chanced to walk by a few trees being callously dismantled by shopkeepers, witnessed a tree burning on New Years Eve, and then realized my uncle had given me some of my grandmother's antique ornaments, and knew they needed a little airing out. So, I wrenched my tree from its swampy stand and lay it gently on its side on the balcony. I was short a chainsaw, so for the next 20 minutes I hacked at the trunk (humming a lil' Ænema) with a hatchet to free it from its moisture seal. It had ceased to absorb the strict regiment of liquid vitamin supplements I administer weekly to keep it looking perky and was starting to smell a little too fragrant, if not a little dank. Back on its feet and newly adorned, my tree has the second chance it deserves, and I can listen to Ella's Swinging Christmas all over again.

With a little Christmas revival, it's got me thinking of all the gifts I've received, not only this Christmas, but all throughout the years. The best Christmas gift I ever received was a 2-step process, somewhere around my sixth or seventh year. Step one: As I approached the tree Christmas morning I found only a note, explaining that there had been a glitch the night before and some elf was getting suspended, (I hoped tortured), for the mix-up. Due to the alarming frequency of this problem, my gift would soon be in transit and should arrive shortly by some new, "special" unorthodox delivery method. My parents, while sympathetic, offered no advice as to how this may be avoided next year so I spent the few days retracing my steps and figuring out how I might be less-noticeably naughty in the coming year. Step two: Mere days before New Years, I received the call. My dad had received a large, bulbous parcel at work, which was across town and I'd have to wait the rest of the day to get it.

Oh God, the waiting. Unparalleled to this day, I still experience the taste every Christmas, something I squelch and cover with good cheer and concentrated sessions of deep breathing. During the rest of the year, this is probably identified as clinical anxiety.

When the time came, I emerged from my room, a study in calm, and approached a towering, butcher paper-wrapped pile. I'd waited so long, where to begin? Tear at the seams? Stab through an air pocket and rip from there? There was a measured amount of Gonzo-like apprehension and appraisal before I made my first move.

Dad. 1935-1999.

I really don't remember how it went down. I think I may have blacked out and woke up wheezing on a bed of hot wheels race track, Disney's Robin Hood, various toys and movies, and one of those race car vhs rewinders that pops up its hood to reveal a kindly rewound tape. Despite the snafu, it remains one of my most memorable Christmases, and Santa's letter, a tome curiously scripted in familiar handwriting, is still in a box somewhere, inviting me to relive it all again. Miss you, Dad.
                                  *                                *                              *

This week, in effort to curb my holiday-inspired dependency on sugar and other bad words, I've taken this party bus back to the kitchen. Surrounded by homey comforts of dish towels, cutting boards and reality, I'm trying to get back in the swing of eating with some self control. So I have taken to averting my eyes when I open the pantry and glimpse the last of our Harry & David supply, and remember fondly the day I made the decision to eat as much of the pies as I dared, and fed the rest to the compost bin. It was gross. But I'm on the other side and on the road to recovery now, making wholesome meals by day but still dreaming of sugarplums by night. One day at a time. I'm hitting some jelly beans pretty hard right now. (-) In my tracksuit. (+!)

We had some leftover smoked salmon, which almost got devoured on its own but I saved the last precious flakes for an omelet. Do try this at home, I'd love to offer a photo, but there really was no time between leaving the pan and setting my fork down. More on omelets, later, as they're my specialitee.

There's a vegetarian tikka masala I've been resurrecting a lot, both for its quick prep time and spectacular flavor (even without the cardamom, cabbage & peas), a sweet potato and apple puree I've been snacking on, banana & flaxseed smoothies here and there and of course the latest craze, Butternut Squash and potato gnocchi. Though I sub veg stock for the chicken, and ignore the chestnuts, (Tyler Florence gets a little bourgeois sometimes) (please feel free to read that as boo-zhee) this dish comes out winning every time. Oh, check it out! Doing the work of at least 3 bulky appliances, is my highly coveted Cuisinart Immersion Blender. Easy to use, easy to clean, and a whiz at slicing up your tongue when you try to lick the dregs out of it's blade well. A housewarming gift (THANK YOU BILL & CECILIA) from last year, not a day goes by that I don't wonder what I'll blend next.

So, if you have:

You can have:

And that's good to have.

The Dine of the Week: 

Thanks to Noms.in/seattle for your pic

We traveled north Friday night to Naked City, a taphouse serving a rotating selection of house beers and regional shining stars. I started with a Lips of Passion Prickly Passion Saison, an 8.5% New Belgium creation I wouldn't expect to see bottled too soon, though during the summer months I think it could enjoy fleeting stardom in stores, as long as it's competitively priced alongside Kona's Wailua Wheat Ale. Next I ordered Snipes' Christmas Creep, a 6% brown ale heightened with spices and a quiet winter night's hops, not too sweet. An all-American, balanced taste with deep Christmas tones, like me. Check out their website if you're local, it'll lure you in. Matt Norton, you'll love this place.