When carbs are no object.

You know, whenever someone comes to visit. Or you're on vacation. Or it's Wednesday.

Since coming out of my bread phase years ago, (not unscathed), I've worked hard at balancing my meals with protein, complex carbs and fresh, green roughage.  This is not to say I've overcome my bread lust, but come on guys, it's fall. The harvest! Plenty to splurge on, plenty to run an extra mile for. And there's that chill in the air, advising our internal appetites to crave more carbs in order to survive our impending hibernation. Your very climate is pushing you toward more buttered rolls.

The hardest part of the holidays, of course, is peer pressure. Friends and family create a jolly atmosphere, the fire's crackling, and you do seem to feel warmer while chewing. People lose their resolve during these times, and if they like the good ol' American pastime of eating past the point of reason, you're going down with them.

Like last weekend.
Though all I remember are big breakfasts, baked goods and noodle soups, I'm pretty sure our friends Bianca and Micah were staying with us. Just a few blocks from our house, and hosting a pretty great view of the water, is Christo's, the Greek underdog of Alki Beach dining. A pizza joint by day and night, in the early hours they put on a spectacular morning meal. We ordered the french toast, the salmon omelet, the salmon benedict, coffee, pancakes, hash brownes. Sampling the whole menu is absolutely recommended, and you order your eggs exactly how you want them (over medium and broken!), cuz they can handle it. Our server, a grown-up delivery boy who was probably fighting with his mother in the kitchen, had the perfect amount of nonsense and efficiency; earning the Best Server So Far accolade - an award I don't hastily bestow.

You don't know.

We chose to do Vancouver in a day - a rainy, rainy cold day - and after wandering around the districts, we settled down at Wangs Taiwanese noodle house. We ordered the sweet steamed bun, the beef and green onion pancake (victory!), and a salted vegetable and pork noodle soup, but we should've all ordered their star dish, the beef noodle soup. It's the house specialty at Wangs, and all it takes is a taste of the broth to figure it out. The beef, oh, the beef, is tender, soft and yielding, with hours of flavor and a definite pro behind the work. The noodles are huge, and would get in the way if they weren't so utterly soaked in the broth, creating yet another way to savor this dish. Thank you Canada.

Tiny park folk

Back in the Emerald City, we hit up Bakery Nouveau so I could show off the twice-baked almond croissant, then headed to Lincoln Park. In the summer, it's a rich array of greens and texture. In the fall, this place loses its mind. We were enjoying the gentle sloping paths leading down to the beach, when Bill drew our eyes to a wash of yellow beyond some trees. We thought it was a big yellow tarp. Here's the real story:

My tree makes your tree look like crusty turd with hair.

From there it was time to head back to the homestead and put on our party clothes. Bill and I didn't get too many chances to sell our act that evening, (as the birds and the bees we wanted to spread love and awareness) because we went to Card Kingdom, where costume parties go to die. We left that graveyard to hit up The Monkey Bridge for dinner, which turned out to be just as tame. The only ones in costume in a packed little restaurant, we sat unattended for about 10 minutes. When we did get to order, they were out of half of what we wanted. Our pho was pretty decent though, and at the end of our meal, when we knew we'd f'd up and drank our weight in broth, our waitress brought out a 5lb. plate of coconut ice cream, and guess what? We ate it. *Shudder.

Complimentary dairy coma

Miserable, delirious, and past the point of reviving our good spirits, we sloshed back to the orgy of nerds to catch the costume contest. Bianca won the raffle and we got a good round of lively gaming in, but we couldn't undo our gluttony. Beaten, we went home.

You kids get back here!

Fast forward to Sunday, damp and shivering and browsing a farm store waiting for the Haunted Maze to open at Carlton Farm. There's beautiful jonagold apples and hot pork sammiches and apple cider and crumbly little tiny little baby pumpkin donuts. In the haunted maze, where I stepped far outside my usual daring, I learned a lesson. My everyday hallucinations in the dark are leagues more threatening than actors and chainsaws. The gimmicks they've got they push a little too hard. Please readers, get to a straight, un-haunted corn maze this season. Pay whatever they want and go wandering through the stalks at dusk. Go psych yourself out in there, have tiny existential panics and contemplate what's behind you until your socks are soaked through and you have to pee. You'll probably come out unmolested and refreshed, having led yourself through a dark time into the light.

Hoping for a little fright without all the fuss? Turn your lights down low and try watching a ghost show. Always works for me, and they're good for any occasion. As year-round as UFOs.

Raarrrr

Don't fritter your life away without the right equipment...

Breakfast again, at Pancake Chef, a throw-back to the golden age of dining with the creepiest slogan ever. Before our meal arrived, we were served this obnoxious plateful of butter. No one touched it, but with all its ceremonious presentation I'm guessing that we may have missed out one of their other signature dishes. Their crepes were average, their compote heavy and sweet, their corned beef hash a little spammy, but their straight pancakes were perfect. They also made some slammin apple fritters, served with applesauce. (?)

















And now, the creature of the week. It's local, hailing from a nearby farm in our region, boasting 9" in length and 2" in girth, it's my last jumbo carrot. I bought a bunch, and with tops so bushy and verdant, they were the envy of all my friends.

And that's the biggest knife we have. 

IKEA for breakfast

Ah, moving. For the first time in our history, Bill had full charge of our move and about 3% of packing while I was out of town in Idaho. My planning was extensive, of course, but nothing short of a me-shaped, talking chalkboard with itemized tasks could've managed his actual execution. All told, he did pretty well, and though a few things didn't make it, two carloads were dragged upstairs and barfed onto the floor of our new home without a single drop of my own sweat. Unless you count my fastidious, space-defying and efficient week-long packfest.

If you're looking for the other half it's schmeered on my face.

Still looking for my peanut butter, I ventured out for breakfast today to Zatz-A-Better-Bagel. Don't dwell on that incorrigible phrase, stay with me, we're talking about an important meal. Back in Brooklyn, bagels were everywhere and my favorite combination was plain schmear, tomato and pepper on a toasted egg bagel, for about $2. Here in West Seattle, there's only one shop, and they do a pretty good job, working with the city water they've been given and charging you accordingly. I ordered a "scrambagel", a sandwich they have suggestions for. I had to do a little convincing to get some garlic herb "shmeer" (slightly less yiddish?) on my bagel with scrambled egg (eggbeaters poured in a round tupperware and nuked), (perfect circle eggs? I'm into that), and tomato, as I was warned it would be too messy. From behind my glasses and bedraggled bedtime 'do I was complemented. Then I thought, "you mean in addition to all (gesturing) this?" I admonished the girl with a deadpan "let's do it." Though I refused the bacon and onions, I still paid $6 for the thing. Paired with a stiff cup of coffee and the IKEA catalog, it was delicious.

One of my bargain finds on our
latest Ikea installation, "Desk" in green.

Getting installed in a new home is usually a drag for me. I have to unpack all of my old things and arrange them in a new fashion. Not until now, with virtually no things, have I been able to unpack in one day and look around to still find barren rooms with empty walls and probably 10 items total in the kitchen. This. Is. Exhilarating. We haven't been over this yet, but I'm a highly-functioning hoarder. In high school it was all posters and worthless crap, which traveled with me to college and gradually transformed into framed pictures of colorful clippings, vintage celebrity, and handsome breakables. Then came Pottery Barn, where I worked and scavenged for a year, and my hoarding developed a slightly more mature, signature style, with patterns and textures I hadn't been attracted to before. Luckily, like my mother, I'm also a fierce deleter, erasing the evidence from an unsavory past collection and building it back anew through each transition.  All of my dearest knic knacs are now thousands of miles away, still happily installed in their nooks in my apartment there, blissfully ignorant that I'm rabidly replacing them one thrift store trip at a time.

I've added a widget to my brain laid
out in this fashion. Just choose your
favorite color and eat it. Or go there.

Enter IKEA. Priced and laid out in terms I can understand and agree with, I was introduced to the Swedish Shangri-La in the summer of my 14th year. I went for an afternoon with my friend and her dad, grabbed at a few small items and tacked them to my walls for years and years to come. Many summers passed. Not until now, 14 years later, did I enter one again. There's an IKEA down the street from Bill's office, so the last few evenings we've been taking dreamy strolls through the show room, picking out a sofabed (our new friend "Beddinge" - pronounced Bed-ding-gah) and a desk. And ice trays and lamps and tools and utensils and on and on. We have a small place, so these are the only things we're allowing ourselves for now. It's nice to have room to dance and twirl in the home, and with Beddinge around, we have a place to lounge and to sleep. The desk, who remains nameless, was offered in many different finishes. The "birch effect" was a little understated for our taste, so we turned to the colors. Green is a powerful force in our home, so we're letting it ride. Looking out the windows in our living room has lots to offer: a colorful woodsy view, with a leaf for every bold hue, bright light and a sense of wonder.  Any moment, autumn could shift and we'll be snowed in!  The trees could become a tie-dyed whirlpool and we'll be sucked in! The sea (Puget Sound) could overflow and we'll be washed away! We have great windows.

Peggy, and her friends Lamp
and the butternut twins, (we're not
getting too attached to the twins).

 Fall is here, the trees are explosive and our new pumpkin Peggy is loving the new apartment. See more on the wonders of fall and squash here. Peggy came to us from an expansive pumpkin patch in Idaho. Shaped profoundly unlike her brothers and sisters, she called out to me from the field nearby one of my job sites. A few days later, I cradled her in my arms as I boarded the plane home, and introduced her to Bill. They hit it right off. We don't mention the garlic butternut squash we'll be enjoying this season, or the butternut squash, sage and parmesan pasties, and especially not the roasted sugar  p***kin with sour cream and herbs. We'll be stowing her in the bedroom while enjoying those autumnal delights.

Taking a break from my Ikea idea stupor, this week we visited Red Mill Burgers in Phinney Ridge for a quick stop en route to a game night. No planning, it was just the closest. I've started yelping the establishments we're in while waiting for our food to arrive. And I don't recommend it. Not only do you quickly realize what you should've ordered, but it's like cheating. Suddenly I know all this trivia about the place, which for some reason, I end up passing off as my own research to Bill, and when my order arrives it's expected to live up to all the hype I've just absorbed. (Whispers) "hey Bill, did you know that Oprah said this is one of the 20 burgers you have to eat before you die?"
We liked these burgers though, and for the price, their grade soared even higher. Famous for their onion rings and a heart-wrenching bacon cheese burger, we ordered some regular burgers and  fries (you see?) which we thought were terrific.

One of our first meals in the new place was from the famed Pegasus Pizza. Renowned for its, I'm not sure what, Pegasus is always getting five stars. Though they had an impressive specials menu, we designed our own pizza, curious to see how well they could do bell pepper and anchovies, one of our old faves. The toppings however, would have little to do with our scoring. Pegasus boasts a "spicy tomato sauce topped with only the finest natural cheeses." We took home a dry blanket of thick, overly-chewy cheeses covering the toppings that subdued the sauce completely. I will admit that this pizza performed well cold the next day, (especially the crust - reminiscent of Pizza Hut's Pan Pizza...drool), but for our high expectations the night before, it missed the mark. The mozzarella was indeed fine, but the layer of asiago (not famous for melting perfectly) clogged up the whole works. We're a block away, so we'll be giving them their due, and then some, I'm sure, but they're really going to have to work it next time.

Amber, Bill and Peggy.
Forever.

Feature of the week: I'm a give a holler to Tomato Bros. the two-in-one trattoria and steakhouse in Clarkston, WA, and the standout eatery from my work trip. We dined in to talk shop over Italian at the end of a long day and the crayons and butcher paper action was just what I needed. Having just adopted Peggy, I scrawled out my heart's desires.

Returning a second time for steak and more tabletop coloring, I ordered the flat iron steak salad. Artfully arranged and wanting for nothing, it was just what I needed. The stars however, were the gorgonzola waffle fries that arrived just before we resorted to eating the crayons.  Topped with savory carmelized onions and tossed in my latest fascination, creamy gorgonzola. It was fabulous. And it coated every inch of that dish.Who knew gorgonzola was such a melting paragon?

On location in far away Idaho

These rolling hills put whatever you were imagining to shame

Today I'm reaching out to you from the violently rolling hills of Lewiston, Idaho. Twin city to Clarkston, Washington and bustling cosmopolis of strip malls, Lewiston is cornered by the Snake and Clearwater Rivers to the northwest. Cross the bridge into Washington and follow its curving, downward slopes for a breathtaking, tireless view of the bulbous formations left by the ancient and wonderful glacial Lake Missoula floods. While here, (on business), I'm putting in several hours of driving through this flaxen wonderland, gaping slack-jawed through the window,hypnotized by the endless golden carpet of carefully combed and trimmed wheat fields. A patchwork of texture and hues, I'm reminded of blondie and brownie batter swirled but segregated by long stretches of barbed wire. Like the photo here, but with the hideous danger of clotheslining yourself and bleeding to death during your spastic Julie Andrews spinning through the wheat. And more winding and curving, like from a tractor, and bigger, with a highway snaking through it. So, not like the picture at all. But I'm told this is a food blog with corresponding pictures.

                                                                                           

During my stay here at the Holiday Inn Express, I have a busy work schedule. Rise around 6, shuffle into the lobby and start mindlessly spooning food matter from sprawling, bottomless vats of "breakfast favorites" (unquestionably from concentrate), then wrestling with what to do while waiting for my Minute Pancakes to drop onto my plate. I don't know if this a popular contraption, but I hope to raise it to worldwide fame. It's genius. Simply press start and in 60 seconds it works its magic right onto a conveyor belt that flips out two floppy-but-crisp flapjacks onto your styrofoam eating vessel.

Go ahead and tell your mom you found a better way.

We typically work through the afternoon overlooking vistas of this variety:

Viburnum opulus

When the weather is agreeable we work. When the fog rolls in and the the wind and rain get aggressive, we continue to work. Sometimes we even get our truck stuck in the mud. We have eight different work sites, all with some natural delicacy to try. Yesterday it was what I think may have been Japanese plums and the highly coveted berries of the Snowball tree. These berries, which I learned today are mildly toxic but edible in small quantities, are highly acidic and smell like wet dog food. Today there were plentiful spiders of all kinds, zooming along strands of silk on the wind en route to make their webs, landing unnervingly on my face and arms.

It's actually a lot worse than this.

When the work is done, we hit the hotel to shed our mud suits and go out in search of the finest Lewiston has to offer. First we tried Zany Graze, a family dining extravaganza with a bold and overwhelming mix of everything a family needs in one sitting: burgers, hotdogs, sushi, Tex-Mex, salads, BBQ and every inch of wall space covered in kitch from yesteryear. There appeared to be a kind of game corresponding with numbered headshots from old Hollywood, but our waitress didn't give any hints. She didn't give much, really. I ordered a shake, which arrived with whip but no cherry, flavored with vanilla syrup and, to my chagrin, soft serve from a dismal machine that needed a thorough cleaning. What followed was no surprise, a passable cup of chicken tortilla soup, chicken "teriyaki" (oh no they didn't...) and a no-frills, disengaged muttering from our sterile server. Should I blame her? She works in a hoarder's dining fantasy that insists she wear a tie while schlepping a cluttered array of subpar menu items, ready at any moment to perform a birthday/clapping number that she can never hope to forget as long as she lives. Her service suffered, but I guess mine might too.

The other restaurants we tried had a bit more to offer. M J Barleyhopper's, a micro brewery serving American fare with zero flare, offered a reasonable list of brew options. I ordered the Apricot Ale, which was bright and flavorful but low on the CO2, and would've tried the advertised Oktoberfest but it wasn't available for another week. Our waitress had the sense of humor of a stale cracker, crumbling listlessly as I asked questions about the beers. My $8 burger and fries were boring, but I'll probably be back to try some more of their handsomely priced brews.

Thai Taste, heralded by townsfolk as the best of the best, had solid patronage but little service to speak of. My co-diner was on the phone as we sat down, and when our young server came by he paused to order an iced tea. I looked up from the menu to order a drink but he'd vanished. I don't know if you're familiar with working in the service industry, but there are rules. 

O, to be seated next to these two

When I first started in restaurants, training was imposed on me that I though was ludicrous, unrealistic, and gratuitous. Occasionally I find myself keeping count of demerits when I go out to eat, assuming I'll be able to give detailed feedback at the end of the exercise. Still dining out in the twilight of my twenties, some glaring oversights in service etiquette continue to surprise me. As a server, you have 30 seconds to arrive at a new table and greet your guests, deliver your opening spiel including specials, anything not available on the menu that day and nab the drink order. If you're swamped, you beg someone else to do this for you in passing, or make your table wait a minute and apologize when you arrive with a little dab at your glistening brow and a gleam in your eye. Why the gleam? Sure, you'll bring the food, but they're expecting that. You want them to feel like you've been waiting for them all day. A gleam is just a good start, a means to a very generous tip. For the full seminar on charming and serving your table, please take a brochure on your way out. (Bonus tips on being a well-behaved diner included.)

Profoundly underwhelming Chili Basil Noodles at Thai Taste

After the prospect of ordering a drink had slipped through my fingers, our waiter remained absent. Folded menus ostentatiously presented on the edge of the table, we waited several minutes until he returned. We ordered food, and when it arrived, mine was wrong. He graciously corrected it, and found a moment to chat with us toward the end, but it was too late. Thai Taste failed the taste test and garnered no service awards.

Terrifying, you know?

The stand out performance so far, was the Lewiston RoundUp Corn Maze. They served me my second Elephant Ear, a clever creation of warm, soft, deep-fried dough dusted with cinnamon sugar that can't get handed to you fast enough.

The Elephant Ear, my new favorite appendage.

A staple of the fall season in the northwest, selling carnival fare and jazzy glow jewelry, this was something foreign to me until now, and though it wasn't a haunted maze, it was pretty thrilling. For just $5, you get to wander the 2+ miles of cut out paths under towering stalks of corn, voluntarily recalling scenes from M. Night....'s Signs (or imagining David Lynch's version) and purposefully turning in circles until you're truly lost. They sell maps, but what more do you need but the screams and sobs of children to tell you you're going the right way? Delightfully challenged with the sugar-kissed high of fried dough and the urgent need to plow down a dark row of dangerous possibilities, a corn maze was just what we needed to kick off our weekend.

The things we eat.

 Foccacia with caprese salad at Talaricos, where photographing your food keeps you from eating, and that's blasphemy. Slices of pizza arrive sprawled over their metal plate, with toppings you always hoped someone was thinking of pairing together. Inside, they have built a restaurant you want to live in, or at least rent out for a party you would otherwise never get invited to. Style is the least of their worries, and their weekly calendar has trivia, karaoke and dancing. Thank you. A+

The best BBQ we've had so far, with fancy sliced peppers, pickles & onions at Cedar River Smokehouse. I had the pulled pork sandwich and Bill had ribs with mac. Choice sauce and fair portions. Right down the street from Bill's office. A.

Lunch specials at Ginger Teriyaki, a 4.5 star Teriyaki joint.           B. 

Outside our local Texas-style Road House, Jimmy Mac's. F*n strawberries. Inside, some silly ass food. Check out their website for vaguely familiar Texas noise. Their peanuts and menu were homey comforts, their rolls a mockery of yeast and sour margarine, their iced tea a gloomy, bitter.... Okay, it sucked. But I'm going back. I'm unexpectedly affected by Texas license plates nailed to walls. B.

For reasons innumerable, this was the best breakfast I've had in Seattle. It answered my hangover with precision, made me stand in line for 15 minutes, came to my tiny, crowded table just in time to curb my murderous delirium, and turned my bad attitude into calm with gratitude. Fluffy, mastered eggs over medium, thick, dark and chewy bacon and pancakes I could've stuffed my bra with. My Dolly Parton Pancake plate was under $7, the coffee was 91 cents. So was Bill's coke in a glass bottle. 91 cents. An atmosphere is always improved with a built-in record store, and  Easy Street Records & Cafe has it. Go ahead, get out your dollar and get a drink. A+

Disappointment of the week. The Ogen melon. $3 at the farmer's market yesterday where I opted for novelty over bright, sturdy carrots and greens. Heralded as an out-of-this-world delight with a pear-like flavor, I found myself saying "green cantaloupe" aloud over and over, until I was grade-A disappointed.

The Weekend. Again.

One of several licorice cases

 This week we continued to explore our dear West Seattle, a kindly peninsula sporting a well-endowed park, 2 1/2 miles of beach with an unrivaled view, fabulous homes and The Junction - a strip of retail clutter with something for everyone. We took a turn in Husky's, a deli specializing in expensive groceries, vast selections of licorice not entirely captured here, and home to a hard-working ice cream counter. For $3 I got a generous single scoop obligingly split in half: maddeningly-smooth nutella and potent kona koka rum. I haven't tried Full Tilt yet, but I'm giving this a free-spirited grade A.

Powerful shit.

While in Paris in 2006, Bill and I went to a charmante petit cafe by Notre Dame one morning and split a breakfast of eggs, tomato slices, coffee and the only croissant I'd ever met. Surely, I'd had croissants before? I couldn't say. It wiped my memory card of anything I'd previously called croissant. I hadn't tried another contender since, until recently. I stole away to Bakery Nouveau a while back to try their famed Twice-Baked Almond Croissant. While no one [everyone on the street] was looking I walked out of the bakery and tried to nonchalantly eat the whole thing, (a whopper about the size of your biggest, most delicious shoe) but dutifully saved [about] half for Bill. It's got the softest, most confident almond paste center surrounded by layers of expertly formed pastry. Looking at it, I thought, almonds on top. Isn't that garish? Powdered sugar. Who are they trying to impress? At the end, when my crinkled bag had yielded all the flakes and crumbs it could, I recanted. It's meant to be a mess. If you're going to lose yourself in a pastry, and hopefully that's while wearing a smock, shouldn't there be some evidence? That thing was large and in charge.  A++. +.

Now that you're in the mood, gaze into the deep paper sack that held our Labor Day celebration. En route to Marysville last weekend to hang out with my uncle, we sought out the thoroughly reviewed Countryside Donut House in Mountlake Terrace. At 11am they were already close to sold out, with no plain glazed left. We got some maple bars, an apple fritter, some bavarian filled and their most threatening confection, the Bacon Maple Bar.

Are you getting this, Texas?

Unadulterated, their maple bars were the best I'd ever had. Topped with bacon, I felt scared, like maybe I'd gone too far. I only had two bites of it (too many flavors taking shameless advantage of each other), but I've been extra watchful of my jowls this week, certain that I'm at the mercy of gravity and calories like never before. Cheap and addictive, donuts are the crack in my well-balanced diet. By some twist of fate, I've been placed in a region where I have to actively seek out these things; nothing in walking distance or even on my radar in West Seattle. I'm living undetected in a healthy warp zone where it's always a good time to be outside, there's fresh produce begging to be taken home, an average temperature of 75 degrees, juice bars, rampant park landscapes - all this complete with an entire zip code of people who are not what I'd call obese.
Take these beauties for example. I picked them this morning on the street and could've picked lots more. Blackberries are as commonplace as Teriyaki joints up here, growing wherever they can, despite the ideal sun/shade war that's becoming apparent as the summer dwindles, and have a huge role in my snacking.

Chicken Yakisoba for $7.95

Teriyaki is an ubiquitous nuisance here. A retail space vacates, the block hopes together that something novel and healthy will spring up and then, just like you knew it would, a teriyaki shop moves in. Mostly, they are all the same. The recipe is simple. Either a large portion of skillfully fried Asian barbeque or a disappointing and small serving of oily mess served up for around $8 out of a divy storefront. One such teriyaki joint that gets pretty stellar reviews is Beni Hoshi. We tried the Chicken Yakisoba at the recommendation of the guy behind the counter. Rice and yakisoba, (?),  some pretty great chicken and some questionable broccoli, and a crumbling bodega storefront, Beni Hoshi didn't quite fulfill the teriyaki fantasy I was hoping for. B.
Today, we thought we'd give it another try and set out for New Teriyaki, another highly-regarded spot for quick, cheap take-away. Sorry Moreno, Sunday's are anti-teriyaki, and no matter how many listings you can find on your smart phone, they'll all be closed. Teriyaki time over, we opted for another fast food phenomenon...

It really is.

Mexi-fries. or in Christian circles, Tater Tots.

        I know. It's unreal. It's something you'd see on Full House, warning Uncle Joey from your couch that it's gonna turn out bad. Bill has a devout attachment to Taco Bell, and I thought I'd jazz it up a little with some tacosomethingelse. Here's the low-down: Taco Time, while sporting wildly different architecture from store to store, has the same problem - oh you guessed it - the menu. How this chain took off with actual Latinos in the vicinity is beyond me. This place is where Mexican food goes to die a sterile, uninspiring and overpriced death. Granted, their fish taco was pretty delicious for $4, the burrito Bill ate garnered no complaints, their "Mexi Fries" were fried to perfection (if not a little surprising to find on the menu), but I'm not sold on this Seattle staple. Taco Cabana, you're a treasure. TacoTime, you get a B, because you have crushed ice.

Chunky and crisp Corned Beef n' Hash Bash

We had a great time yesterday morning at West Five, a diner and cocktail bar born of the flawless style of the businessman's 1960s. Brunch offers generous portions to sop up whatever social faux pas you overindulged in last night, the coffee arrives in a cup and saucer you actually want to drink from, and the cocktail menu is the stuff of fantasy, inviting me to coordinate the outfit I'd be wearing next time I walk into this paragon. Despite it all, an A-, for stale coffee and an absentee server.

You'll be glad you did.

Chilaquiles, The Migas from my personal paradise.

Culture is expensive. Sorry.

   And now, a quick holla to our new feature: the item of the week.

Noosa Yoghurt.

 I'm at the grocery store about once a day, and Friday I sampled this, right before I bought it. Find it if you can, and enjoy. Creamy, expensive and pretentious as hell, it's well worth it. Try it with another snooty snack, such as Granola Flats, about 8oz of crisp, sweet crunch in a bag for about $5.
Enjoy!

Long Weekend

I sat down a moment ago to start the long task of recording the weekends' dining adventures, but found myself on facebook and now I'm braindead. Watch as this post get more coherent as coffee recharges my battery.  Now, forward or backward, forward or backward. Which way do I walk best? Let's assume I'm great at both and start with last night.
On my way home from training at the Center for Wooden Boats, I called Bill to play our little game of "what's coming over for dinner?" Winning this game is not a plus. Whoever wins, typically the one behind the wheel, is in charge of picking up both a satisfying, frugal and novel meal, reaping the consequences of self-flagellation if one of those statutes is not met. What boner-killer did I decide on last night?
This crap. I chose the $13.95 Beef Brisket Dinner which comes with baked beans and your choice of cole slaw or potato salad. I'm a slaw gal myself, but this was meant to be a crowd-pleaser, so the motley mayo mush came  home. The brisket: a fatty, wet, sauce-drenched "pound" of meat (sauce) done no justice by the curiously white white bread, the above potato number and some straight-forwardly sweet baked beans. Surely though, for near $15 after tax this meal was plentiful? Stingy sides, saucemeat and the four slices of bread I begged for could've been excused with some pickle/onion action, but at Jones BBQ, they apparently haven't heard of such phenomena. Rudy's, I've got a Phil Collins ballad playing for you, states away, (half passion/half shame). Jones, you are forgotten, D.

Matt, Angelica, Bacon and Eloise

                                                                 *                *                 *
This past week we played at vacationing with the visiting Nortons. Their vacation needs revolve around Belgian ales, parks, architecture, acclaimed dining, high chairs, milk, fruit and bacon.

Goat Cheese, Carmelized Onion &
 Red Bell Pepper
Quiche

For brunch on Monday we visited Odd Fellows Lodge, an old fraternal temple built in 1909, spruced up with updated/outdated repurposed cooler-than-thou decor. Ready to out-class you at every turn, this spot is guaranteed to impress you and your hipster cousins. The Nortons sampled the BLAT, (BLT+Avocado) Meatball sub, tomato soup du jour and a honey drizzled fruit bowl. I took a leap of faith and ordered something with goat cheese, which I totally enjoyed. Coffee was ok, they sold me Turkish Taffy, and I was genuinely distracted by the whole presentation, scoring them an A+. I'll be back.

Digesting, we strolled next door to The Elliot Bay Book Co, where I perused the staff-recommended shelf, reading their eloquent and clever reviews of books I'll be chasing down at the library. Visiting good bookstores gives me pause, short pause, right before my brain shuttles headlong into writing novellas without hope of recording word one. Reading those reviews reminded me that I, too, can write, have written, and should write simply because I share a vocabulary with billions of people. Communication is not the point, I have access to finite experiences I have only moments to memorialize before the brain surge vaporizes (if that's what it does), the memory never to be recalled. And my memory needs all the extra RAM I can get. Is that what this blog is for? Probably, but without becoming a "Captain's-log-in-public" kind of person, I won't really alleviate the loss of my fleeting brilliance.

Ha Noi Grilled Pork Noodles

For dinner, we spent our last meal together at Long Provincial, a posh, Vietnamese spot with neither high chair nor milk, but with a menu fit for reciting. Our server was reminiscent of E.T., his presence and cadence alike, and the things he brought to our table were no different. Tamarind Tree Rolls, crispy chicken wings, shrimp paste fried rice (an elusive favorite of Eloise), fresh tequila cocktails, just a few examples of the quick-to-vanish fare. I ordered the Ha Noi Grilled Pork Noodles, a combo of thin-sliced grilled pork patty and pork sausage in a broth with vermicelli. Hiding under everything were pickled kohlrabi and crisp green mango treasures. Hiding elsewhere on the table were the cinnamon pork rice balls. This was the last thing I tasted here and the effect was arresting. I'll say nothing else. Just get yourself some. Soon. A- for dirty water glasses and cheap flatware.


Sunday was all power eating. We grabbed an early booth at Luna Park Cafe, just down the hill from our West Seattle sublet. Everything I've read about this place is prefaced with "The milkshakes are" and though I like to do some high-protein breakfasting, I ordered an Espresso hand-dipped milkshake that made me feel like I'd finally made peace with lactose. Maybe. Dizzy with my dairy delirium I lazily nibbled on some of "Betty's Pile." Not the sexy, faceless situation you're envisioning, but a mound (doh!) of breakfast foods topped with fried eggs.

Betty's Pile (add black olives) and her friend,
 the highly preyed-upon grilled biscuit.

The dutifully grilled hashbrowns wanted salt and the coffee tasted like dirt water next to my creamy Espresso creation, but truly, everything was good. The eggs benedict I glimpsed across the table had some pillowy soft medium poached eggs going on, but I couldn't move my fork past the grilled biscuit and gravy I was devouring. Listen. Be sure and order that biscuit grilled. Our laugh-at-everything hyperactive waitress claims she ordered it that way for us, but I assume she does it for everyone.Make sure this is done for you. It was right. A.

SPL Lounge

Top view from SPL's 9th floor, 

Shortly after breakfast, Eloise was nap-ready, and everyone was full so naturally the boys went out for Banh Mi. Returning from Saigon Deli in the international district a little later with 10 or so sandwiches ($2.50ea) and beer, the eating recommenced. If you know anything about enjoying Banh Mi, you know you're a lover of cilantro, tender meats and crisp veggies, and probably call yourself a savant of sandwich. Sandwiches have yet to make their presence known on this blog, but as my exploration continues, I hope they will reveal themselves.
Having gorged sufficiently, it was time again for an outing. We headed to the Chapel of St. Ignatius, to admire its many architectural inventions, then on to closing time at the Central Seattle Public Library, a breath-taking cathedral of books. As soon as I get an address I'm getting my very own SPL card, and running mad up in that house.

4 of 16 orders at Kaname Izakaya's Happy Hour

Now it's time for the star of the show, the honored winner of the weekend, Kaname Izakaya's happy hour. I'm short of photos because as each dish arrived, we came down on it fast and furious. Here's a sample of dishes we carefully maneuvered to fit on the table already crowded with sake decanters, glasses, plates and the requisite foot of clear space out of Elo-weasel's reach. Fast and calculating as she is carefree, she relieved us of a hot presentation of sake, striking it to the floor milliseconds after its delivery to the table, getting mercilessly splashed in the process.The staff was on the scene immediately with grace, broom and towels, Eloise bounced back, the sake was replaced, and our ordering continued. My favorite? The Takoyaki: fried octopus balls. Chopped boiled octopus, pickled ginger, scallions and rice crispies battered, fried then coated in bonito flakes and drizzled with special, sing-for-your-supper-flavored sauce (sometimes called mayonnaise). Ultimately, my shellfish allergy bristled at this divinity, but was clouded by my delicious shochu martini. Kaname's a shochu bar at heart, serving the indigenous Japanese alcohol that goes down smooth and mixes like a siren. Shochu is the distilled cousin of brewed sake, and is now my number one alternative to that clear but vulgar fluid I used to imbibe: vodka. A++

 Bill hopes to acquire the statuette
 that allows him to summon
the magical panther Guenhwyvar.

 Saturday was Pax day. Bill and I headed down to take in the sights. Later that evening back in the West, (a new, presumptuous, never-likely-to-catch-on nickname for West Seattle) we took Matt to Beer Junction, a full service beer retailer. Their selection rivals the best you've ever seen, with knowledgeable staff, a chiller (3 minutes to perfectly potable!) and a database that logs your purchases and rewards your frequent buys. Thank you Beer Junction, for being just down the street. A++
 Friday night we met up with some of Bill's pals, and went to 820 Pike Street Pan Asian Cuisine. Usually, anytime a place boasts its Pan Asian status, I'm doubtful of its potency. 820 Pike Street, you have only confirmed my suspicions. I had the Spicy Ranch Noodles, (a disappointment for $9.95), Bill had the Drunken Crispy Chicken (good flavor and textures but lacking any star power) and the rest of the table ordered the acclaimed Hue Beef Noodle Soup (glorified, apparently typical pho).The real stand-out, was the Bloody Rooster - fresh basil, lime, & cilantro with vodka, tomato juice & a dash of Sriracha and hoisin sauce. : fresh basil, lime, & cilantro, with vodka, tomato juice, & a dash of Rooster Sriracha sauce & hoisin. Just know that every Bloody Mary you've ever raved about took a hard beating this weekend, and if you have any integrity, you'll put this on your bucket list.  B+
We traveled to Jai Thai for a stand-up comedy battle in their back bar. A nice room, unless you were there when we were. It was hot, with a tiny stage and a commercial fan that was turned off, to our chagrin, so the comics might be heard. Seemingly unattached to a Thai restaurant, attentive and quick, the bartenders were pouring generously. Will probably return for a meal here someday, despite the reviews on yelp. A.