monday night at the counter

On any given day, Brett and I can be found volleying emails back and forth regarding the age old question of what to have for dinner, but yesterday did not follow that typical path. Brett’s friend Andrew had just shared his knowledge of a new restaurant in the Ballard neighborhood: a California-based chain entitled “The Counter.” Founded in 2003, the “custom built burger joint” has grown to a whopping 12 locations in California, nine others smattered randomly around the country, and two international stops (Ireland and Australia.) Their concept is simple: They offer an extensive list of fresh and unique ingredients allowing the customer to design their own unique gourmet burger.

After logging on the trusty interwebs to further review this establishment and their offerings, the decision was clear: Brett and I would be venturing forth to this establishment, located in the new Ballard Blocks building, that evening.

With our plans in place, the entire day took on a brilliant new hue—previously bathed in a dismal grey, it now seemed a bit sunnier and it was almost as though my perspective had been dipped in a candy glaze. When the work whistle finally blew seven hours later, I scooted home and prepared for my Bikram yoga practice armed with the knowledge that if I was going to indulge in the splendor that is “The Counter,” I should certainly earn it. My 90 minute practice came and went. Forsaking my post-practice savasana, I hopped off my mat and dodged toward the shower (such was my excitement to partake of deep-fried dill pickles!!!)

I picked Brett up and we made our way to dinner at 8pm. As to be expected, I stopped outside the venue for a couple of external photos as we made our way toward the building. My outdoor distraction was brief due to the fact that (if there had previously been any point of contention regarding the subject, let it now be known) it is officially fall. The evening was crisp, clear and as dark as what two weeks ago would have been 10pm.

Upon entering, I felt as though I was in a 26th century diner. The front two facings are entirely windows, and one side even features a windowed roll-up garage door. Adorned with minimal artwork, the focus of aesthetic appreciation is directed toward the bar. First of all, let me broach the subject of a gourmet burger facility that features a bar. This is absolutely brilliant! Aside from the tidy appearance of the built-in shelves (and the fair sized flat screens that flank them), there are five large black and white photographs hanging from the back walls.

the bar.

the art.

the "garage door."

Seating is ample. There is a divider between the bar and restaurant area: the bar offers a handful of bar height tables and stools along with the actual bar seating and the restaurant features 15 or so tables and booth seating along the divider with tables and chairs across from that. The space is vast and was perhaps one third occupied…a fact that I did not find concerning considering it was 40 minutes before they closed on a Monday night.

Our server was friendly and allowed me to select where I’d like for us to sit. After letting us know that he would be helping the four of us that night (I know I have a larger than average ego, but really?!) he confided that it had been a long day and hunkered down at our table with us. He was knowledgeable and enthusiastic about the menu, a fact that I found excited me even more about the prospect of things to come. All of their ingredients are fresh, and the meat is the healthiest you can hope to come by. I’m not sure who exactly does the tracking, but apparently at any given moment someone at The Counter knows where their cows are be it at the farm, on a truck, or maybe even in your mouth.

We knew straight away that we would be starting with the deep fried dill pickles as well as the “50/50” (your choice of half regular fries and half sweet potato fries, half regular fries and half onion strings, and so on and so forth.) No sooner had we placed this order than a gentleman came out of the kitchen carrying our appetizers. Instead of the “50/50” he had brought us a six inch mound of onion strings. Upon pointing this out he asked that we please consider keeping the onion strings and he would rush an order of fries as well. Though we certainly didn’t require this abundance of fried food, who are we to deny such generosity?

Upon receipt of the greasy goodies I found myself distracted from the task at hand: creating my own tasty burger! The Counter does feature a potpourri of tried and true burger options on the menu for anyone who is not inclined to be creative, but Brett and I were both excited by the prospect of invention. So enthused was I that I had actually been preparing for this endeavor earlier in the day. I ticked the boxes without hesitation: 1/3 lb turkey burger on a toasted honey whole wheat bun with horseradish cheddar, tomato, dill pickle chips (not fried), spicy pepperoncinis, Bermuda red onion, and red relish.



Brett’s choice included a 1/3 lb hamburger on a regular bun with horseradish cheddar, dill pickle chips, grilled onions, lettuce and tomatoes and was finished with a roasted garlic aioli sauce. Brett theorized that before he made any edgier combinations he needed a “control” by which to compare everything he selects henceforth. With that, this burger was declared “The Gold Standard.”

I felt a tinge of guilt as I tucked into our fried delights—this was the first sustenance to hit my system since I had spent a good 90 minutes detoxifying my body. Regardless, I pressed on and took my first panko encrusted dill pickle chip. We were cautioned by the chap who delivered them to our table that they were extremely hot, so I carefully dipped it into the accompanying sweet and sour sauce, gave it a good cooling, and popped the whole thing into my mouth. Never before had I even considered the idea of a fried pickle remotely interesting, but this experience proved my consideration incorrect. The panko breading glistened delicately and encased a warm yet crisp quarter inch dill pickle round. In summation, it was delicious.

The onion strings were amazing as well. Brett inquired as to the nature of their breading (I was too sheepish to ask since I had already aroused curiosity with my copious photo taking) and we were told that the onions are soaked in buttermilk overnight, then breaded and fried. The result was phenomenal. These strings tasted completely home made and melted in my mouth. I am always disheartened to bite into an onion ring, only to have the onion slither out of its shell and slap my chin with disdain, so I was overwhelmed with joy that the onion and batter shared an inseparable union.

We had barely even put a dent in our starters when our burgers arrived. The presentation was minimalist chic: the bun top was slightly askew to display the treasures lying within. A stainless sauce cup lounged on the side of the rectangular white plate so we could sauce at our own discretion. Other than that, a knife and a fork rested on either side of the plate.

I daintily spread my red relish on the top portion of my bun. The red relish, as it turns out, is a combination of ketchup and relish (my instinct proved correct in this instance)—but it was certainly not any ordinary relish! Nay, it was a delicious and subtle bread and butter pickle-style relish. My honey whole wheat bun was solid and nutritious and acted as a perfect vessel for the goodies within. The turkey burger was subtly juicy and obviously hand-formed. While the pickles were great, I was disappointed with the Bermuda red onions and spicy pepperoncinis. I was expecting a fancy pants marinated red onion, but instead found the garden variety. I picked off the offending veggie and proceeded to devour the rest (dipping every last crumb in my red relish.) All in all, I was very pleased and decided the appellation for my burger would be “The Erudite Gobbler”. Brett was also satisfied and found his burger to be very simple and wholesome. I seem to remember him saying it was like something his dad would grill at home.

usually non-expressive Brett quips, "we should come here all the time!"

Our pace slowed as our plaque thickened and we sipped our libations to decompress. I failed to mention that The Counter’s wine and beer list is decent and a full bar is offered as well. Brett was thrilled that his Tanqueray and tonic cost a mere five dollars. My Snoqualmie Naked Cabernet Sauvignon was liberally poured and perfectly tannic. Since there were still copious amounts of our starters left, we asked for a few containers so as not to let this deliciousness go to waste.



With our bellies full and our hearts content, we made our way home—the neon oasis glowing behind us in the sleepy Ballard night.

falling for fall

There is a distinct feeling in the air more so than any other time of the year when autumn is upon us. A crisp smell invades the olfactories, the sun goes to sleep increasingly earlier, and my muscles and joints stiffen with the frigid still of early mornings. With the onslaught of any season, I am always overwhelmed with a desire to change. I feel this sensation ten-fold when September rolls around. By Sunday afternoon, it was in full swing.

Having shirked my domestic responsibilities the week prior due to a robust social calendar, I took advantage of my weekend to cease neglecting the laundry, litter box, dust bunnies and powder room. What happened, however, was more than a brisk tidying of our abode. Instead, I found myself digging through closets, dumping my makeup on the bathroom floor (I have about as many cosmetics as four Hollywood makeup artists and eight transvestites put together—it’s bad), and moving furniture to vacuum. It’s curious to me that these feelings are so involuntarily roused based upon a simple alteration of the earth’s tilt on her axis.

With that simple change, I want to hunker down and for lack of a better word, “nest.” I began to light candles, turn up the forties music, and clutter my mind with quandaries of which cozy autumn tasks I should undertake. I’ve decided that I intend to get back into canning and baking so I should be able to sprinkle my blog with some Martha Stewart-esque inspiration in the coming months.

In the mean time (until more jet-setting can be recounted), I have written the below as an ode to fall and included a picture I drew which may allude to my more mellowed feelings of home-bodiness as of late.

Autumn leaves
No sense of dread
Despite the raindrops on my head
Despite the darkness
Chilled and strong
Autumn makes me sing a song
Instills a feeling
Full of hope
Its whistling winds help me cope
Cope with loss
Of plants, of greens
And of the changing of the scenes
The chipmunks quiet
The leaves, they fall
But still I quite enjoy it all.

wineaux

After weeks of supreme indulgence, I felt a bit like below...

John Howie, Hoo-ahh!

I can feel the plaque congealing in my arteries and I am concerned that at any moment I may grab my left arm and proceed to have a heart attack. I probably shouldn’t say this, but even if my cholesterol did go up 30 points it would be completely and utterly worth it.

Last night I had the pleasure of having my life changed the tiniest bit by going to John Howie Steak in Bellevue’s deluxe new complex the Bravern. John Howie’s first joint, Seastar, is a beloved seafood restaurant in Bellevue (his second one opened in Seattle this past December). Unfortunately, I’ve never had the pleasure of going. It’s not that I’m an east side snob- but if I do venture forth to that neck of the woods I tend to stay within the “Bellevue Collection.”

Lighting in John Howie Steak

Knowing nothing about the restaurant aside from the fact that the menu would logically be predominantly steak, I decided it would be a great place to take one of my vendors for dinner and help him branch out beyond the confines of the Hilton Garden Inn in Issaquah.

Donnie rolled up outside my office shortly after four in a cherry red H3 and we cruised over to Bellevue. I knew two things: this restaurant is new and it’s kind of a big deal. Due to my marginal flightiness as of late I failed to make a reservation and was momentarily concerned that we may be relegated to PF Chang’s, where it is surprisingly difficult to obtain immediate seating. Fortunately for me, Donnie is a seven foot tall black man. When we entered John Howie’s, he simply put his hands on the hostess stand and towered above the diminutive woman working the front desk. Whether his unintentional “scare tactics” worked or not is beyond me, but we were able to successfully reserve a table for three. Brett would be joining us an hour or so later after he finished having the car serviced chez the Acura dealership.

The intimidating Donnie.

With the promise of a table waiting in the wings, we rounded the corner to head to happy hour. The first thing I noticed was the long opulent marble bar which was so white and exquisite that it seemed to be glowing from within. Bellying up to this immaculate slab, I was pleased to see that the drink list was of biblical proportions. Donnie, being a gin chap, ordered a Bombay Sapphire martini with blue cheese olives. Seeing these olives was inspirational (they were gargantuan and stuffed to the brim with a tasty Roquefort-esque blue) so I naturally ordered a super dirty Ketel One martini with a couple of those puppies tossed in for good measure.

After I placed my order, something strange caught my eye. At the other end of the bar, a couple was enjoying something from a glass vase. My first thought was that the tasty looking morsels of which they were partaking must be some sort of flattened grissini made with parmesan or asiago, it could not possibly be bacon….that would just be ridiculous. Imagine my profuse delight when I discovered that my eyes had not deceived me. They were actually serving tempura fried bacon with a maple-soy dipping sauce. I have to say it tasted like absolute heaven and I swore to Donnie that, if I could, this is what I would consume for breakfast every day for the rest of my life. And probably die at a very young age if that were indeed the case.

Because one tempura fried appetizer is not enough, we also ordered the tempura fried king crab served with tempura green beans. The green beans were totally extraneous and acted as a filler, I’m sure, since the appetizer only came with four (although they were huge) juicy delectable chunks of king crab. John Howie’s sauce pairing was a sweet chili-type concoction with slivered zucchini thrown in.

Brett joined us midway through these appetizers, and, having no idea that we fully intended to stay for dinner as well, ordered the happy hour BLT’s. Three perfectly round sandwiches made with a cookie cutter were ferried out to us moments later. As if I could ever consume too much bacon, I tucked into one of these beautiful creations: the bread softly toasted but pale, slathered lightly with an herbed mayonnaise and finished with a crisp piece of iceberg and a perfectly red and juicy tomato (and thick, sweet, chewy bacon.) Beside the three little treats was a pile of home made potato chips that had a hint of garlic and freshly shredded asiago atop the mound.

I failed to mention not long after the martini slipped down my throat, I ordered what was perhaps the best mojito I have ever had in my life. When I first eyed the bartender making one, I scoffed to myself. Why, two days after the official first day of fall, is this man making an obviously summer cocktail? Friendly and attentive, he noticed my watchful eye and poured me a little sample of the drink he had just prepared. Let me just say that I would drink this concoction any time of the year. I have had many mojitos, and many BAD mojitos at that—but this one was beyond impressive. He used loads of fresh mint and muddled the life out of it, mixing it with fresh lime, Sailor Jerry’s spiced rum and then the tiniest bit of powdered sugar, then he topped it off with club soda. The result was superb.

Realizing it was well past our original reservation time, Donnie walked to the hostess stand and again leaned over the counter. To be honest, we weren’t sure why a reservation was even necessary. It didn’t seem too terribly crowded. However, we were only looking at the expansive bar at that point. (Which also features a glass topped baby grand piano, where people can enjoy their drinks whilst listening to the pianist.) Our congenial and petite host, almost obscured behind the large black menus she held, led us to the main restaurant area.

We rounded the corner and began to walk down the first hallway of seating. At this point, I confirmed my belief unwaveringly that this place was kind of a big deal. Dimly lit and romantic, the first hall features those half moon banquettes surrounding large ovular tables. Behind the tables were luscious velvet curtains, obviously there to add to the ambiance. On the other side of the large tables, smaller two person tables line the wall. The hall opens into the main dining room. Along the back wall, there are floor to ceiling windows displaying the rolling green of Bellevue (oh, as well as all the gas stations and Best Buy, but who cares.) To the right, there are two private dining rooms, and to the left there is a hall closet-sized walk-in wine room.

We were seated at our booth, which featured a licorice red Glassy Baby, hammered flatware and luxurious Frette napkins. Our server was channeling a hybrid of Jamie Kennedy and Bradley Cooper and was congenial, amenable and just a really fun guy.


We dilly dallied to choose our libations but I finally decided upon an eight ounce pour of a smoky Malbec, while the gentlemen stuck to their gin. During our waffling, Jamie/Bradley brought us a tower of salts including coarse grain, Australian pink, and Hawaiian black charcoal varieties. I photographed the display for posterity, but truth be told everything was salty enough on its own.



No sooner had we been seated than two celebrities arrived. Lofa Tatupu (linebacker for the Seattle Seahawks) and his entourage headed to the opposite end of the dining room and Steve Poole (meteorologist on KOMO) was seated with his wife and child right across from us. I tried my hardest to convince Brett and Donnie that I should go snap my picture with each of the gentlemen- but they were indignant that I stay put. I was able to snap the below, which is mostly my finger, and a little Steve Poole.



John Howie, however, was unable to avoid my celebrity death grip. Before either of my dining companions could protest, I hopped out of our booth and scurried over to him, accosting him with my feminine whimsy. I schmoozed and smiled and confided with him that I was just at Jean-Georges’ restaurant in Vancouver and that John (present company) was giving that French chef a good run for his money. This pleased him so he stepped in close, and the dapper man who made our magic Caesar captured our moment in history.




The tableside Caesar was a delight. Since they have a two person minimum for the salad preparation (I would assume to make the show a worthwhile endeavor), Brett switched his choice in order to accommodate Donnie’s desire to partake. The two of them engaged in conversation while I engaged in the procession of Caesar-making. Our dapper performer elegantly whisked together garlic, ground anchovies, egg and lemon before tossing crisp romaine, croutons and freshly shaved parmesan in a beautiful asymmetric wooden bowl.







The season for Heirloom tomatoes is drawing to a close, a fact that was instrumental in my decision to enjoy this salad for my first course. It featured crisp and colourful heirlooms bathed in a sea of Russian dressing and topped with caramelized red onions and a very dry blue cheese. The result was a phantasmagoric combination in my mouth: sweet, soft, crisp, tart, chewy and tangy all at once. My server tried taking this masterpiece away from me at least three times and I threatened to take him on if he didn’t leave me alone. Savoring every single morsel, I all but licked the plate clean.




Following the salad course, we were provided with a tiny croquette intended to act as a pallet cleanser. It was creamy, delicious, and beautifully displayed.




Throughout the course of our experience, the service remained attentive without being overbearing. Please note the bus boy cautiously held a napkin in front of the water pitcher whilst pouring to avoid victimizing his patron with an unintentional splash. My recollection of the remainder of the evening may be slightly less detailed than heretofore since, as you might be able to guess, my brain became ever so slightly addled with alcohol and my body became thick with a luxurious layer of wine.





For the main course, I ever so daintily ordered the French Onion soup. While I do not eat beef—the menu does feature many marvelous seafood choices. Unfortunately, with all the libation and appetizer consumption, I simply did not have the room for more than a “light” (comparatively speaking) soup. It was tasty, don’t get me wrong, but I certainly wasn’t swooning. I probably wouldn’t write home about it either. (I felt myself bloat even further, such was the amount of sodium present in this potage.)





My male companions ordered what Brett jokingly refers to as “the Ladies cut”—a tiny (read: regular) 8oz cut of filet mignon. Brett had his bare (To truly judge the quality of the meat. It tasted like butter, I am told), and Donnie chose a peppercorn sauce to add a little something extra.



The sun set and the din of the restaurant rose throughout the course of our Wednesday evening. We drew our own festivities to a close with after dinner cocktails. Brett chose his classic “Makers Rocks,” while Donnie and I went for the more dessert-like “Baileys on the Rocks.” Much to my chagrin, the restaurant only had enough Baileys remaining for one pour. However, if I could find it in my heart to forgive them, they would provide me with a delectable surprise. Acquiescing (since I really didn’t need another beverage anyway), I patiently awaited what they had in store while Donnie wondered if he shouldn’t have been the one to give up his Baileys in order to partake of the surprise. What they brought me was something I never would have chosen for myself, but it was absolutely delicious. Presented on its own tray, my blueberry tea came in a Bodum teapot with a bulbous Brandy snifter for consumption after the concoction had adequately steeped. The “Blueberry Tea” did not contain blueberries at all…Instead it was a mix of earl grey tea, Grand Marnier and Amaretto. A combination that was cozy and perfect for the onset of autumn.

After a decadent five hours of consumption, we bid farewell to the pleasant staff and made our way into the night.

Vancouver Day Deux

While usually on the weekends I sleep until at least noon, I find that on holiday my body is much more willing to hop to it far earlier. But honestly, on that Sunday morning for all I knew it could have been 6pm because the ultra thick shades in the bathroom rendered our suite pitch black. It was, however, only ten am.

I strolled to the voyeuristic bathroom and hoisted up the shades, pleased to see the shirtless (naked?) gentleman at his computer again. Making the Starbucks House Blend pod of coffee, I turned on our CD player, selecting the Opus house mix of "Turn it Up"—a jazzy blend of mildly techno-sounding tunes (other selections included the Opus "Turn it Down", Michael Buble or Weezer.) We then began to prepare for the day. I failed to mention the shower I took the evening before, but the shower is definitely worth mentioning. It’s one of those rain-style showerheads where it literally feels like you’re showering in a typhoon. It was very refreshing and decadent, to say the least.

Once we had all our affairs in order (bags mostly packed and all procured loot in the same vicinity), we requested a late departure and were granted a 1:30pm check-out time. On our elevator ride to the lobby, we shared the space with a woman performing her 10:30am walk of shame. She was obviously on the heels of a debaucherous night: her hair was greasy and tousled; her makeup was smeared and about a quarter inch from its original placement; her billowy bohemian top (which she decided was long enough to wear as a dress. It was not) was askew to the point that one of her breasts was poking through the keyhole neckline; and her fringe Louboutins looked as though they had seen former glories.

We set forth for a light breakfast from my new favorite grocery store: Urban Fare. Canada’s answer to Whole Foods, Urban Fare features unique and sophisticated gourmet food from around the world. It offers a completely local vibe—where one can go to escape the buzz of the city and find respite amongst revelers reading the paper or yogis popping in for a post-class smoothie. I was totally enamoured with the layout and design. I was a bit overzealous in my picture taking and garnered more than a few befuddled looks. We grabbed coffee and croissants, and then walked past the Roundhouse to the False Creek harbor.

Vancouver’s Roundhouse was formerly the old Canadian Pacific Railway’s service facility for trains and has since been transformed into a Community Arts & Recreation Centre. The glass pavilion houses the engine from the first transcontinental train that pulled into Vancouver in 1886.

We plopped down on a bench and enjoyed the cool breeze whilst partaking of our European style breakfast. Our comfort level varied pretty rapidly though since the breeze alternated with the sun beating down upon us once it finally poked its head through the clouds. I was supremely jealous of all the residents going for their morning jog or taking their dog for a jaunt. Vancouver is truly an active city, or at least that’s how it seems. I can’t determine whether or not all the girls wear black athletic pants because they are coming to or from the gym or because Canada is historically ten years behind in fashion and these girls think this is the haute look. In any case, the populace appears very fit and I can imagine our country would be similar if our cities were as beautiful and pedestrian friendly as here.

After enjoying the buttery and chewy croissants, we hoofed it to Gastown to see where Vancouver originated. We traversed through town on one of the main thoroughfares (Howie Street) and passed by the awe-inspiring Vancouver Public Library which looked like a Greek coliseum.

The street descends downhill into Gastown, which is 100% reminiscent of Pioneer Square in Seattle. I suppose this makes sense since both locations are the original "downtown" areas of their respective city. The area is at once dilapidated and quaint. Broken cobblestone streets snake through old, obviously historic, brick buildings. It’s apparent to me that this is the part of town most favorable to down on their luck vagrants. Being a little before noon, none of the shops have opened yet so Brett and I proceeded to the famous steam-powered clock. When I read about this clock online I was expecting some grandiose edifice to tower over me. Instead, I found a rinky-dink clock, barely seven feet tall, surrounded by tourists as it toot-tooted its quarter to noon tune.

Naturally, I had to be part of the action so I commissioned Brett to snap my picture. Unfortunately, he cut off the actual clock bit, but I suppose I should be the focus of the picture anyway.

Following the four inch map I had printed out from the Aquabus website, I directed us toward Blood Alley. As we rounded the corner of Carrall Street, I felt as though I was suddenly in New Orleans during a funeral, such was the pomp. En route to the famed Blood Alley, known as such because of the history surrounding it, we collided with the weekend Farmer’s Market which was sparse in comparison to our visit to Granville the day prior.

Working our way through the throngs, I couldn’t help but notice the oppressive nature of this area. The history surrounding Blood Alley is diluted and vague—but the current lore is 100% true! This alley is the homeless Vancouverite’s resting place of choice. As far as the history is concerned, there are three stories of Blood Alley’s origin. It may have been where butcher’s storefronts were located back in the olden timey days. If this was the case then the butchers would have dumped the remaining animal blood in the street after they closed up their shops. A bit more interesting and gruesome is the possibility that railway workers, after collecting their pay, would make their way home by walking through the alley, where hooligans and thugs would lurk—waiting to rob and murder the unsuspecting victims. Lastly, the most likely explanation (and also the most boring) is through government documents, which point to the area as being devised in the 70’s simply to generate tourism.

More so than the alley itself, I was interested in seeing a restaurant I had read about on the internet: Salt. It was too early for cured meats, cheeses and wine, so I settled for ogling the cool facade and taking copious amounts of pictures.

From there we happened upon a cast-iron statue of "Gassy Jack," the town’s founder (with quite the unfortunate appellation in my opinion).

I needed my cheesy Canadian souvenir, so we proceeded to poke through the tacky shops lining Water Street. I’d seen it all before…there were Chinese made magnets and pins, Canadian sweaters, and maple syrup.


I did, however, find quite the gem in one Armenian gentleman’s shop: a furry hat that was a yeti’s head with googly eyes and a menacing felt overbite. With my new winter tuke thrillingly procured, we set back toward Yaletown for one final farewell before we set off for lunch in Kitsilano.

Naturally, I stopped here and there to take pictures, and made a last minute shopping trip to Urban Fare where I acquired my favorite Canadian candies (including, but not limited to, Smarties and Eat Mores.) We returned to the Opus with minutes to spare before our checkout, and went back to the room one final time to collect our things. I’d grown so fond of the atmosphere that I was sad (as I always am to end a trip) to leave.

Under the guidance of a fellow foodie friend, Brett and I headed over the bridge to Kitsilano (a very hip and funky neighborhood) to Nando’s Chickenland, a fast food restaurant of South African origin featuring mouth-wateringly delicious Peri Peri style chicken. So tasty was the chicken that I insisted upon purchasing a bottle of Peri Peri sauce to take home and savor.

We hit the road around 2pm and began our journey back to Ballard. Heading toward the border I made the last minute executive decision to stop at the Duty Free store and had to swerve across 5 lanes of traffic in order to do so. Fortunately for me, traffic was nominal so no one was injured by my maniacal driving. We stocked up on Tanquerey, Absolut, and I added a tiny ceramic Canada mug littered with maple leaves to the pile. I can't help it, I like the kitcsch.

No more than a mere 20 minute wait at the border, we were up to bat to get back into the states. After the requisite what were you doing here, what did you buy questioning, the guard, a stoic and stocky man, demanded I tell him where in Wisconsin I was from. I gave him my cutesy smile and mentioned Appleton. "Great mall. I'm from Wausau, but I managed to escape," and with that he cracked a smile and wished us a safe journey home.

Three hours later, there we were.

making a run for the border- day one of two

When the alarm clock goes off during the week, I would rather eat glass than rouse and prepare for the drudgery of the doldrums-filled day. Saturday’s rousing was a million miles away from that depressing feeling…

Though I did press my snooze button an epic six times before finally re-setting my alarm clock for 6:30am, once I finally extracted myself from bed I was content. I slinked toward the bathroom feeling full of purpose and excitement. There was this thrilling idea of being awake so early on the weekend floating in the air—I imagined most of the city still being asleep while I bustled about folding laundry, putting away dishes and packing my suitcase. I padded around softly on the bamboo floors, mindful of the clinking plates lest I should bother my friend Nico, all tangled limbs awkwardly perched on the couch, passed out from profuse beer consumption the evening prior.

As I packed, I intently chose the nicest and newest of my clothing, delicately and deliberately folding each piece and thoughtfully placing it just so in my red Orla Kiely suitcase. I become the woman I want to be when I travel…who, in my opinion, I truly should be: a chic, unique, urbane, and cosmopolitan ingénue. With everything in its place—the two water jugs filled, the “activities folder” (complete with maps and directions) tucked into my book bag, snacks, amenities and my navigator “Lady Thermidor” (the stuffed cow procured from a wily road trip from Chicago to Appleton)—I began to nudge Brett to wakefulness.

After 15 minutes of my incessantly chanting his name, Brett finally rolled out of bed, into his shorts and tee, and lumbered about preparing for our trip—a preparation that was absolute worlds away from mine (read: simple and quick). Moments later, he was ready for departure as was Nico (watching NFL whilst waiting for the two of us.) We decided to drive through McDonald’s en route to the ferry terminal to drop off Nico before commencing our journey to Vancouver.

I munched on my hash brown and hummed to Glenn Miller as we drove down the waterfront. After seeing Nico off, our journey finally began. The drive to Canada could not have been more of a breeze….when we arrived at the border, the wait to get through was about 30 minutes. I sat impatiently, wondering why each vehicle was taking at least a good five minutes to pass through. Has no one done this before? Was the customs officer giving each person the tenth degree?? When we finally pulled up, we passed through in under two minutes. I simply grinned and confided that we were enjoying a weekend getaway, staying in Yaletown and taking advantage of the food, shopping and sites.

Following the directions I had printed out on Mapquest, we arrived at the Opus Hotel at 11:45 easily and without incident. I parked the car right out front and the valet proceeded to remove our bag from the trunk and take the car to their secured underground parking. Immediately upon entering the hotel, I was consumed by an air of unaffected cool. Hip European men loitered on the banquettes in the Opus cocktail lounge and we made our way toward the check-in desk, which was under an umbrella-esque ceiling dome featuring Philippe Starck-style lighting. This is one of two Opus hotels—the other being in Montreal.

Much to our delight, our room was ready. We were handed the keys and directed to the fourth floor. The elevators were dim and hip. Soft techno music issued forth from the ceilings and we leaned bemusedly against the glass-covered metal mesh walls, anxious to see what was in store for us. When exiting the elevators, I was struck by the sheer minimalism which engulfed me. Gauze curtains lined the interior of the hallways and were illuminated by tiny bulbs offering an ethereal mood. We wound our way around to room 404 and I quietly considered which palette room we may have. (The Opus features five different room aesthetics: hip red, tranquil blue, fresh green, invigorating yellow, and I can’t remember the fifth for the life of me.) Upon opening the door, we were greeted by a tranquil blue environment. The walls were a bright and soothing cerulean and the accoutrements were minimal. The back wall was closed off with melamine shoji-style doors and Brett wondered where the bathroom was.

I slid the doors open to discover a bright, open, and voyeuristic spa-style bathroom. The entire back wall of this room was floor to ceiling windows overlooking both the street and a condominium complex right across the way. In the unit directly across from our room, a gentleman sat nude in front of his PC…So without thinking twice, I sat down to relieve myself and failed to close the curtains. Why would I mind if someone saw me sitting on the toilet? It’s not as though they have any idea who I am….I’m on holiday, after all.

After settling in and refreshing ourselves, we headed out to partake of the city. Opus is in Yaletown, which was historically the warehouse district of Vancouver. Now, it maintains its aesthetic character with brick buildings and raised sidewalks seamlessly integrated amongst the towering condominium high rises. The mood is young and urban but still relaxed and a mellow during the day.

Walking down Davie Street toward the harbor led us straight to the Aquabus, which we would have to take to go to our first stop, Granville Island. The Aquabus is an almost comically tiny, rainbow- coloured boat that seats perhaps 20 people and features the captain sitting on a pedestal smack dab in the center. Once the captain pushed off (with his foot), he maneuvered the jolly little boat between kayakers and anchored yachts, staying close to the waterfront for approximately ten minutes before pulling into the Granville Island dock.



Granville Island is an island right in the middle of Vancouver and it is famous for its Public Market. Historically however, it was known as an industrial manufacturing area and the center of the island is still home to an enormous cement plant. Walking up the steep plank from the dock to the market, I began to soak up the energy from the hustle and bustle around me. The Public Market is huge and puts the Pike Place market to shame, in my opinion. It seems much less of a tourist attraction and more an actual legitimate market. Brett and I proceeded to wedge ourselves into the throngs of people clustering at every single station.

There were dozens of meat stands featuring every type of meat imaginable from the pedestrian to the fringe. For every meat stand there were at least three times that many produce stations containing an abundance of beautiful fresh produce. The sea of colours swimming before us was mesmerizing. Beautiful green kale, bright purple champagne grapes, shiny apples and so on… ad nauseum. There were Chinese herbal apothecaries, tea shoppes, milk stands, fromageries, candy counters, arts and crafts boutiques, florists, and cafes. We wandered through the maze and at each turn were greeted with a new opportunity for consumption. Musicians loitered in the halls and sang with such ardor I was sucked into their realm.

After exiting the market we were confronted by the Net Lofts—a quaint collection of cute and kitschy shops that is still crowded with people but a bit less overwhelming than our previous stop. I can tell in an instant whether or not a place will be promising so we were able to mosey through in a short amount of time. I still managed, however, to spend $80 at a darling Japanese paper shop, proving that I am able to spend money far more quickly than I can ever hope to make it.


We decided to lunch on Granville Island and began poking around for a restaurant that was neither touristy looking (food court) nor tacky (the Keg). We stumbled upon Cats Social House. During Granville Island’s industrial age, the Social House building was actually a shake and shingle mill which is likely why it embodied a factory-type feel (industrial chic, if you will). The food was delicious too! Brett enjoyed a chicken avocado Caesar with parmesan crisps and I, a bowl of blackened chicken wonton soup. We dined al fresco and enjoyed indigenous Granville Island beer and a Rose from BC.

The next stop, Railspur Alley, was chock full of galleries, and also where we found Osake, an artisan sake maker storefront featuring small-batch production of five different sakes- all high quality and all delicious. Despite my affinity toward Japan and Japanese culture, I have never been a fan of sake. Imagine my surprise when I actually enjoyed each sake we tasted! The goal of this store’s owner is to bring this beverage to the masses and teach them to enjoy it with every meal—A goal which I feel he has successful achieved. I procured a bottle of the Junmai (first batch) sake to take home.

With our bellies full and our livers put to work, we headed back to the mainland via the trusty Aquabus. We returned to the Opus around 4pm and decided to walk toward the downtown shopping area on Robson Street. Our jaunt was an hour long and the only place I really wanted to stop was Lush (the intoxicating fragrance that emanates forth from the store front just draws me in.) I purchased a special edition shower gel exclusive to the Vancouver location (a heady formulation of ylang ylang and vanilla that was made for the managers meeting held there days before…), some of their Too Drunk tabs which are aromatherapeutic tabs to use in the shower the morning after a night of indulgence, and Candy Fluff body powder that shimmers and makes the user smell absolutely edible.

Other than that, shopping on Robson Street is like shopping in any big city. I was taken aback by a store called One Tooth, though. I noticed this place immediately because their emblem was very similar to Lululemon’s (my favorite to wear in the Bikram studio). What really gave them away was their slogan: “Athletic ware at a price that’s fair.” Yes, Lululemon clothing is a bit pricier than one would hope but to blatantly rip off styles and publicly bash the competition…I couldn’t help but wonder whether or not what One Tooth is doing is legitimate.

After returning from our leisurely stroll down Robson, we curled up in the mound of colourful pillows on the window banquette at Opus Bar. This bar is renowned for being the hip Yaletown night spot: a place for trendsetters and celebrities alike to see and be seen. Despite the emptiness, the hipster vibe was still prevalent. Metal beading hung in curtainesque panels from the ceiling and the furniture was a bizarre mix of magenta coloured Napolean era chairs, lime green ottomans, and bar height tables with glowing table tops. Brett and I were there uncomfortably early during a time when the senior citizens were finishing their brandies and the staff was busy preparing for the debauchery to come. We watched a pubescent Canuck finagle with a tablecloth for a good 15 minutes before setting off to find a different (more suitable?) one. After his snail-paced endeavors were through, our server, dressed in a faux Herve Leger dress that barely covered her business, stepped up to bat. We watched and snickered as she painstakingly placed a jar of limes and glasses atop the table.

I, adopting the “when in Rome” school of thought, ordered a specialty cocktail off the menu which, though overpriced, was quite good. Their feature drinks are five different cocktails which certain personas would order. I ordered the Thai Breeze, which was the favorite of “Susan,” a fashion executive from Toronto who enjoys yoga, fashion, and classical music. This libation included Skyy vodka, hibiscus flower syrup, and lime- a bit sweet and mostly tart (right up my alley!) Brett partook of the usual Tanqueray up with a twist (no vermouth). For hors d’oeuvres I ordered us some Pecorino fries (with Truffle oil) and a dish called “Sweet. Salty. Spicy.” I was expecting something quite fancy, but instead the dish simply consisted of spicy pecans, regular pimento stuffed olives, and caramel corn. I suppose I can’t complain too much though because I did mow it all down. We had one more drink – Brett partaking of a G&T, and I had a sparkling Negroni. Finally, apparent that we would not be seeing anyone and that no one would be seeing us either, we received our bill and ascended to our blue cube.

After a brief disco nap, I changed into a cute frock and my Marni heels (but not before I gussied up my countenance a bit!) in preparation for our dinner out on the town. Having already logged a good five miles on foot, we took a short cab ride to Jean-Georges’ restaurant “Market” at the base of Hotel Shangri-La, Canada’s tallest condominium/hotel tower.

Upon stepping out of the cab, I knew we were in for a treat. In order to enter the restaurant, one must climb up an extraordinarily steep al fresco flight of stairs. The stairwell in and of itself is a masterpiece, at once modern and classic, illuminated with candles all the way to the top. To the left is the heated outdoor terrace, and to the right is the restaurant and bar. With trepidation I requested a table for two, concerned that we may be told to scram since I was unsuccessful in my call-ahead attempt to make reservations. The hostess congenially let us know the wait would be approximately five minutes and would this be acceptable? Naturally, neither Brett nor I minded at all.

We sat waiting in the rotunda and watched greasy men and bedraggled women traipsing in and out. One group of young Canucks shook hands with the manager conspiratorially whereupon he guided them to a private room. Another group of ladies looked as though they were already fairly sauced. They must have been attending a special event themselves because all of them were decked out in horrifically tacky Madonna circa 1987 gear. I know Canada is a little behind in fashion, but I had a hard time believing that their appearances could have been in earnest….Despite no one being that noteworthy (though Brett is convinced he saw Justin Therou, the gentleman who wrote Tropic Thunder), everyone had a thick air of self-importance and elitism. So thick were these airs that I began to choke. I was humbled by the superficiality and apparent wealth.

After a few minutes, as promised, we were ushered to our table in the heated outdoor terrace. The evening breeze was cool, but we sought solace under the warm lamps above. Our seating location was prime, in an angular dark wood cabana that was open on both sides, but sheltered with thick cream-coloured grommeted curtains.

My only gripe was that the bread lady was shirking her responsibilities of keeping every one in the dough at all times. I quipped that she needed a lesson in roll patrol and actually embarrassed myself while Brett was in the bathroom. I audibly called her out and asked “May we PLEASE have rolls? You’ve missed us three times.” She giggled in fractured English and said “Oh I miss you.” Lest I forgot that I am, in fact, no one special, Miss Pillsbury helped to remind me of this fact.

With our wine and cocktails in hand, our server graciously took our order. We began with a divine tuna tartare mixed with avocado and a deliciously tangy ginger dressing. It featured spicy radishes resting atop the creation like little flowers. For our entrees I enjoyed an impeccable sablefish that was crusted with nuts and seeds and swam in an irresistible sweet and sour broth. Brett partook of the seared beef sirloin from B.C, which was accompanied by ginger mushrooms, a soy-caramel sauce, and bathed in a strange sea of foam.

As a side note, the bathrooms at Market were just as phenomenal as the restaurant. Each room was private and indicated by way of a subtle sign right outside the door whether the room was reserved for men or women. Once occupied, the sign began to glow. The interior of the bathroom was all posh mirrors and tile, with the too cool lighting fixtures dimly lit for effect. I could have curled up happily in one of those rooms, being approximately the same size as our home in Ballard.

Filled to the brim with deluxe thoroughfare, there was sadly not an inch of room to spare for dessert. I took a picture of the dessert menu for posterity, and in naive hope of recreating the cookies on my own one day.

We slinked down the stairs, content and enriched, and hailed a cab back to the Opus. By the time we arrived, the party at the previously vacant Opus Bar was in full swing. A DJ took up a large corner, and scantily clad girls hung drunkenly over their seats, waiting for an opportunity to pounce any marginally attractive male.

I paused and considered inserting myself into those environs, and then continued on toward the elevator, turning in to our blue haven for the rest of the night.