eins vei bier!

It was a dark and stormy Friday afternoon, and the mood was set to pass the evening in Prost!, a true German-style pub located in Seattle’s sleepy Greenwood neighborhood.

Sheets of rain obscured my view as I weaved through thick traffic in an effort to meet my girlfriend (who I hadn’t seen in two years) at the aforementioned tavern. At 4:30 I received a text letting me know she would not be there for another hour and was faced with the query as to whether or not I should detour back to Ballard. However, it had been a long arduous week and a beer sounded like just the thing to drown the undesirables.

In true Deutsch form, burly men were already singing and toasting the moment I walked in to Prost!. I was immediately pleased with my decision to head straight here since all but one of the battered picnic-style tables were occupied. Setting up shop near the back, I marveled at the Friday five o’clock crowd: a random smattering of the aforementioned crooners who were brutish and rogue with the odd mangy hipster thrown into the mix for good measure.

The tavern is small, but not claustrophobic. It offers a lodge-y sort of feel with its paneled wood walls and mounted deer head hanging from the wall. German paraphernalia covers these walls—so if you had any doubt as to where you were whetting your whistle, let that serve as a reminder that you are truly in a German-style pub.

Feeling the effects of my half litre brew, I decided to partake of a Belgian soft pretzel served with two mustards (spicy and stone ground) and a little pile of course kosher salt. The pretzel was piping hot, and far too toasty to consume, so I tore it apart into bite-sized pieces and fashioned some sculptures. Menu options are limited and extraordinarily German: you can choose from a multitude of different wursts, pork loin, pretzels, or a potato leek soup. The beer list is quite another story, though. Prost boasts a whole host of various German ales and lagers at extraordinarily reasonable prices (the proliferation of tap and bottled options was terribly impressive.) For $4.50, my half litre of Kostristzer Oktoberfest cost less than Bud at most other bars.

bavarian pretzel.

Having successfully devoured my pretzel after an ample cooling off period, I drank the drink called loneliness until Jessica arrived at 6pm. In our two years apart, I had completely forgotten that one of my pal’s endearing character flaws was that she suffered from chronic tardiness. No matter, I sent texts and made phone calls while diverting strange glances. Why, in this intimate neighborhood watering hole would I be alone on a Friday evening? My server sympathetically checked on me every so often and at one point I promised her that I was awaiting a friend.

Jessica came in out of the rain and our fun was about to begin. Always the trooper, she caught up in no time and we were brew for brew- an impressive feat considering she’s about the size of my right arm. She regaled me with stories of what had transpired during her absence—my favorite being an episode in which she was thrown 15 feet from a four wheeler but managed to keep her beer in hand, despite suffering from a concussion.

jessica .

The past two years had been spent soul-searching, and my life seemed painfully dull by comparison. We relished the days of yore, remembering vividly how tightly interwoven our lives had been: commuting to Issaquah, getting beer almost daily after work, eating sandwiches at the Honey Hole. It was not quite the same, sitting here with her now—eerily familiar, yet strange at the same time. I felt as though she had spent the past two years exploring and discovering whilst I had simply been chugging along.

After consuming a litre of beer each, we decided to partake of the smoked meat offerings before drinking any more. By this point, the bar was swelling with clientele of all varieties- and our picnic bench was in jeopardy of being pilfered. We even stepped outside for a breath of fresh air at one point and nearly had to beat people off with sticks to defend the honor of our table. For dinner, Jessica decided upon the curry wurst and I chose the ham hock that was stewed in sauerkraut for untold hours and featured sides of pumpernickel rye bread, more sauerkraut and a dill pickle. There was nothing gastronomically genius about the food and I don’t believe there was supposed to be, either. It is simply good, hearty German food that helps to successfully absorb the consumption of excess alcohol. What I did find a bit mystifying was that there doesn’t seem to be a kitchen anywhere in the place so I’m not exactly sure how the food is prepared. I decided to not rack my brains too terribly and instead carefully carved around the multitude of pork fat in my meal.

pork fat.

curry wurst.

Hours upon litres later, Prost was in full swing. Such was the reveling that heavy duty steins were shattered and I began wishing that I had an ear cone. Two plasmas were locked on ESPN football causing waves of whoops and jeers. This tiny bar had shifted its gears from boisterous German pub to a plain old sports bar. The weight of the week unloaded all at once and no longer did I feel pleasantly addled but exhausted. Despite Jessica’s attempts to lure me toward the Tractor in Ballard, I knew my night was over.

shattered stein

I managed to catch the attention of a server and requested my bill. She asked that I recount my order since no one seemed to be tracking what we had been ingesting throughout the evening. Lo and behold, I could have dined and dashed! My eyes grew wide with horror as I listed off the 2.5 litres of beer I had consumed (imbibed piecemeal via a half litre here, and a half litre there), the pretzel, and the ham. The server’s eyes widened as well as she asked where on earth I put it all. I groaned internally, and then reminded myself that a Bikram session the following day would cure what was currently “ale-ing” me.

I settled my tab and promised Jessica that on our next outing I would be less of a wet blanket. With that, I headed toward home in the rainy, quiet night.