In the laziness of weekend mornings, every menial task takes on the greatest significance for me: I carefully remove coffee from the freezer, as though transporting a Faberge egg, and thoughtfully slice red onion so that it’s mere millimeters thick—paying extra attention to maintaining the integrity of the translucent rings. I perform my routine to the soundtrack of 40’s music. Wrapping on an apron patterned with tiny colorful elephants, I slink to the fridge and remove all necessary items for the omelet idea which awoke me (marginally concerned that the reality of this endeavor may fail miserably.)
After slicing the red onion, I heated up a dollop of olive oil in order to caramelize the living daylights out of the delicate rings. While they simmered away, I meticulously whisked four eggs with a dash of milk, salt, pepper and a heavy dose of cayenne pepper and set them aside. After adding a few teaspoons of sugar to the onion, I then crumbled a healthy dose of vintage three year Gouda, becoming increasingly nervous as my procession unfolded—so daunting was the task of keeping the egg in one perfect unbroken “pancake.” Nevertheless I continued on, bathing the onions in balsamic and turning up the heat. Once they were completed, I set them aside, rinsed my trusty Le Creuset pan and proceeded to make the omelet. Much to my dismay, after cooking the egg on low heat for a few minutes, I was able to successfully keep the mass in tact. Perching the Gouda and onions atop, I then folded the omelet like a taco and presented my masterpiece to Brett complete with coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice (fine- Simply Orange high pulp juice), turkey bacon and blueberries.
Though filled with trepidation regarding this unlikely combination, Brett took a tiny bite and was shockingly pleased. We quietly enjoyed our breakfast and as is Saturday morning tradition, read “Us Weekly” and “The Economist” (need I elaborate on who was reading which?)
The day was looking to be robust and ripe with indulgence. After a light tidying session and a few loads of laundry, we left our abode to poke around University Village for some much needed retail therapy. Brett’s recent acquirement of full time work was definitely a reason to celebrate as I had been feeling deprived for quite some time. Our bounty included: a glassybaby (a sturdy glass votive that costs entirely too much—for good reason, and comes in every color imaginable,) Lululemon gear for Bikram practice, and quintessential fall items from J. Crew (a salmon coloured mohair cardigan that is wafer thin but warm and toasty, and two ultra chic headbands.) Brett was hoping to procure some grilling items so that we might better take advantage of our rooftop grill, but his attempts proved unsuccessful due to the fact that it was so late in the season. After tucking our (my) spoils away and venturing home, I scurried off to Bikram to enjoy my 90 minute ritual.
We had plans that evening to go to the “gastropub” Spur located in Belltown on Blanchard. I use the term “gastropub” hesitantly because, in my humble opinion, to call Spur this style of restaurant would be a misnomer. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Spur is a hip, intimate bar known for its fresh and intriguing shared plates, inventive and delicious cocktails, and avant-garde environs. The farm-to-table bandwagon is one that I’m riding, so it delights me to partake of restaurants that share this similar mentality. The ingredients are always fresh and more often than not local, which lends to a feeling of conscientious dining.
Upon entering, the first thing I noticed was a giant screen onto which pastoral scenes and Dali-esque stills were projected. The lighting is extremely dim, and I’ve come to believe in my dining experiences that the dimmer the lighting, the more in vogue the restaurant. Speaking of, the fixtures were gorgeous —rustic wrought iron chandeliers evocative of those found in mill or barn. Spur was opulent in that minimalist chic way…I can think of no other way to describe it than a post-modern meat-packing district factory cum hotspot.
Our dinner companions for the evening were two lovely people whom we met in the most unconventional of ways. Approximately two months ago, Brett and I were dining at Bastille, one of our favorite haunts in the Ballard neighborhood, when a cute couple was seated next to us. Unintentionally overhearing the gentleman waffling on which dish in which to indulge, I noticed these two were foodies like us. Before departing, I struck up a conversation about the unbelievably delicious falafel. Realizing after ten minutes that we were likely impeding upon their date, I proposed that perhaps the four of us become Facebook friends. Simon and Justine obliged. After a considerable amount of back and forthing, the four of us finally convened.
Conversation was easy and intriguing. Simon and J, having been to Spur recently, shepherded us through the menu and offered their insight as to what was delicious. I felt the need to partake of some social lubricant, on the off chance my charms should fail me and decided upon the Empress, a fitting name for one such as myself (who has notions which obviously aren't based in reality.) The Empress was a light (and not sweet, most importantly) combination of Jamaican rum, grapefruit and St. Germain elderflower liqueur featuring a tangy citrus foam atop the libation. It was delicate, refreshing and dangerously non-alcoholic tasting. Brett ordered his standard Tanquerey martini, up and with a twist but received olives instead, as is the usual occurrence.
The four of us ordered most of the menu since the plates are smaller and meant to be shared. Almost everything was completely delicious, if not a bit high on the sodium side. I was particularly disappointed in the tomato dish as I found the tomatoes to be mushy and the flavors to be bland and uninteresting. I also secretly thought it was annoying that they referred to arugula as “rocket”—a term that apparently the entire world has adopted for this green. The salmon crostini with mascarpone was delightful but my favorite of all our dishes were two in particular: pork belly sliders with plum, tangy mustard and bourbon served on tiny brioche-like buns, and the chicken confit served with mustard, garlic chips, and scallion. The chicken was amazing! Tiny drumettes stacked on a plate like Lincoln logs; they were juicy, crispy, and the meat literally dropped off the bone and into my mouth. We also shared parmesan gnocchi, tagliatelle with duck egg, and a flat iron steak paired with fried potato. I did try the fried potato, which was supremely creamy inside and crispy like a croquette on the outside. Most pleasing to me was the presentation of the dishes which was artistic, thoughtful and minimalist. (As a side, I was hesitant to take too many photos in the company of our new friends but was pleased to discover toward the end of the meal that Simon enjoys taking pictures just as much as I do. The next time we partake of Spur, there will be photographic evidence.)
Since we all had room to spare, we decided to split a dessert item and resoundingly agreed upon the chocolate covered pretzel, served two ways. My feeble mind was expecting Rold Gold pretzels enrobed in Hershey’s milk chocolate, but we had quite another thing coming. The dessert featured a pretzel cake with a strip of chocolate fondant resting atop as well as pretzel ice cream being stabbed by wedges of dehydrated dark chocolate. Though not what I was expecting, the result was subtle, unique and not too filling.
My main qualm about the experience was that afterward I was still hungry. However, this is most likely because the dishes would be better shared between two people instead of four. More so than satiation, the ultimate goal of Spur’s chefs (in my humble opinion) is to showcase local ingredients in an innovative way and make the occurrence comparable to visiting a gallery in order to appreciate local, indigenous art.
After our pleasant evening, we all parted ways promising to go to Lark on Capital Hill within the next few weekends. I’m hoping we have new companions with whom to experience the bevy of wonderful restaurants in Seattle.
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