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.