Delicatus!

(friendly note: As those of you who read my blog know, I have a tendency to be all over the map (subjectively speaking). I appreciate your tolerance of this fact since I am, after all, wayward and full of whimsy...that's why you love me, right?)

I've been working downtown for just over one week and, having the proclivity for dining out that I do, am already discovering that this will prove to be problematic for both my waistline and my pocketbook. Minor details... If I AM going to the poorhouse (or Dress Barn as the case may be), I might as well document my Caligulan efforts along the way.

I got wind of Delicatus from my friend Brian-- He mentioned it was a new sandwich joint in Pioneer Square that was comparable to Salumi. Loving cured meats (and Salumi) as much as I do, I knew I needed to check out this restaurant forthwith. At 11am I perused the menu and called in my order so that I might avoid any lengthy lunchtime queues. (http://www.delicatusseattle.com/menu.aspx)


After reading the menu, I was obsessed. I thought to myself that I must go there for lunch. Every. Single. Day. (And for the rest of my life.)

Delicatus prides itself on quality, local and artisan ingredients. With that fact in mind, $8 for a sandwich seemed pretty reasonable to me. The menu ranges from traditional sandwiches to more Avant Garde selections (as they refer to the choices on their menu: "Traditionalists" and "Progressives"). On that particular day, I chose the Pavo Diablo, which consisted of hickory smoked turkey, sliced avocado, spinach, cilantro, havarti, spicy chipotle aioli and roasted poblano peppers on sourdough bread. Included with each sandwich is a side of home made potato chips (which could be switched up for cole slaw or potato salad for less than one dollar...).

Finally, the time had arrived for me to procure the aforementioned sandwich. I strolled a few blocks and arrived at my destination. Nestled next to the Rocky Mountain Candy Company, Delicatus blends in to its surroundings. It is totally charming and combines that elusively cool brand of historical meets timeless, yet careless, chic.

Upon entering, I was greeted by a friendly staff and welcoming space. Delicatus features seating both up and downstairs. Tucked away in the corner of the restaurant I noticed a cozy, unoccupied bar. I made a mental note to return with Brian as soon as possible.

Once I paid my bill and snapped a few pics, I all but ran back to the office. The smells issuing forth from my brown paper bag were dizzying and overwhelming. Unfortunately, due to my ravenous appetite, the sandwich didn't survive long enough for its mugshot. But trust me. I'll be back.

Poppy Birthday to me!! (a thali good time was had by all.)

Quarter after nine on a rainy Seattle night, I jumped into a sidewalk puddle with abandon in my brand new fuchsia Hunter boots and bounded into Poppy on Capitol Hill for my much anticipated Birthday dinner. Since it was a dark and stormy night, Brett dropped me off curbside while he began what would turn out to be a thirty minute treasure hunt for the ever elusive weekend parking spot.

I entered a brightly lit Poppy and looked curiously around for someone to seat me. Feeling spectacularly on display, I was relieved to see a lovely woman approach me with a welcoming smile on her face. She complimented my boots and we made small talk about the holidays as she guided me to a window seat for two and set about explaining the idea behind Poppy’s “Thali” menu. Moments later, our bubbly server descended upon me with water. I quickly chose a glass of champagne so that I had something to which I might pay my attentions whilst waiting for Brett to arrive. As I sat there, I soaked in the environs: the space seemed to schism off in two separate directions—I was nestled behind the entrance that jutted out between my side of the restaurant and the other side that hosted the bar and a random smattering of booths and tables. A high ceiling featured exposed cedar beams and offered a deconstructionist sensibility amidst the modern accoutrements.

In true “grass is greener” form I began to feel as though I wasn’t seated in the “cool” area of the restaurant. Throngs of merry-makers were clustered near the rear of the restaurant—laughing and clinking glasses as I sat quietly next to the emergency exit door and reflected upon the beginning of my 29th year. As if sensing my disconsolate thoughts, Alisha approached and asked if there was anything I needed. Deciding it might be a nice treat for Brett to arrive out of the cold, wet night and be greeted by a dry martini, I ordered his usual and picked a couple of starters off the menu: spice crispies and salt cod fritters with smoked paprika aioli.

After what seemed like hours of twiddling my thumbs and daintily sipping my libation, Brett arrived in concert with his drink and our starters. A server opened the emergency door for Brett to slink right into his seat. Making no haste, I began nibbling on the spice crispies and uncouthly forgot to toast my birthday. After I noticed Brett sternly observing me licking my fingers as I began to raise the glass to my lips, I stopped in mid-air and we clinked our glasses jovially.

The spice crispies were a festive mixture of puffed rice, golden raisins, almonds and other such doodads mixed in Moroccan spices. They almost seemed like a bowl of ethnic Chex Mix. Our salt cod fritters were perfectly fluffy little pillows resting on one another and ending in a bath of the smoked paprika aioli which, while delicious, completely overwhelmed the flavor of the fritters.

Poppy’s signature is “Thali,” a showcase of multitudinous flavors that all match harmoniously and are of Northwest tradition (at the restaurant anyway). Traditionally, thali are of Indian origin, and it was when the head chef, Jerry Traunfield, was in India that he became inspired with this idea for his newest gastronomic endeavor. Having previously been at the helm of Woodinville’s Herb Farm, the opportunity arose for Jerry and his partner to open Poppy—a much more fiscally conservative yet still extraordinarily unique and delicious culinary experience. Accommodating to vegetarian tastes, both vegetarian thali and regular thali are offered. Aside from side dishes and the two thali, “smallies” are also available, which are basically a selection of five offerings from the thali menu- one being the highlight and having a larger portion than the others.

The menu is mixed up as frequently as twice a week depending upon what is fresh and inspirational. Brett and I happened to partake in a particularly delicious evening—the breakdown listed below. Having a proclivity for the selections on the non-vegetarian thali, I asked if it would be possible to make a substitution for the cumin-braised short ribs which Alisha accommodated without a second thought. I momentarily considered trying the delicata squash blintzes but couldn’t get over my aversion. So, at the behest of my lovely server, the blintzes were substituted with Qualicum scallops. Moments after settling upon our dinner choices, the meals were brought out to us in short order.

I know I sometimes speak in a manner that would indicate that I just fell off the back end of a turnip truck, but what was presented before me was absolutely gorgeous. I was immediately reminded of the innumerable Bento Box meals I consumed whilst in Japan; such was the meticulous care with which our platters were put together. Each bite had its own unique vessel: The herbed buffalo-ricotta dumplings were nestled among leeks and porcini mushrooms—snug in a covered Le Creuset soup terrine, the celery root soup with chestnut was presented in a small sake-style cup, and the scallops were in an elongated clear green glass boat.

Not only was the presentation a striking palate of robust autumnal colour but the flavors were flawlessly compatible as well, which I had not necessarily expected. Though each portion was relatively small, the richness and complexity was completely satisfying and before too long I began to feel incredibly full. Brett carefully considered his plan of attack on the thali and decided to enjoy one offering at a time while I chose to make my way around the platter like a merry-go-round. The creamy earthiness of the celery root soup was divine; the scallops were only marginally sweet and overwhelmingly plump and juicy. I loved the cauliflower and pine nut salad—at once healthy and indulgent. The naan was studded with sesame seeds, cumin and other heady spices and was perhaps the tastiest naan I have ever had. None of the dishes were overwhelmingly salty—instead they all displayed unique, nuanced flavors.

We were in for a marathon, not a race. As we slowly sipped on our bottle of Nebbiolo, I noticed that the restaurant had gone from being a thriving epicenter of hip to a quiet restaurant wrapping up its evening. Never were we rushed, and never did Alisha subtly suggest that we leave. Instead she would occasionally check in, fill our glasses and evaluate our progress. Around 11, when it was apparent that we were unable to pack in any more food we were shown the dessert menu. While we considered the bevy of options (ranging from hot date cake with banana and butterscotch to herbed apple deep dish with bay leaf ice cream), she took our plates back to the kitchen where our leftovers were meticulously wrapped.

Not wanting to miss out on one of the sweets, even though the Satsuma with mustard seed pickle served as a nice palate cleanser, I chose the obvious Birthday option: dark chocolate terrine with ginger, pistachio and sesame to take home and enjoy a bit later. While Alisha put in the order, I admired the seamless waltz of the employees winding down: One group huddled quietly at the bar to enjoy a nightcap; another sat chatting whilst folding napkins. Moments later, she presented us with my boxed cake, replete with a candle, before we began the long trek through the icy night.

Art of the Table- A Masterpiece!

Brett and I have a long standing tradition of taking each other out for our birthdays, and he mentioned to me that he would like to go to Art of the Table for his. I knew nothing about the place, but according to Brett there are a litany of laudatory reviews and hype that it’s one of the best restaurants in Seattle. With that in mind, I realized it would behoove me to make reservations there forthwith. On a random Saturday night a few weeks back, I looked up their number on my handy dandy Google phone and proceeded to give them a call. I hadn’t the foggiest idea what to expect, so I was a bit disarmed when a lovely woman who sounded very “salt of the earth” answered the phone. I figured I would give her my name and the date that I required and be done with it, but I ended up talking to her for at least five minutes.

Art of the Table is a tiny little restaurant in Fremont that has one seating in the evening. They open their doors at 6:30, and the dinner begins at 7. The reason for the lengthy duration of our conversation was due to the fact that at this one seating, one four course meal is served. In other words, you don’t choose what you’ll be consuming from a menu—the menu is determined for you. I have a laundry list of foods that I don’t eat: I have an aversion to nightshade vegetables (eggplant and squash weird me out) and I am a cute-atarian, which means that I don’t consume animals that I find darling (this includes cows, ducks, bunnies, goats, lambs, frogs, etc.) I was concerned that as I mentioned all of my restrictions the woman would tell me to beat it, but she was intrigued and accommodating. After taking my credit card number to hold our spot, we said our goodbyes and she mentioned she would look forward to meeting us soon.

The day before our dinner, I received a call from Laurie(the aforementioned woman’s name) to confirm whether or not some of their offerings on Saturday would be acceptable. There would be a dish containing Japanese pumpkin- was this okay? Not wanting to be too particular, I agreed that this was fine. The worst thing to happen would be that I didn’t like the dish and simply would not eat it. They were serving a rabbit ragout for one of the courses and she promised that they would have a (likely) fish alternative for me. I was struck by how considerate the call was and was excited to see what this place was all about. Aside from this tiny little window into what our meal would contain, I hadn't a clue what to expect.

On the evening of the event I began to primp and preen (par for the course no matter where I go) but Brett insisted that I should keep it casual-- this is a jeans and oxford kind of place. It is my belief, however, that most Seattleites consider this uniform to be appropriate no matter what the occasion so I continued to curl and coif. Brett decided upon a simple yet chic outfit of dark denim and a black James Bond-esque Merino zipped sweater whilst I chose a new Ted Baker sheath and paired it with freshwater pearls, pink Wolford tights, and a pair of black Avant-Garde ankle strapped heels.

Dressed to the hilt, we were on our way. After a short drive to the northern end of Fremont, we had already descended upon the restaurant and were able to procure a parking space right in front of the entrance. Upon arrival, I was struck by how cozy and homey the place seemed- it had an air of 70's modernity. Laurie greeted us with a warm, friendly smile and asked for our coats. She allowed us to choose our table in the small triangular dining area. A party of four already occupied the corner table leaving the option of two window tables, or a space at a long dining table with seating for eight. I chose the window seat closest to the kitchen so we could see what was going on throughout the night.

Though I had brought a bottle of Gorman's Syrah for the occasion, we each decided to start with a glass of wine. It was Brett's birthday after all, and as far as I could tell we were in for a long evening of indulgence. The only drawback (and really, is it?) to Art of the Table is that they serve beer and wine-- no spirits. So instead of Brett's classic Tanquerey up with a twist, he chose a glass of Stephen Vincent Zinfandel. Fully embracing the festive milestone, I went with a glass of Organic Can Vandrell Brut Cava. The dinner begins at seven, so in the interim I soaked in the environs and relished with Brett.

Laurie's photography adorns the walls-- the images taken from her travels with chef/owner (and in my estimation, lover) Dustin Ronspies. Aside from these black and white pictures, there are only sheer floor length curtains decorating the space. A service window allows diners to see into the kitchen, as well as an open door that invites you to walk right in and watch Dustin prepare each course along with his sous chef Phil Lehmann. At the entrance, a chalkboard lists the farmers and vendors from which the meals ingredients were procured.


At 7pm, Dustin came out, banged a small gong and proceeded to share the story of his restaurant with us. Whilst he told the story, Laurie and Phil passed around a soup to start the "Weekend Supper Club." I all but licked my bowl clean of this glorious carrot soup which contained a heady autumnal mixture of cumin, coriander, fried parsnips and was topped with a chili-cilantro creme. As he spoke, I was overwhelmed with the sense of being a guest in his home such was the vibe from this intimate dinner party- style atmosphere. For many years, Dustin was a private chef for families on their yachts, so it's my belief that this is why he began the style of restaurant he did. Furthermore, the simple four course style is a great way to showcase the fresh, seasonal and local ingredients he uses (sustainable agriculture being a specific passion of his). At once mellow and excited about every facet of each meal and its ingredients, his stories are laced with history and a unique brand of wit. Brett and I smiled at each other as we realized we were in for not only a thrillingly delicious meal, but a sort of theatrical performance as well.


After his introduction and welcome, Dustin mosied back to the kitchen and began to prepare our official first course: a leek and goat cheese tart topped with chanterelles and pancetta served with a frisee salad mixed with shallot vinaigrette. Upon completing each dish for the 17 guests present that evening, he again came out to ring the gong and tell us the story of the first course. This would prove to be the theme of the evening: our three hosts had a flawless waltz in which Dustin would begin to tell his story while Laurie and Phil wove between each other and graced us with our plates. The crust of this tart was a recipe from Dustin's great grandmother, a recipe which fulfilled all his tart and crust making needs. I immediately became lost in this dish-- the flavors exploded in my mouth harmoniously and I almost began to sing in happiness from the tartness of the shallot vinaigrette. The portions were pleasingly balanced being neither overwhelmingly large or obnoxiously small. I ate every last bite before Laurie took away the dish and we awaited our next course.


While waiting, Brett and I took our glasses of wine and walked up to the service window. Dustin smiled and began chatting with us as he spooned some sort of delicious looking sauce over plump prawns on a baking sheet. Earlier in the evening he had mentioned that he used to promise himself that he would never open a restaurant and I asked why this was. Having been a private chef for so many years, it was a transition he hadn't thought he would want to make. To be honest, he initially thought he would become an architect before dropping out and going to culinary school instead. Not wanting to distract him too terribly, we sat back down and made small talk with Laurie before Dustin made his way over to the gong again.

The second course featured Alaskan Spot Prawns which were apparently the last of the season. They rested on a celeraic remoulade, roasted cauliflower puree, and pumpernickel toast and were served with a side of pickled rhubarb slaw. The din of chatter ceased as everyone dug in to this delicious little sandwich that harkened a classic Po' Boy feel. Each course has a recommended wine flight, and the one with this course sounded too unique to pass up: a 2006 Domaine Capitain Gagnerot "Les Gueulottes" Bourgongne Hautes Cotes de Beaune. Simply put, this white Burgundy was comparable to an un-oaked chardonnay. It was the slightest bit sweet, but still smooth and delicious.


Before presenting the third course, a mystery palate cleanser was distributed and presented in small cordial glasses. I detected the presence of fennel and tapioca so being the impatient type I began to ask Laurie of what this palate cleanser was comprised. Much to my surprise, the main ingredients were spaghetti squash and dill pollen! Everyone oohed and aahed with delight and I again, licked the glass.

Finally, the third course was upon us, which was to be the rabbit ragout. Dustin was particularly proud of this dish because the rabbits used were grown expressly for Art of the Table down on a small farm near Olympia. The ragout was served atop red wheat pasta -- the dish laced with a parsley pesto and topped with thick curls of shaved Parmesan. I was struck by the nuttiness and chewiness of the pasta, which had been handmade by Phil with red wheat procured from the Ballard Farmer's Market. My ragout was comprised of diced Ahi in lieu of rabbit and was juicy, tender, and sublime. Throughout the evening I couldn't get over how seamlessly and creatively Dustin wove each ingredient together to orchestrate a perfectly harmonious dish. His presentations truly were the manifestation of art and I was revelling in every moment. Since I had insisted that Laurie enjoy a small glass of my Gorman wine, she presented me with a taste of the wine pairing for this course: a 2003 Batasiolo Arsiga Dolcetto d'Alba which was an absolute perfect match to this dish.


At this point in the evening, Brett and I were heavy-lidded and contentedly full but one more course remained: the dessert course.This offering was quintessentially autumn and featured a spiced pumpkin crepe topped with vanilla apples, hazelnuts, and rosemary ice cream. There happened to be three other birthdays that evening so I asked Dustin if we could all sing a round of Happy Birthday. He agreed and told me to ring the gong (apparently a first at Art of the Table) and make my announcement. Giddy with wine, I stood before the guests and conducted a cheery and relatively in tune rendition of the birthday tune before each birthday guest blew out their candle. With that, we dug in and gulped down a glass of Blandy's 10 year Madeira Port before leaning back and soaking in the past three hours of our night.


Our hosts had retreated to the kitchen and the quiet whir of a dishwasher could be heard issuing forth from the room. As the lights continued to dim, the evening's entertainment had drawn to a close, it would seem. I linked arms with Brett and we made our way into the crisp night, looking forward to our next visit to Art of the Table's Weekend Supper Club.

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.

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.

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.