Halloween Festivities

I tried to convince myself that it would be best to dig into the archives of my closet to find a frock for the Opera on Halloween evening, but knew when I awoke on Saturday morning that that simply would not do. Having previously admitted that I have notions about myself which are obviously not based in reality, it should be no surprise that I subscribe to the school of thought that one should never be seen out and about in the same outfit twice.

The first Opera of the season landed on Halloween evening, and while dressing up in a costume did not seem appropriate, I thought it might be fun to channel a flapper sort of vibe for the occasion. With that vision in place, I scurried to my car for an impromptu shopping trip at Pacific Place on Saturday afternoon.

I had envisioned finding the perfect drop-waist dress immediately upon entering the mall, which of course was not to be the case. After taking brief laps through the usual suspects (Ann Taylor, Barney’s, Club Monaco), I was rapidly becoming discouraged and fearful that I may be forced to go spelunking in my own closet. However, J. Crew, always and forever my wardrobe savior, had the closest thing to perfection: a black chiffon tiered camisole with three black rhinestone buttons on the left shoulder strap. The top was at once elegant and chic and its silhouette harkened early 20th century glamour. Having procured the top and a pair of rose gold hoop earrings, it was now my mission to find the perfect pairing to bring my ensemble together. Brett and I have been season ticket holders to the Opera for the past three years, and we historically treat the entire day as an event in and of itself. With the top portion of my outfit determined, I made a pit-stop at Whole Foods to pick up some canapés and wine to enjoy pre-Opera.

I arrived to our gloriously clean condo (having spent the better portion of the morning on my hands and knees thoroughly scrubbing every nook and cranny) shortly after 4:30pm and set about preparing our hors d’oeuvres—promptly pouring myself a glass of wine as well. Brett was busy decompressing with his PS3, so I turned on my beloved 40’s music as I cut up some Patisse de Beaujeolais (blue goat’s cheese), three-year aged Gouda, apricot Wensleydale and some Grand Pont L’eveque (a ridiculously awful smelling but wonderfully delicious cow’s milk cheese from the Normandy region of France.) To pair with the cheeses I sliced a Sour Ficelle baguette and put the slices in a bowl with sesame tarragon crackers. The mood was set perfectly for Halloween since a blue fog covered the sun as it began to set and our abode was delicately illuminated with a potpourri of candles. We sat for a moment and enjoyed “A Clockwork Orange” before beginning to prepare for the events of the evening.

As is standard, I dilly dallied while coiffing my hair and daintily applying my eyeliner with Geisha-like precision. With my visage complete, all that was left to determine was the lower half of my ensemble. I was gripped with fear as the first four skirts I had considered while at J. Crew did not pair well with my top at all. Finally, I decided upon a brilliant fuchsia wool skirt that landed just above the knee and finished the look with opera length pearls, rose gold hoops, embroidered Wolford tights and five inch rose gold heels. Brett opted for a casual chic look which included a dashing pair of dark denim jeans, a newly procured lavender Ted Baker oxford, and his trusty black pinstripe suit jacket.

McCaw Hall

All gussied up, we made haste to arrive at McCaw Hall early enough to enjoy some pre-performance libations. Aside from milling about with cocktails at theatre level (God forbid we be seen in the First Tier where our seats actually are), my favorite part of the evening is critiquing Opera-goers’ ensembles. As I suspected, there were indeed people who opted to dress up for the event. The most common theme seemed to be men wearing horns, which could potentially have been an endeavor in subtlety, but due to the high volume of people wearing them it only seemed trite. Masquerade masks were popular as well—and I also had the good fortune of spotting a gentleman dressed in a red velour smoking jacket, a mermaid donning a blue paillette dress (which was actually very striking) and, of course, a phantom of the opera.

Since tonight’s performance was Verdi’s La Traviata, the bar was serving appropriately themed cocktails. Brett had a Tanquerey-based libation entitled the Parisian, and I chose a Citron Vodka concoction called the Courtesan, which was served in a champagne flute.

We traipsed through the hall and slinked up the grand stairs toward our seats. With moments to spare, we sipped on our cocktails right outside the entrance until the last bells rang before slipping inside the theatre. Our seats were in an empty row, which I attributed to the fact that it was Halloween, but Brett seemed to think the less than full house was a result of the recession.

A hush washed over the audience as the conductor assumed his position in the orchestra pit and we were soon enveloped in a glorious symphony. Brett’s main gripe about the Opera is what I love the most: that a five minute story is drawn out over the course of three hours. La Traviata is centered on an ailing Parisian Courtesan named Violetta who has never felt true love until she is introduced to a gentleman named Alfredo at her dinner party. The two fall hopelessly and desperately in love and the first scene concludes with the two of them held in a tender embrace on her terrace.

In the second act, Violetta’s health is much improved and the happy couple now live together in the French countryside. Unbeknownst to Alfredo, Violetta is selling off all of her possessions in Paris in order to accommodate their lifestyle in the country. Alfredo is appalled when he makes this discovery by way of Violetta’s servant Annina and decides he must go to Paris and fix the situation. Whilst he is away, Alfredo’s father comes to visit and begs Violetta to leave his son. He claims that her reputation is jeopardizing his younger daughter’s promising engagement to a royal family. After much arguing, Violetta finally acquiesces but insists that Giorgio (Alfredo’s father) tell his daughter of this sacrifice.

Violetta leaves a note for Alfredo and heads off, disconsolate, to a friend’s party in Paris. Alfredo is convinced that his father was behind her departure and intends to confront Violetta at the gathering. The two meet, fight, and Alfredo flees the fete after he is reprimanded by his father for his brute display of challenging Violetta’s date and throwing money at Violetta’s feet.

The last act is laden with sadness as Violetta lies dying in her bed of the consumption. She is horrifically pale and woebegone until Alfredo finally arrives to her bedside. The two reconcile and embrace while her doctor and Annina look on. In the final moments, Giorgio arrives to bless their union but alas, Violetta has died in her lover’s arms.

As per usual, I was a basketcase throughout the performance. I found it to be touching and evocative. But let’s face it; I’m also just a sap. The set design was impeccable and the costumes were flawless (I was thrilled that my skirt matched the burgundies, purples, reds and pinks of other courtesan’s attire.) Our two intermissions were spent in the Bravo Lounge partaking of gratis red wine. I enjoyed that we had our own private room in which to pass the time and delighted to see the Space Needle looming over us just outside the windows. I received a message from my friend DeAnn letting me know that our presence was requested on Capital Hill and at that moment it was decided that Brett and I would not head home post-Opera for a quiet evening wind-down but rather we would face the insanity of Capital Hill on Halloween with the full moon on our tails.

Typically, I am one of those people that stands and applauds the cast until every single person has taken their bow, but since Brett and I had newly laid plans to paint the town red, I grabbed my binoculars and made a mad dash in my five inchers to our parked car. I was overcome with a fit of giggles as I noticed many others were making that same mad dash and what ensued was akin to something you might see in a video game. We barreled down the parking garage, swerving to avoid cars squealing out of their spaces and braking to avoid disoriented senior pedestrians. Finally, we escaped and were able to turn left right before a traffic guard closed the street down to siphon post-Opera traffic.

***
I had no idea what we were about to get ourselves into as we approached the Pike and Pine interchange on Capital Hill. Traffic was at a standstill as drunken hoards of costumed young adults wandered hither and thither. I pulled up along a blinged out Escalade and was greeted by a gentleman who called himself Luscious Lucifer. On that night, for all I knew, he very well could have been who he claimed. Discouraged that we likely wouldn’t find parking within a reasonable radius of Barca Lounge, I headed west down Madison when I happened upon a perfect spot that was within five blocks of our destination.

I felt horribly incongruous mingling amongst all these revelers in my prim Opera attire. I was instantly cheered up, however, when I asked Brett what we could say we were dressed up as and he deadpanned “Adults.” The chill of the evening was making its way through my bones and I was disheartened by the length of the queue to get into the bar. It was then that I noticed Vermillion, a tiny art gallery/ bar located right next to our destination. Having to go to the bathroom more than anything I figured it would behoove us to slip inside and order drinks. Besides which, the warmth was a welcome change to the craziness outside. Vermillion’s atmosphere inside the brick walled bungalow was sleepy and chill. Delighted with our find, I insisted that DeAnn and her husband Paul join us. Eventually, they found their way over and we all enjoyed a few glasses of wine and some hearty homemade mac and cheese. Since the night was still young-ish (1am?) and the intensity of Barca’s line was a bit more subdued, we headed in the direction of where we were to close out the evening.

Upon entering, I immediately wrangled my way to the front of the bar and ordered drinks for the group. The bar was a mess of drunken revelers dressed up as PeeWee Herman, Roger Federer, Hamburger Helper, Balloon Boy, and Saudi oil Sheiks. As I was standing and reveling with my wine in hand, a chap draped in a paper bag tumbled into me and my glass. Mustering my best attitude, I asked that he kindly go to the bar and procure me some club soda. Much to my dismay, he came scampering back with the soda moments later. (“I even got you a lime,” he whimpered.)

on the perch

Somehow, we managed to wrangle our way up to the second floor which was apparently where a private party was taking place. I was accosted by a bouncer on the stairwell who demanded I tell him the password. Shaking my head, I waited for the person behind me to state “Law” before I passed along the knowledge to my group. We pranced up the stairs and perched at a corner table overlooking the whole bar.

An hour or so passed while we commentated on everyone’s getup below. The lights began to flicker and we were booted from the second floor around 2am. Slowly making our way through the crowds, the four of us were washed out onto the streets where we said our heavy-lidded and giddy goodbyes.

je sais cuisiner!

Meandering through Costco on a Friday afternoon, I happened upon an amazing looking book entitled "I Know How to Cook." The cover lured me in, featuring a vibrant 60's style drawing of a woman winking and biting into an olive. I stroked the cover and gazed longingly at the oversized four inch thick tome, wishing I could explore the wonders within when I noticed one open copy for perusal a few feet away. I curiously read the inside cover and discovered that this was the first English translation of a 75 year old French cookbook, which happens to have been the best- selling cookbook in France for the past three generations. Learning that "Je Sais Cuisiner" (the original French title) has been an essential fixture on the counters of French kitchens made this an indispensable item for me.

As I browsed through this gastronomy-centered masterpiece I found a chart indicating which meats, cheeses, fruits and vegetables should be consumed during each month and a miraculous 1500 recipes that ranged from simple (Roquefort butter) to complex (Calves' Liver Loaf.) The wisdom it offered on seasonality, necessary tools for every kitchen and instructions for poaching, de-boning and braising were thrilling. Without further consideration, I hoisted the massive volume from its place and went about toting it to the cashier stand. Excited with my new discovery, I was even more pleased that this $45 gem was a mere $26 at Costco. Then again, would I expect anything less from this genius warehouse?

Since Friday was comprised of seeing The September Issue and dining at Via Tribunali with my companion Sam, I offered that Brett choose something from our new kitchen centerpiece so that I may prepare him dinner on Saturday night. He opted for Paprika Chicken and Green Beans a la Niçoise.

After my 5pm Bikram class I set forth to meet Brett at Ballard Market in order to procure the necessary ingredients for our French feast which included chicken stock, a whole chicken, crème fraiche, fresh green beans, and tomato sauce (the rest of the supplies were already on hand.) I was thrilled to make such a lovely dinner and wished my schedule were such that I could cook (and gallivant, of course) all the time.

With everything purchased, we returned home and I set to work in my favorite room of the house. Cooking is a production in theatrics, an effort akin to conducting a symphony. I wrapped my apron around my waist and poured a glass of wine—a libation indispensable during the formation of culinary creations.

My first order of business was to deconstruct Fernando, the name I gave to our two pound chicken. Cooking chicken breasts is one thing—I’m easily able to disassociate myself from the fact that this was once an animal. But cutting up a whole chicken is another moral dilemma altogether, especially when you can see where its feet were supposed to be, and when you rub your hands over his dimpled skin that is so obviously where his feathers once were. In order to pay respects to this bird that would be providing us nourishment for the evening, I thought it only appropriate that I should give him a name. Taking a deep swig of wine and lobotomizing myself the best I could, I set about putting on my surgeon’s cap and grabbed the sharpest knife in the kitchen. Another handy thing about “I Know How to Cook” is that it provided a step by step breakdown of how one cuts apart a whole chicken, though the process itself is actually pretty instinctual. I tugged on Fernando’s left leg, and began sawing away until I hit the bone, at which point I had to bend and snap the joint. I harkened back to my days in eighth grade biology when we performed autopsies on pig fetuses. At least this didn’t smell like formaldehyde, I consoled myself. Continuing in the same manner as with the first leg, the second leg and two wings were chopped off in mere minutes and Fernando was now a limbless carcass, resting in my sink. At this point, I called Brett over to the kitchen to have him assist in removing the breasts. While he acted as my sous-chef, I began browning the meat in a generous hunk of butter on the stovetop.

While the usable parts were browning, I cleaned the countertops to make sure any residual Fernando juice was gone. Once the pallor had disappeared and a warm chestnut colour took its place, I turned off the flame and began transferring each piece to an oversized Le Crueset baking dish. Snugly arranged, I poured the remaining butter along with a cup of chicken stock over the top, covered the dish with aluminum foil and baked it in the oven at 350* for one hour.

Now that the chicken was underway, it was time to prepare the green beans a la Niçoise. While the pot of water set to achieve a rolling boil, I busied myself by snipping off the ends of each bean and then slowly added them a handful at a time so that the water returned to a boil each time before I added anymore (this, according to my cookbook, keeps the beans a bright green.) After 12 minutes, I drained the beans, returned them to the pot and mixed in a cup of tomato sauce, allowing them to simmer for the next half hour.

Once the chicken was complete, it was time to prepare our meal for presentation. I arranged the chicken on a bright yellow platter that had belonged to my grandma and then went about to complete the sauce. The final part of the recipe requires that you whisk in a cup of crème fraiche with the cooking juices and add two pinches of paprika, which I’m fairly certain is only for colouring purpouses and has no actual impact on the palette of the meal. (Either that, or my paprika is broken.) It was pleasing to see that the juices and crème fraiche mixed together perfectly rather than coddle. After drizzling the concoction atop the chicken, the main course was ready to go. I spooned the beans onto our plates and sprinkled fresh parsley on top.

A hearty, wholesome aroma enveloped our home and evoked a sort of cozy snowed-in vibe. Candles bathed the room in a soft, warm glow and we prepared to dine at our not oft used pub table. After settling in and pouring hearty glasses of wine, Brett chose a wing and a leg, and I went unadventurously for a breast (knowing Fernando as intimately as I had—I couldn’t bring myself to eat his limbs.) We both dipped each bite into the sauce on the platter and enjoyed the creamy juiciness of the chicken. The beans were tasty as well: simple and wholesome. Though easy to make, they had this sort of chicness about them which likely stems from the fact that they came from my French cookbook.


We dined casually and continentally, both thoroughly enjoying the meal- and so I was inspired to undertake a new endeavor the following day...

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.

Maximus Wait. Minimus Enjoyment.

I am not terribly abreast on the street vendor movement in Seattle, so when Brett proposed to me that we check out the “Mobile Chowdown” on Friday, my interest was peaked. “Mobile Chowdown” was to be a convention of the most popular street vendors in the Seattle area including Marination, Skillet and Maximus Minimus (to name a few). These vendors would be convening on Saturday in a random Interbay parking lot between 11:30 and 3:30. Unbeknownst to me, this event was going to be quite the extravaganza.

Rousing at a whopping noon on Saturday, I was latently excited to partake of this experience and had absolutely no idea what to expect. Since we would effectively be eating lunch within what I was assuming to be 30 minutes, I skipped my indispensable morning coffee and set straight to primping for the public.

We lazily strolled to the car, piled in and made our way down 15th Avenue toward Interbay—a burgeoning neighborhood which is still predominantly industrial. A few blocks before the main turnoff, traffic came to a standstill and I was in denial that this could have anything to do with our plans. I was sorely mistaken. With traffic moving at a snail’s pace, Brett and I stared transfixed at the hullabaloo of what looked to be a throng of one thousand hungry people milling around a concrete parking lot. Interlopers sidled to their cars and sat on their hoods whilst eating procured street fare, dashing my hopes that perhaps a convenient spot would make itself available. Five blocks later, I turned into a derelict mill’s parking lot which was cut into the side of a hill. Having no alternative and my stomach beginning to growl, I parked the car at a perilous 45 degree angle sideways.

The prospect of a BBQ pork slider became increasingly more enticing to me as Brett and I began our pilgrimage toward the event. What I saw as I approached the Airstreams at once befuddled, confounded, and intrigued me: Children sat on the pavement mashing ice cream into their mouths; senior citizens sat in portable stadium seats and considered their hot dogs; and hipsters bartered their Kalbi Beef Tacos for a friend’s gourmet burger dressed with bacon jam. For being a dreary Seattle afternoon, this shoddy lot was surprisingly engulfed in positive energy.

Ready to begin the journey toward deliciousness, I wove in and out of the crowd, trying to find the end of the queue for Maximus Minimus. Instead, each vendor’s queue bled into the others, resulting in a convoluted mosh pit of humanity. The event turned out to be a guessing game and we all relied upon each other to fall into the proper (hopefully) place. In this instance, the blind were definitely leading the blind. Brett and I eventually assumed our position about a football field’s distance away from the endgame.


Twenty minutes passed and our headway was nominal. What was relatively comforting was that the line did continue to grow behind us, including people who were also hoping to partake of BBQ from the famed Maximus Minimus. For working stiffs like me, swinging by random downtown spots where these vendors perch themselves during my lunch hour is an unattainable luxury… so I had no choice but to wait.

Another fifteen minutes passed and I became the fork in our queue. Confused Russians wandered in behind me, dashing the hopes of the 50 or so potential patrons behind Brett, who was determined to remain in his spot. Brett proposed that perhaps we forfeit and leave to enjoy a pleasant brunch at Anita’s Creperie—but I was indignant. My mind toiled with thoughts that I could be at my Bikram practice right now or I could conquer the massive mound of ironing which awaited me. However, I refused to allow the past 35 minutes to be for naught.

Our wait became excruciating. As we slowly approached the Mecca, people would stroll by with their spoils in hand, the bouquet of delicious aromas wafting toward me. Those smug jerks, I thought to myself, no longer enjoying the adventure of this wait and the allure of what I was about to eat. Earlier on, I had scoffed at people who would procure hot dogs to munch on whilst they waited for their desired food. At this point, I was jealous and wished I had considered the same.

Jeers issued forth from the front of the Marination queue as the hoi polloi was told that the Kalbi beef tacos were no more. I had to laugh to myself that this was such a big deal. On the other side of the coin, if I were to reach my destination after 90 minutes only to be told that what I was intending to have was no longer available…no one would be safe. I was increasingly ornery and famished (the two go hand in hand) and felt like stomping my feet around like a toddler in protest.


As we neared the epicenter, we were accosted by hiply bespectacled politicians who were using this event as their election platform. When asked if we were Seattle voters by one of the aforementioned folks, I, too dismal to speak, allowed Brett to cleverly respond: we’re from out of town. Dodging this bullet I quickly caught another one in my chest….

I happened to overhear and then saw with my own eyes that the generously portioned buns encasing Maximus Minimus BBQ had visibly shrunk from a five inch diameter to two inches. No matter, we would simply order two a piece instead of one. There must be some sort of discount, right? Sadly, there was not.


Eighty minutes passed and there were three people in front of us. I was inconsolably starving by this point. Finally, our time had come and I practically spat out my order: two Maximus sliders (Maximus is spicy, Minimus is sweet and tangy) with heat (to make it even spicier) and Beecher’s cheese on top, Minimus coleslaw, and a large side of fryer-fresh veggie chips. Pondering which home-made beverage to quaff, I was hoping for their Ginger Lemonade of which they were, of course, out. Instead, I settled for Hibiscus Nectar, which looked suspiciously sanguine. Brett ordered two Maximus sliders sans heat and cheese, with small sides of coleslaw and chips.

I realized quickly that just because we had placed our order did not mean we would be receiving our food straight away. We were handed cups with ice to procure our libations, which came from a tap sticking right out of the porcine shaped Airstream. Despite my initial reservations, the Hibiscus nectar was actually delicious! I may have found sewer water to be tasty at that point as well, such was my thirst. It was tart, wholesome and not too terribly sweet. Nursing my beverage as though it were a bottle, I practically ripped our food out of the vendor’s hands when he called our number. Unfortunately, napkins were not to be found anywhere, so after bundling up our bounty; we all but sprinted to the car.


Too dazed to tolerate the ten minute drive home, I suggested we enjoy lunch in our parked car. I was concerned as we approached the dubious lot that the vehicle would have either been towed or have tipped over and rolled to the bottom. Fortunately, it was safe. We negotiated our way cautiously inside, cracked the windows and dug in.

I truly believe at this point Daniel Boulud could have cooked a five course meal expressly for me and I would have been underwhelmed. I ravenously chewed the fibrous meat as pork oil dripped down my chin. The sandwich was tasty, this I cannot argue. But did it warrant waiting for an hour and a half? I'm not sure. The pork was juicy and delightful-- the bun rustic and hearty. What I was particularly fond of was the coleslaw, which contained cranberries and black sesame seeds. Most importantly, it wasn’t drowning in mayonnaise but rather was briskly tossed with a tangy (healthy) sauce. The veggie chips were delicious—obviously home-made because they were still a bit warm and soggy (in a good way). After being removed from the fryer, these potato, carrot, beet, and bean chips were seasoned to perfection with what could have only been shichimi.


I inhaled my food, barely stopping for a breath while Brett, ever immutable, considered each bite before declaring himself full half way through his first sandwich. By this time it was 2:30, and we had to head home to prepare for dinner at How to Cook a Wolf with his parents a few hours later. At this rate, it was going to be a long day of hedonism.

chez la buche qui rouler.

I always say that in order to appreciate the finer things in life, one must have some sort of basis for comparison. For this very reason I strolled over to Issaquah’s “Rolling Log” tavern Friday after work with a few of my co-workers to delight in cheap beer and (vagrant) people watching.


This dubious establishment is one of those places where upon exiting, no matter if you’ve touched nothing during your brief tenure there, you always feel filthy. But then again, there is an even better chance that you’ll find a foreign sticky substance on your seat (as I did) or reach in to a plastic container holding shuffleboard pucks only to find the pucks slathered with mucousy saliva (as my friend Kristin did.) The three cretins monopolizing the Log’s shuffleboard until moments prior had left their lingering essence not only by way of the Gwar and Winger music selections on the juke box, but also by way of their DNA.

I made my way over to the juke box with the hope that these vile death metal selections could not last much longer and so loaded the machine with a few of my favorite dive bar anthems: "Everybody’s Working for the Weekend” and “I Can’t Go for That” to name a few. As I pondered over my selection, I began waving wildly to garner the attention of my crew since I could not for the life of me remember which group performed “Everybody’s Working for the Weekend.” Whilst gesturing, an unkempt bearded chap took this to be a sign that I wanted to talk to him and came up to me. Not feeling as social as is usually the case, I smiled and nodded, paying no attention to his babbling and focused on selecting my remaining three songs. Please do not misunderstand, I had no notions that I was better than this gentleman—I simply wanted to listen to my tunes, enjoy the company of my friends, and partake of my Stella.

Guitar riffs continued to assault my eardrums and I found myself saying “huh” and “what” every few moments, such was the din. The Log clientele was one of my group’s “mane” topics of discussion due to the fact that every man looked either like Simba, Michael Bolton, or some horrific combination thereof. Since no one could hear too terribly well, we spent most of our time smiling, pointing, toasting, and enjoying some light snacks.

Particularly thrilling to me about the Log is their “Nut Bar.” For one buck, the trusty barmaid Jamie will fill a tiny cup with lukewarm mixed nuts. Also available, and preferable only after one has indulged in a couple of beers, is free popcorn. We threw caution to the wind and loaded up on this gratis snack, despite the fact that it appeared to have been made hours, if not days, before.



I ever so slowly nursed my second beer, indignant that I would not leave until my songs had been heard. The bar continued to throng even as wayward regulars shuffled in and out to smoke by the back door. I easily lost track of time considering how dimly lit it was inside. The darkness did not embrace that ever present “unaffected cool” vibe, but instead was instrumental in disguising layers of grime in which the Log is eternally encrusted. I attempted to distract myself as Kristin regaled me with debaucherous tales of the regulars.

noteworthy patron and a partial of jamie (barmaid)

Having passed a good two hours idly gripping my handbag and taking photos of the more noteworthy patrons, it was time to again delight in the finer things. Kissing my companions’ cheeks and bidding them all adieu, I washed my hands a few times and hit the road.

idly gripping my handbags

A Caprice Kitchen

I rang A Caprice Kitchen promptly at 9am on Wednesday morning from my work phone and expected that perhaps I would be connected to voicemail. Much to my delight, Anne Catherine actually answered the phone! She sounded a bit confused as to why I would be requesting reservations for 6pm on a Wednesday night, but nevertheless took my particulars and said she would look forward to seeing me that evening. I was extremely excited to partake in this small local restaurant found perusing the internet. Particularly exciting about the portent of the evening was that I would be passing it with Brett and my dear friend DeAnn.

When she picked us up at a quarter of six, I wedged myself into her back seat amidst boxes occupying most of the space and allowed Brett to sit in the comfort of the front. Guiding her north, we arrived moments later and were able to procure a parking spot directly in front of our destination. Tucked away on a sleepy Ballard street just north of Ballard High School, A Caprice Kitchen is quaint, unassuming and homey. Relatively new, Anne Catherine (both owner and chef) opened Caprice back in November of 2008 and builds all of her menus around seasonal harvests of local Washington farmers.

this week's list of local suppliers

We walked in and were to be the first guests of the evening. Despite this fact, I still notified the server of my reservations. She smiled graciously and led us to the front window table where adjacent to our seating was a 50's era record player. Our table was adorned with mismatched silverware, a vintage milk jug housing three dahlias and tiny copper salt and pepper shakers. I was beginning to feel as though we weren't in a restaurant, but rather a young eccentric woman's home.

Our server guided our sights toward the large chalkboard at the front of the restaurant, which featured the starters, mains and desserts for the week. Choices are limited due to the fact that Anne Catherine procures her ingredients on a near daily basis, but her offerings are varied and delightful.


The three of us decided to indulge in all three starters: spinach salad with a warm bacon-tomato vinaigrette, wild watercress salad with a pickled farm fresh egg, and a trio of artisan cheeses served with house-made crackers and fig compote.

pickled egg atop watercress salad

My favorite starter by far was the wild watercress salad. The watercress was delicately bathed in a tarragon aioli dressing and had Valentina cheese crumbled in as well. The concoction served as a lovely sort of nest for the pickled egg, which was absolutely superb. The combination was at once tart, bitter and creamy. After a few bites of each, we passed our dishes clockwise. I found the spinach salad to be slightly on the bland side-- but perhaps subtle would be a more apt descriptor. The feta tasted like more of a chevre and I was hard-pressed to find a bacon essence in the vinaigrette. The trio of cheeses, featuring Seastack, Wynochee blue and Brewleggio was enjoyable, but the house-made crackers were the real star of that show being crispy, thin and flaky.


We shared a delicious bottle of Petit Syrah from a small vintner in Yakima (only 70 cases of this particular wine were produced.) Our original selection, a wine entitled "Animale" was not yet available due to the fact that the gentleman who makes the wine swings by to make his delivery after he's completed his work day. Sure enough, he wandered in around 6:30pm. Whilst we dined, Anne Catherine popped in and out to attend to the local vendors delivering their wares before heading back to the kitchen to cook our meals, I can only assume, from scratch.

enjoying the wine and good company

Three entrees were offered that evening and Brett, DeAnn and myself each ordered something different: I chose the chicken and chantrelle pot pie, Brett decided upon the lamb shank, and DeAnn opted for the lobster mushroom farro risotto with smoked salmon. Accompanying each of our meals was a side of braised kale, which was smoky and crisp. My pot pie was unlike any pot pie that I have ever experienced since it was not creamy, but rather broth-based. I giggled to myself when the server described this dish as "chicken-y" but really had to hand it to her once I had indulged in my first bite since that is the most accurate adjective I could come up with as well. In my estimation, we were all pleased with our choices. The lively conversation had ceased and we began focusing our attention on the task at hand. All of us ultimately becoming members of the clean plate club.

lobster mushroom farro risotto with smoked salmon

lamb shank

chicken-y roasted chicken and chantrelle pot pie

As the evening progressed, A Caprice Kitchen filled up pleasantly. Despite this fact, the quality of our service never wavered. Attention was paid to ensure we had everything we needed, but we were never hounded, ignored, or rushed. I no longer felt like I was at someone's home, but as though I was in a bustling french bistro (a sensation that was likely intensified by the fact that Edith Piaf was crooning in the background.)


What I found to be most memorable about our time here was the feeling of wholesome satiety we all enjoyed after the meal. Not only was our experience at A Caprice Kitchen a culinary delight, but a tour of what our indigenous farmers have to sustain us.

whiz bang two f. spur

Saturday morning I awoke at a shockingly early 9am and was inspired to cook a nice breakfast. I often think if I had the luxury of determining my own schedule, I would cook a multitude of extravagant meals and often.

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.