|
|
Thursday |
 Sarah's mom and dad are in town. I was
exhausted from laying two layers of 3/4" plywood
subfloor in Arlington yesterday so we took it easy
by the pool of the BnB
across the street where they're staying. I
even fell asleep in the sun, which is a rare feat
for me. After that we went to The Edgewater for
happy hour, which used to be a pretty good deal
for the best waterfront seat in Seattle, but they
no longer apply happy hour pricing to the patio,
so it's probably my last
time. Sadly, $6 beers seem to be the norm in these
parts. From there it's a short walk to Olympic
Sculpture Park. Someone said the magic word
BBQ so after taking in the sights there we
consulted the Oracle and found Barbecue Pit
at 25th and Cherry. It looked promising but I
should have read the fine print. We arrived at
7:15 and found a spot right out front. The smells
emanating from within were divine (if you can put
slaughterhouses out of your mind, which I can
though I try not to make it a habit). Too bad they
closed at 7. Consulted the Oracle again and found
another promising spot at 1816
Yesler, just a half mile away, open till 8.
The place looked good and again we found a spot
right out front before noticing the handwritten
sign in the window saying they were on vacation
from July 4 - 15. OK, phone, don't fail us now. We
were in the mood for Southern BBQ but thought we'd
give Northshore
Hawaiian Barbecue and Bar a shot for old
times' sake. We were so distracted by hunger and
relief at finding a place that was actually open
that we overlooked the fact that it looked like no
restaurant I'd ever seen. The impressions didn't
really sink in until we were seated on the patio.
The place apparently used to be a gas station and
it still seemed more like a hoarder's garage than
an eatery. There's a cute bar in back with $2.50
Kona happy hour but where stools should be was
piled with boxes, a child's bicycle, and other
random clutter. There were no other customers,
just three generations of the proprietress's
family--a thin old man leaned back in a chair in
opaque oversized sunglasses, mouth gaping open,
apparently asleep; another man, perhaps the
husband, absorbed by a laptop as a giant
flatscreen blared Asian TV; an adolescent daughter
played games on a tablet, moving colored circles
around. Another family member was transplanting
and watering bamboo in white plastic 5-gallon
buckets. That made me hopeful, like maybe they
were on an improvement kick at last. The
presentation was decent, the salad was fresh, but
the meat was chew chew chewy and I used up my
napkin discreetly depositing gristly bits. The mac
salad, a key component of any Hawaiian plate
lunch, was not spoiled-bad but it was so
flavorless-bad that I couldn't bring myself to eat
it. Why take that chance? The whole scene reminded
me of Tampopo
and I secretly wanted to be the cowboy riding in
to town to save the struggling business. I must
have a messiah complex. But they don't need my
help. They have each other. We asked for the check
and were left sitting with it. "I guess we pay at
the register?" There was music coming from the
entrance now, piano, and we got there to find the
daughter rocking out Richard
Marx on the old upright. She was good! I
dunno what else to say about it other than: go
check it out for yourself!
Any place this strange in a Seattle that's rapidly
homogenizing deserves some kind of support. |