Last month I found myself in Seattle on a Thursday night (not in an existential kind of way, just physically there hanging out) and had an evening to myself, during which I would need to find some suitable grub. Since I found myself on a flight back to Seattle last night, I figure I need to finally post my story from the last trip. I had already done the touristy crap on Tuesday, done the fancy business dinner crap on Wednesday, so decided I’d try to find something a little more off the beaten track. Someone had recommended the Capitol Hill area, so I hopped in my rented Pontiac SUV (I can’t remember the model, but it kind of sounded like an STD) with a map, an iPhone and the name of a place I had found on Yelp. I lucked out and found a parking spot right in the heart of the district and went to track down a joint named Quinn’s. They had a menu that featured stuff like bone marrow and wild boar, and hey, who doesn’t appreciate a heaping serving of bone marrow on a Thursday night.
But when I came upon the place it was all like new and shiny and shit and packed full of trendy folks. Even the bar area was full. So I kept walking. I found some hole-in-wall Asian joints, a couple Italian joints, some dive bars, sandwich shops and a pita place, but nothing reached out and grabbed me. As I approached what I perceived as the end of the district, I walked past a sex toy shop, a lingerie shop and a place called the Honeyhole. Given its locale I figured it must be a massage parlor or house of ill repute, possibly a strip club at best. Since I prefer to keep my name out of the police blotter and my nose out of strange cleavage I didn’t pay much attention to the storefront. I wandered back up the other side of the block and found some hole-in-wall Asian joints, a couple Italian joints, some dive bars, sandwich shops and a pita place, but nothing reached out and grabbed me. It seemed like a good area to do some drinkin’ but I had trouble picking out a place to stuff my face. I found an abandoned doorway and consulted the iPhone. And surprisingly one of the recommendations was the Honeyhole. Apparently it’s a bar with pretty decent sandwiches, so I made my way back to that end of the block.
I peeked in the window like a creepy homeless dude and saw some tables, mostly occupied, and a small bar with an open stool. I yelled “dibs” though the window, ran inside and claimed my piece of real estate belly side of the bar. The bartender somehow was able to be both attentive and disinterested at the same time. As opposed to the waitress who was just plain disinterested once her table of friends left.
I probably should have been a little more self-conscious since I think I was the only one there without a neck tattoo or with someone sporting a neck tattoo. Great place for people watching, which is probably just another way of saying I was the creepy old guy staring at everybody. Fortunately, I was able to divert my gaze to the décor quite often as it was quite eclectic. Picture it as if Pee-Wee Herman were raised by the Addams Family and got to decorate his own room using only items found at an Asian flea market on the Canadian border.
The pulled pork sandwich wasn’t bad, either, cooked up by an indie cutie who occasionally poked her bescarfed head out from behind the curtain separating the kitchen from the bar. Probably checking me out. You know, the creepy guy at the end of the bar.
As soon as I get my neck tattoo, I’m heading back.