One, please...

My spirits were mostly up, (but not as high as I'm accustomed to having them,) and my blood-sugar level was on the decline. On my way home, all I could think about was indulging in a really nice steak to pick me up. Working Downtown and living in Midtown I tend to traverse 4th and 5th Avenues and sometimes forget how convenient a playground the Pike Place Market can be, which is where I ended up last night.

As I exited Yamasaki's iconic Rainier Tower, having come from yet another Seattle Architecture Foundation event, out of habit I headed to my favorite bar on Upper Fifth, Vessel, which, unfortunately, for the time being is shuttered, as of last month. I found my feet carrying me onward and Westward thinking to myself, "Hmmm... where could I get a nice steak?" I wasn't in the mood for a steakhouse, or a grill, or a gentlemen's club. I wanted something a bit more vibrant, yet cozy and intimate. I figured the Market was my best bet, and it was.

Of course I had Place Pigalle in mind, but they are currently undergoing a renovation as their building is simultaneously being retrofitted. Then I thought about Shea's Lounge being in the mood for a place that leaned towards the informal, yet still carried a hint of elegance. They too, were closed, Matt's in the Market, however, was not.

"Do you have a reservation this evening?" the host asked.

I replied, "No, I do not. I was wondering if there, perhaps, might be room in the bar?"

"For how many?" he continued.

"One. Please." I answered without the least bit of hesitation.

"Of course, this way please."

I hung up my wool, All Purpose Service Coat and plaid, Pendleton scarf and followed the tall, trim host through the full dining room and to the bar that seated eight, comfortably. As I sat down at the last available seat, positioned at the elbow of the bar, I opened up the drink menu and glanced at the cocktail list. I was pleased with what I saw, every drink listed was made with spirits of reputable quality, of which I was familiar with.

The bartender, Benjamin, knew his craft well. My first beverage, a Manhattan of sorts, was beautifully balanced with rye, cointreau, bitters and orange peel, instantly it made me recall the amazing sunset that occurred mere hours before: bright, crisp and golden with a haunting orange hue.

Though the dinner menu offered a wide array of tempting plates, ranging from Arctic Char to Pork Belly, I still had my heart set on steak and ordered the Painted Hills Tenderloin, medium rare, of course.

As I nestled into my corner perch I glanced around the rose-lit room. To my right sipping on Chardonnay were a pair of women each paired with her own beautiful handbag. To my left, alongside the other arm of the bar, sharing a bottle of Portuguese wine with their dinner, was a chap originally from Manchester, but on an overnight trip with his ever-so-poised wife, up from San Francisco proper. How she was able to lift her wineglass with the weight of her radiant-cut, 4-Carat wedding ring was beyond me.

I myself, was dressed in premium Levi's, with a cream-colored, wool sweater knitted in Italy, brown suede boots made in England and adorned with a single, silver bracelet from Tiffany & Co., I felt my outfit blended me in quite well with the quiet, effortless elegance of my fellow diners and imbibers. The crowd did not exude an air of indulgence, decadence or pretentiousness, as one might expect. Rather, it was quite plain these people were just out enjoying a midweek meal, one that just so happened to be of a luxurious quality. No stranger to luxury myself, I couldn't help but chuckle as once again I appeared to be one of the youngest looking guests in the room. Around us, every table was full, with the demographic leaning toward those with more than a number of years under their belt in the professional world. Each patron enjoying a lifestyle years of success had afforded them. My assumptions were further asserted upon recognizing a client of mine, a dapper (bow-tie and all,) gray-haired attorney who's office is on the 52nd floor of the skyscraper I work in.

As I sat, sipping on my delightful, liquid concoction, I myself reflected on my upcoming 11-year anniversary at the floral boutique, my recent appointment as a Tour Coordinator at the architecture foundation earlier that evening and a few other personal milestones I've recently surpassed and felt as if I've seen a share of success in my life as well.

I couldn't help but observe the handsome wait-staff as they glided around the dinning room with efficient grace, each action and movement with a purpose and meaning. They appeared as if they were all dancers, but instead of performing on stage for our eyes to behold, they were among the audience, moving around us and through us, with their goal to be as transparent as possible.

Or perhaps, we were all on stage? The line between spectator and spectacle thus blurred. Situated on a second story, the restaurant boasts large, over-sized, arched windows trimmed with simple strands of white Christmas lights, the effect resulting in an echo of a series of proscenium arches subtly reasserting a theatric feel to the venue.

But the drama at Matt's isn't seen, nor heard, it is tasted. The first bite of my beef tenderloin was absolutely delectable. Presented prettily on a white, square plate, the petite cut of vegetarian-fed Oregon beef, raised without hormones or antibiotics, was served with patatas bravas over a bed of braised greens, drizzled in a dark, slightly pungent sauce, alongside a pile of herb-infused butter. I leisurely took my time as I gently let every taste-bud satisfy itself with each savory bite.

The single ladies to my right, vacated their posts for greener pastures after one more round of wine, while the jet set couple to my left ordered dessert and French press coffee. I was questioned about my cocktail, my origin, my opinions on various restaurants and hotels in the city, my profession, and even my smart phone, (which I kept in the pocket the entire evening until asked about it.)

I had questions about the impetus for their impromptu trip to the Emerald City; what life is like back at home for them, their three children and two dogs; other places they enjoy traveling to (the Greek Isles are spectacular apparently); and Manchester City F.C., (which was previously owned by the notorious Thaksin Shinawatra the ousted Prime Minister of Thailand, but currently held by a group of Abu Dhabi investors.)

As we chatted, the Manchester chap felt emboldened and decided to order a cocktail for himself, a Rum-based beverage featuring Falernum, meanwhile a pair of Market locals quickly took-over the recently vacated stools to my right. After tasting a few wines and making a selection the newly seated pair inquired whether the tenderloin was of pork or beef. The bartender explained the kitchen receives a whole hog each Thursday and uses as much of it as they can. 

"Oh, wonderful. I just wondering. You have so much pork on the menu, I wasn't sure if the tenderloin was pork or beef, but pork is great."

"Absolutment!" I uttered in agreement.

"Parle-vous français?" she asked me in surprise.

"Eh... Non," I confessed.

"Je parle un petit peu de français" chimed the Manchester fellow, before ordering one more cocktail. While declining dessert in favor of another cocktail, a Falernum flip, I told my fellow bar-mates of my adventures the night previous around town which culminated at a French conversation night at Blackbottle.

As my night came to a close, before I departed, I quipped, "Je ne parle pas français, je parle très bien la romance."

Needless to say, I left that night alone, but I did leave with an ovation.