Rad Bromance - Interlude

Knock, knock.  Tap, tap, tap.

The door to the storage room at work slowly opened.

"You have a visitor...," my boss chimed, "N___ is here to see you."

I was halfway through lunch and just had taken another bite of chicken tikka masala and was caught a bit off guard.

I swallowed. "I'll be there in a minute."

The door closed and I jumped over to the sink and hurriedly began brushing my teeth. I took a quick glance in the mirror and decided to rinse off my face and straighten up my hair a tad bit before I decided I was ready to see him again.

"Hi T___! How are you?" he asked me as he gave me a hug.

"I'm great. Good to see you," I replied before also saying, "Hello," to K_____.

"You really are such a good tour guide that I was easily able to find my way back to where you work." He smiled at me, wearing a light blue linen shirt; the pull of his camera's shoulder strap gently lifted his snugly fit shirt and revealed just a hint of skin above the waistline of his casual shorts. I attempted to avert my eyes and, with considerable effort, managed to fix my gaze down to his Oxford Chuck Taylors instead.  

"What have you got planned for the rest of the day?" I asked trying not to sound too anxious.

"Well, we did Fremont this morning," K_____ explained, "I was going to show N___ the Koolhaas library and then head over to Caffè Umbria and look around Pioneer Square."

"Oh, sounds nice."  I replied in as pleasantly as possible, hoping I'd get an invite to meet up with them later in the evening.

However, it didn't turn out that way.

Rad Bromance - Part II - A Day in the Life of Seattle's Darling

I was filled with so much anticipation that I had trouble sleeping after my exciting evening with N___. Was he really going to contact me? Were we really going to meet up? Or was that all just friendly, but forgettable, drunken-talk? We had tentatively decided on meeting up around 10:00 or 11:00, which was still hours away, so to pass the time I ran through an itinerary of what I would show him and where I would take him should he actually contact me and still wanted to me to guide him around the city.

Once I saw first light, I finally decided to get up, and get on with my day . I made a French Press full of dark Italian-roast coffee and as it brewed, tried to figure out what to wear; should I don my Sunday's Best, should I get dolled-up and showcase my softer side, or should I play it cool and just wear something casual? I opted for the later, wearing a slim, fitted pair of jeans that some would say have the appearance of being "professionally distressed," but in actuality were just authentically beginning to show their age, I chose to pair them with a simple, white V-neck tee-shirt screen-printed with one word in red: ADO(RED).

Apparently I wasn't the only one making decisions on what to wear. He did contact me and expressed his interests in exploring the city with me and we agreed to rendezvous at the base of the Space Needle in an hour.  Not long after I received a text that said: "So I'm walking over now. I put on a special shirt for you." Needless to say, I couldn't stop smiling after reading that.

On my way to Seattle Center, I was surrounded by throngs of runners wearing white, but splattered with various colors of paint and tempura powder. It was if a marathon ran smack through a springtime Hindu Holi festival, where everyone throws brightly colored, scented powders and perfumes at one another. Two things immediately ran through my head, 1) Oh no! I hope my white tee shirt doesn't get messed up before we meet! 2) All these people will be hungry, roaming the immediate neighborhood and looking for a place to brunch, we have to get out of Uptown!

I knew N___ was staying on Queen Anne and would be coming from the north, so I wandered over to the north side of the Space Needle and placed myself upon a prominent bench, where it would be near impossible to miss me. It was not long after that I spotted him, in a sea of white clad runners, he had a bright red tee-shirt on and as he approached I saw that it had the logo of the company he works for emblazoned in light blue on the front of it (N___ works for an online dating website that I have been an avid fan of for years.)

After exchange 'hellos,' I gave him the option of checking out the Seattle Center grounds or avoiding the messy crowds by escaping via the Monorail into the heart of Downtown, he opted for the later much to my relief. We jumped aboard the charming, streamlined, mid-century relic and whisked our way past vast parking lots, towering construction cranes, quaint brick apartments (including my Midtown flat,) hotels--great and small, office towers of various ages and terminated our ride between a neo-classical department store and a post-modern shopping mall.

From the loading bay, before we descended our way down to the street level, I took advantage of our height to point out a few architectural features of some of the surrounding terracotta-clad buildings. From the street we ventured up Upper Fifth and I relayed to him the history of our local department stories; pointed out the former Diamond District; touched upon the numerous resources and industries other than timber that kick-started our economy in its infancy; the origin of some of our city's street names; I showed him how ambitious early Seattleites were, eager to establish legitimacy amongst the bigger cities of the day, how that spirit fostered a city that grew swiftly and steadily through the years, and how that translated into our city's architecture; the rise and fall of various locally-grown commercial enterprises; and pointed out oft unnoticed public works of art all "hidden" in plain view: a clock reminiscent of an old nursery rhyme, a planted urn adorned with assorted animal heads that could also be found gracing various buildings throughout the city, a hatch-cover that doubled as a map of the city itself.

Our eyes gradually ceased to guide us through the city and eventually our appetites took the reigns and we found ourselves in the Four Season's Hotel at Fonté Café and Wine Bar, where a few friends of mine just happen to work.

"Oh Pumpkin'!" I was greeted with a kiss and a hug by my friend L_____, followed by a high-five by my other friend C______.

Upon taking our seats, I swiftly ordered a glass of sparkling rosé, while N___ indulged in his very first French Press experience, selecting a medium-bodied Brazilian roast. Fonté's brunch offerings are quite vast and it took us a bit longer to decided upon what he wished to break our fast with. I ended up keeping it simple, ordering a trio of sunny-side-up eggs, toast, friend potatoes, bacon and a side of fruit; N___ had one of the featured specialty omelets of the day.


It didn't take long for L_____ to notice the logo on N___'s shirt and who he works for and before we knew it, L_____ was offering her views on N___ company and the specific product he works on. We all got caught up in critiquing the product, but L_____ wasn't able to chat as in-depth as she would have liked, since she was after all at work, and offered that we all meet up later in the week to continue our conversation. Contact info was then exchanged and tentative dates set, afterwhich another glass of rosé accompanied by a mimosa seemed to magically appear at our table.

"Happy Mother's Day, Tino," N___ winked at me, before taking care of our tab.

After brunch we jaunted across the street and entered the Seattle Art Museum, where I am a member and was able to get N___ in on one of my guest passes. We spent several hours wandering the few floors of galleries that are so familiar to me, and along our way ended up making some friends.

"Oh my God! I love your shirt! Where did you get it?!" a passer-by asked N___.

"I work for _______," N___ replied.

"Oh my God! That's awesome! I love _______! That's how the two of us met!" The passer-by exclaimed while gesturing to his fiancée. It turns out the techie couple were visiting from the Twin Cities and had just arrived to the Emerald City a few hours prior.

They were very enthusiastic about relaying all of their assorted, (on on occasion, sordid,) experiences from using _______, so loud was their enthusiasm, that a security guard ushered us into a children's play room to continue our conversation.

They were just as eager to discuss where they should go while they were here in the Emerald City, most especially where to dine and drink, and as you can imagine I had much to say about that, so much so that time ran away from us and we were a bit late to our next engagement.

After realizing what time it was, we abruptly said 'Adieu,' and took our leave, and then scampered through Pike Place Market and went to visit a friend of mine at the Pike and Western Wine Shop to pick up a few bottles of bubbles for the barbecue that was just now getting under way.

The barbecue wasn't too far away, at a historic loft in Pioneer Square, but we were a bit pressed for time, as N___ was to meet some friends for happy hour in under two hours, so I hailed a cab and just past the iconic Pergola jumped out and then buzzed in into a 5-story, Victorian-esque brick building that hails from 1891 and built by two of the Emerald City's founders.

The in-city home of my charming friends, L___, who is a general manager of a local outfit for a British High Street retailer and her beau, B___, who is one of my absolute favourite bartenders in town and also has various artistic abilities beyond crafting cocktails, completely reflects their eclectic and absolutely adorable personalities. Their space with oversized windows that looked out onto the tree-lined avenue had a lofted ceiling, exposed brick walls and heavy timbers and was so stylishly adorned, I felt as if we were in the midst of a Wallpaper* magazine photo shoot, everything was so perfectly placed, yet there was a complete air of authenticity to it all. This beautiful and artful space was not on show, this was just how they live, this was their home, and we were their guests.

After a round of drinks and some prepping in the kitchen, (the homemade guacamole was incredible!) we ascended up to the building's rooftop where we were met with a panoramic view of Elliot Bay, the ferry terminal and the Olympic mountains beyond. In the other direction we could see the iconic Smith Tower, upon spotting it gave a little background on the building and its history.  We chatted with the other guests, more techies as it so happened, and again time got away from us and we were late for our next engagement.

We, somewhat reluctantly, made our farewells and then hopped a bus back to the retail core, upon which we transferred to a streetcar to the newly developed Allentown, err, I mean, South Lake Union neighborhood, where we met N___'s long time friend from childhood, K____ and a fellow Yogi friend of hers (it just so happens that I happen to know a teacher who leads classes at one of their yoga studios,) who was just on her way out.  We were, afterall, nearly an hour late.  Je suis desolé!

I had another glass of champagne and a pulled pork sandwich to go along with it.  N___ had a sampler of oysters and a pint of beer to wash them down with.  We relayed our adventures for the day to K_____ and all that we had seen, and tasted, and with K_____ being in the industry we naturally continued discussing where we enjoy dining and drinking and it was only a matter of time until I invited them to dinner at one of my spots in the Pike Place Market.  Turns out K_____ used to work there.

From South Lake Union, and having just come from Pioneer Square, it seemed like quite a trek to work our way back to the market, so instead we decided to forage at the local upscale grocer and make dinner at K_____'s place.  We came up with an artisan loaf, a fresh line-caught King Salmon, some spring spinach, ripe eggplant and a bounty of local mushrooms: chanterelle, oyster and enoki, and to polish it all off, a stunning bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir, 2008 of course.  Hey, it's not everyday you get to entertain a New Yorker.

We made our way to a cute, old brick apartment mid-slope on Queen Anne, with original hardwood floors and beautiful mahogany woodwork throughout.  Her place was unapologetically furnished, everything in her possession had a purpose, that is not to say her home was lacking in character in any way.  K_____'s home, was as straightforward and as attractive, as her alluring and confident self.  Instantly upon entering, she embraced us into her home and then began attending to dinner with equal parts aplomb and deftness.  As her wok emitted sizzles from the stovetop, and the smell of salmon arose from the oven, the sounds of French melodies serenaded us from her well-loved record player.  The setting for our impromptu dinner made me feel as if I were living out a scene from Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris, with everything imbued with a comforting glow.

With how effortless it took her to make dinner, the results were, by far, extraordinary.  We enjoyed our dinner at an unhurried pace and savored the phenomenal wine that went with it.  We talked, and talked, and talked, and laughed, and talked and talked, way past twilight and eventually I had to take my leave.  N___
offered to walk me out and went with me out to the street.  As we said our goodbyes, he mentioned he might check out the popular viewpoint at the crest of the hill and take some photos of the cityscape, I, of course, could not hold back and told him of a secluded spot which also offered that, but a bit more.  I'm so glad he took my advice.

Rad Bromance - Part I - Love at First Bite

It was a gloriously sunny day and long after the sun had set, I noticed the city was still enveloped in its warmth as I made my way to one of my favorite local cocktail parlors, The Coterie Room, to rendezvous with an old friend of mine I had not seen in ages.  It wasn't neither early, nor late in the evening, the dining room was busy, but the bar was relatively uninhabited, with only two solitary figures on either end, I of course went for the prime real estate and settled myself in the middle of the bar.  After I ordered a drink that wasn't on the menu, it wasn't long until the woman on my left, a reasonable attractive woman with long, dark hair and perfectly white teeth, while sipping her golden Chardonnay, tried to make conversation with the bartender, a handsome, tall, lean fellow sporting a sprinkling of tattoos and a brand new haircut, who also happens to be a friend of mine.

"How many cocktails would you say you knew?" she asked while offering a feline-like smile.

As my friend thought about it for a long moment, I interceded, "At least 200, if not 300.  M______ is one of the best bartenders in the city and I've been following him for years.  With the caliber of places he has worked at, I'm certain he easily knows over 200 cocktails."

That was all it took to break the ice amongst all of us.  A volley of questions soon followed:  "How do you remember all of them?  What are the most common ones?  What are the hardest ones?  Can you make a Ramos Gin Fizz?  Do I have to ask permission before I order one?"

As a friend arrived to meet the cougar-esque Chardonnay drinker, she confessed to feeling guilty to only ordering wine whilst in the presence of such a talented craft cocktailier.  The gentleman to my right, was grinning with delight and exuding an aire of achievement as he was able to successfully order such a time-consuming cocktail, and on a Saturday night no less.  While he was waiting for his fizz, I let him sample my Toronto and in exchange he offered me his fork for a bite of his pork shoulder poutine.  Oh... be still, my beating heart.

"Hmmm.  It's kind of like a Manhattan, but a bit sweeter."  He noted after a few tipples.

"Toronto.  Manhattan.  Same, same, but different."  I explained in Thai-accented English, eliciting a chuckle from my new bar companion.

"I'm actually from New York," he revealed, "I'm visiting from Brooklyn."

"Brooklyn!"  I exclaimed,  "I was just wearing my Brooklyn Industries hoodie earlier and the friend I'm meeting tonight used to live in Brooklyn Heights, I stayed with her one Christmas!"

And as if on cue, my friend arrived.  Introductions were made and not long after, it came to light that Miss Chardonnay not only works with my friend, but is actually her boss.

"That's Seattle for you," I elucidated, "we're really just a big, small town.  We don't have six degrees of separation, it's more like three degrees, sometimes two depending upon which circles you inhabit."

From there we chatted about the usual fare:  food and beverage; our favorite haunts; life in The City and life in the Emerald City, we compared mass transit systems and educational institutions; we touched on our childhoods and what brought us to where we are now, both professionally and recreationally, (he was out here visiting one of his best friends from High School, who happened to work at the establishment we were at;) we discovered we all love our work, and on and on and on our conversation continued.

It was only a matter of time until Miss Chardonnay, on her third glass, since my arrival (I wondered why she was having such a trying time navigating her way to the powder room in her heels, it turns out she had a martini before she switched to wine) dominated the ear of my friend to talk shop, which left me to my new New York foodie friend.  I asked him what his plans were for the duration of his stay, in particular the following day and offered him a walking tour of the city if he was interested, citing my heritage from being born and raised in the city proper as well as formerly holding the post as a Master Tour Guide for the architecture foundation as my credentials, I also had to add that of course no tour with Seattle's Darling is complete without a generous dose of libations along the way.  He was amenable to the offer and we eagerly exchanged our contact information.

Midnight seemed to come too soon and as we found ourselves the only ones left in the restaurant, I suggested we move on to greener pastures in order to allow the crew to decompress and close up.  We headed north on Second Avenue, under Manhattan-reminiscent scaffolding, past overflowing dive bars interspersed with insignificant nightclubs, dodged around countless hot dog carts and even more amateur drinkers until we ended up at the Rob Roy.

I greeted the doorman by name and stepped inside the dark cocktail den, sidling through swarms of revelers to the only vacant table that still lay unclaimed.  It was a busy night indeed.  Quite contrary to the relative calm of The Coterie Room we found ourselves amidst a vibrant, cacophonous crowd.  Amongst the customary weekend B & T scene-sters, there was a birthday celebration, a bachelorette party and a ever-increasing cadre of industry workers who had just finished their shifts.  Everyone around us seemed to be impatiently clamoring for a drink, so while the three of us coolly waited to place our order we refreshed ourselves on cucumber infused water and I relayed what I knew of the origin of the bar and its evolution:  the Legendary L____, the changing of the guard with the ever-so-savvy A__, the cocktail tastings, the carved ice, the reel-to-reel driven Analog Tuesdays, the themed parties past and the impressive of array of bartenders who have graced the bar and the ones who continue to do so to this day.

Our cocktails, when they arrived, were well worth the wait, and so, too, is the continuation of this tale...

A Brilliant Birthday

One of my dearest friends had a birthday not too long ago and it just so happen to fall upon a Monday this year. The night before her birthday, we celebrated with her family over a lovely home-cooked dinner, but one simply must celebrate their birthday on the actual day when in the company of Seattle's Darling, so my friend and I arranged to meet for a celebratory drink at a local neighborhood bar, The Rob Roy.

It was only fitting since my friend and I, whom I had originally met when in high school, but for awhile lost touch with, reconnected at a swanky cocktail party that the owner of the Rob Roy threw a few years back and we have been inseparable ever since, surviving endless adventures, including a road trip up the Golden Coast, numerous change of residences and more heartaches one should ever have to count.

It had been sometime since last we've been in to The Rob Roy, the black quilted leather covered walls still exuded the feel of stepping into James Bond's private den, complete with psychedelic 70's art work, a mounted boar's head and the sexiest of mid-century chandeliers. And though, many of the familiar features of the bar were a welcome sight, we did notice a number of upgrades that had occurred since our last visit: new leather bar chairs, an expansion of bar stools, a pair of sleek Braxton Studio end tables, and a pair of Louis Ghost Armchairs. Swanky and sexy indeed.

We grabbed a pair of seats, at the far end of the newly upholstered leather bar. Our bartender that night was beaming beyond belief, he had just recently became engaged. As my friend and I sipped Fernet and savored a few choice libations, our jubilant bartender did not hesitate in the least to share with us his engagement ring and how he met his lucky lady, giving my single friend and I hope that, indeed, "There is a lid for every pot," (as one of my friend's co-workers so colorfully phrased it.) As we began to feel the effects of the alcohol we attempted to come up with a few of our own metaphors: A stem for every vase; A candle for every candle-holder; A glass slipper for every foot (pedicured or not.)

To help further spur our creativity (for better, or worse) we decided to grab just one more drink and ended up at The Coterie Room, which is by far my favorite purlieu in the Emerald City. Prominently positioned on the corner of 2nd Avenue and Blanchard Street in a fetching 1900's brick building lined with a row of tall, multi-lit windows, The Coterie Room is, essentially just that, a room, but one that exhibits restrained grandeur and is seeping with understated elegance. Evocative of The Palm Court at the Fairmont Olympic, though not as tony by any means, the softly-lit, ivory-colored dining room features a titanic crystal chandelier suspended in the exact center of the lovely box-beam, tin-covered ceiling. As an auxiliary focal point, on the south wall adjacent to the bar, is a lush wall composed entire of living plants, a subtle nod to the standard greenery one would expect to find in the grand lobby of any classic luxury hotel.

Again, we perched ourselves at the end of the bar, though this time the bar was wrapped in zinc instead of leather. As we settled in to our seats, it just so happened that a scion of one of the Emerald City's premier clothier houses was paying his respects to the charming, petite and heavily inked bartender.

My friend, having lived in France for some time is quite versed in the French tongue and, of course, French wine. From the adorable bartender, my friend selected a glass of Le petit vin d'Avril, a fragrant, light, and fun red wine with a frivolous touch of fruitiness. I deferred to her expertise and had a glass of the same; it was the perfect choice for such a night. To help bolster our alcohol consumption ability, I ordered us a trio of cod fritters that arrived freshly fried and strewn beneath thin stripes of creole remoulade. Oh, so scrumptious!

As we nibbled on our savory notions, we struck up a conversation with a gentlemen sitting next to us who was visiting from San Francisco. He seemed to be rather versed in both spirits and finer food and quite congenial as well. Shortly after introductions, he amicably offered to share his steamed mussels generously laden with housemade chorizo and sweet peppers, and the absolute best duck leg confit I've ever experienced in my thirty-two years!

And, as we were discussing the next venue to visit on our enchanted night, if was as if by magic, our wine glasses seem to have refilled themselves. Uncanny how just one more drink somehow seems to turn into several more! (Truth be told, a nod and a wink is all it takes to prompt a well-polished bartender to pour another round.) Wine wasn't the only thing a sly smile was able to conjure up, for shortly after our refill our adept bartender brought out a candlelit cinnamon fritter under a layer of caramel apple sauce. And, as if on cue, our new acquaintance from San Francisco began singing a rendition of Stevie Wonder's "Happy Birthday." "And I'm sure you would agree/It couldn't fit more perfectly/Than to have a world party on the day you came to be..."

We just couldn't let the celebration end there, so we wandered over to the Market, winding our way through alleys and side streets and down a nearly hidden switchback staircase until we reached our final destination: Zig Zag. One of the Emerald City's foremost cocktail dens. My friend and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to exhibit this beloved gem with someone from another cocktail-centric city.

As we set foot through the door we were greeted with a series of embraces from the hostess, one of the bartenders and several bar patrons, before being ushered into a wide, comfy booth that fit the trio of us perfectly. To continue the French-leaning evening I ordered a Champs-Élysées for my first beverage. My friend, another glass of wine, and the San Franciscan, who was still hungry, the house gumbo that featured smoked alligator andouille sausage and assorted seafood.

In between drinks, I roamed the around the rose-lit room and chatted with several friends I knew, leaving my friend in the hands, or arms rather, of the San Franciscan. I knew I didn't have to worry about her falling into trouble, so to speak, she's old enough to look out for herself, the night being her birthday after all and placing another year underneath her belt. While on my social rounds, I was able to arrange for another round of birthday drinks offered to the table, and again for another candlelit dessert to appear, which prompted us all into singing "Happy Birthday" a second time, but this time with an even bigger cast.

By the time we left the bar, we gained one more in our entourage and the four of us made our way back to where the evening began, near the Rob Roy, where my friend had parked her car. As the San Franciscan did his best to convince my friend to keep the evening going, even throwing in a good-night-kiss, the newcomer did his best to attempt to keep me from interfering. I told him, "Oh don't be afraid, I'm not interfering; that's not the right lid for that pot."

'Tis lonely at the top.

I looked forward to the evening with enthusiastic anticipation accompanied with an ounce of anxiety. To calm my nerves and ease my eager heart, I arranged to meet a friend for a few glasses of Prosecco before the start of the party. In between sips, we caught one another up on what had transpired in our lives since last we met. Between bites of Manchego drizzled with lavender honey and grilled sausages over a nest of lentils we went from the recent past to the distant future and where might our wanderlust may take us next.

All too soon, the appointed hour struck, and it was time for us to begin our ascension to the party. Up a series of steps, we climbed, and continued up a hill until we reached Upper Fifth and followed the tree-lighted avenue to the base of The Tower, a tall, dark monolith; the tallest tower in the Emerald City, and, at its conception the tallest of its kind throughout the West. We entered The Tower and remarked on the unimpressive remodel that had compromised the skyscraper's original lobby before stepping into an elevator that took us mid-way to our destination, The Club. After a transferring of elevators, we had arrived at The Club.

In line, I was greeted by a pair of friends who were just as fashionably late as we were. At the registration table, I was welcomed by another friend who did not even bother to ask if I were on the list and simply handed me a trio of drink tickets. Another flight of stairs awaited to usher us into the main ballroom.

The ballroom was stifling crowded and near chaotic. A long line snaked around the perimeter of the sharply angled room, past a buffet table, and meandered behind a judges' panel and eventually led to a illuminated bar carved of ice, back-dropped by an infinite view of the Emerald City. No less than a minute after my entrance I ran into another friend, a fellow cocktail aficionado, who, I later discovered, with little surprise, was one of the judges for the evening's cocktail competition. Then, a pair of neighbors came our way to let us sample a few of the libations that were being offered. Several seconds later I felt a tap on my shoulder and was reunited with a childhood friend, and after a ring of introductions I was descended upon by yet another friend, this one a former neighbor who brought a work colleague with her. They joined us in the serpentine line and another round of introductions were made, shortly after I received a text message from one more friend wondering as to where I was. More kisses hello, more welcoming hugs, and more layered introductions, and thus so the evening continued.

Ever the social hummingbird, I flitted from one circle to the next, and to the next, and on to the next. With a French Manhattan always in hand, I darted between servers balancing trays laden with bourbon based concoctions to pay my respects to elevated bartenders, gossip with stylish ballet enthusiasts, encourage mischievous sommeliers, deflect blatant social climbers, intrigue savvy real estate developers, tease prolific financiers, toast successful writers, listen to passionate legal wranglers, entertain glossy tech talent and dish with fashionable web marketeers. The clink of glasses, sparkling laughter, and genuine conversation surrounded me; in this atmosphere, I was entirely in my element.

And then, I saw Him. Intrinsically I knew He would be there. No raven, nor sparrow forewarned me of His arrival. Inside, I knew, the one person, amongst a swarm of hundreds, that I so longed to see and yet also dreaded to see, would be there. His eyes, the same as I remembered them, of the bluest steel sparked with golden flecks of amber. His disarming, near smirk of a smile that carried just enough charm... just enough to make you wonder if His thoughts at any given time were naughty or nice. His gentle hands, the same hands that once softly held mine across a candlelit table not so long ago...

What to say? What to do? How to act? There was no avoiding one another, and, as protocol required we exchanged salutations, automatically I continued to weave a further web of introductions including my friends that immediately surrounded us. And though, for most of the evening, social obligations drew us apart from one another, we invariably kept drifting our way back into each other's presence. Perhaps it was his intoxicating smell, of evergreen, musk, leather and tobacco leaf, or the sound of his lofty voice that kept pulling me in his direction.

Whatever the case, with a heart ever so heavy, I chose to keep the discourse light; and as we made conversation of inconsequential things, I could scarcely look into His penetrative eyes for fear of losing the last ounce of my reserve and revealing, with a simple glance, all that my heart ached to say to Him, instead, in between silent sips of my potent beverage, my downcast eyes gazed at the casual way He left the top button of his light blue Oxford undone and the confident, nonchalant manner in which he wore His stripped tie loosely knotted. It was thrilling to be in such close proximity to Him once more, but simultaneously nerve-wracking. Joy. Relief. Excitement. Wonder. Sorrow. Disappointment. Grief. Sadness. Hope. All such emotions, and more, bundled together, cacophonously presented themselves to me all at once, while I found myself having to deftly handle dozens of interruptions, inquires and introductions by unknowing, well-intentioned fellow friends.

As fate would have it, I was not the only one with a heart brimming with turmoil. Another dear friend was experiencing a similar set of emotions under somewhat parallel circumstance. She and I removed ourselves from the party and sought refuge in a secluded spot by the staircase to share our angst and worries with one another. And as tears trickled down the cheek of my tenderhearted friend's soft face, I attempted to console her with kind words and the sincerest of embraces, and that is when I heard His hearty chortle of a laugh and a profusion of memories rushed to the forefront of my heart unbidden... of a morning when hope was found, and a night not so long ago when hope was lost. Were it not for her tears, and the resolve to stay strong in order to be effectively supportive of her, at that point, who is to say if tears of my own would stain my face.

That night, on the edge of it all, high above the Emerald City's scintillating skyline, surrounded by scores of friends and allies, amongst a throng of hundreds, it seems no matter how high, or how far I went, one pervasive feeling haunted me: profound loneliness.

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.

Celebrating friends, Emerald City style.

Last weekend I hosted a lovely dinner party for eight very close friends; all couples, two of which are recently married, one of which I actually married. The purpose of the dinner was to celebrate hallmarks, simple and significant, that each couple had achieved over this past year. I absolutely adore hosting people in my home and often expend considerable effort to create a lush, lulling, and dare I say seductive, sensory experience for my guests.

Recognizing the importance of feeding the eyes as well as the palate, I centered the dinner table in my Midtown flat to take full advantage of the picture-perfect view of the Space Needle and Queen Anne, (oh, and the monorail,) my windows afford.

For my tablescape I began with rich fabrics printed with Oriental-themed designs in rusts, golds and greens and then littered the center of the table with various candle-holders of punctured metal, smooth wood and glittering glass of coordinating colors and objets d'art that further enhanced the Thai-inspired evening: seashells, over-sized leaves, even a carved elephant. Also on the table, I had matching place cards for all of my guests, seating each person next to someone other than their spouse.

My guests arrived pair by pair and were greeted by the aroma of Siamese spices wafting from the kitchen, each couple bringing with them bottle after bottle of bubbly libations. For dinner, I made a light, simple shrimp stir-fry with mushrooms, tofu and colorful bell peppers; salmon swimming with snap peas in a spicy red curry sauce; a Thai omelet to temper the heat; a pot of hearty yellow beef curry, thick with turmeric, cumin and coconut milk; and finally, two-and-a-half pounds of fresh halibut marinated in ginger, garlic, chillies, lime juice and garnished with a bit of cilantro. As dinner was presented, the phrase that continually peppered our evening repeatedly was, "Tino, you've outdone yourself!"

When designing the seating chart I intentionally sat guests next to others who share aligned interests, some of which include: art; architecture; academia; botany; literature; mountain climbing; and traveling abroad. The conversation was constant amongst all of us and a good deal of laughter was present throughout the night as we were serenaded by the crooning of Tracey Thorn of Everything But The Girl, the catchy beats of Pink Martini and a handful of Craig Armstrong's hauntingly familiar, dramatic pieces.

Before we sat down for dessert, fruit and cheese I had all my guests reexamine their place card, upon which I had stamped a particular leaf shape, each person's leaf, aside from myself, had another pair at the table. I then had each guest with matching stamps exchange seats, affording me the opportunity to chat more intimately with the other half of my guests as well as being able to reunite some of the couples who had spent dinner apart. The result was marvelous as a new round of discussions began and even more laughter was exchanged.

We raised our glasses and toasted, several times, throughout the evening as there was so much to celebrate: civil unions, birth anniversaries, residential mergers, acquisitions of property, and ascension of corporate ladders. All in all, a successful evening, as I partook in the pleasure of being able to delight those around me and provide my grateful guests with such a memorable and enjoyable time, I didn't see it so much as having outdone myself, but rather, just doing a job well done--Thai style, of course.

Ready for takeoff.

A few days ago, a pair of friends and I landed ourselves at Vessel for a Recession Proof Mixology event featuring Aviation Gin. All three of us could recall a time when any of us were hesitant to drink anything other than a beverage containing vodka and juice from concentrate; thank Heavens for the many good bartenders who have played a role in steering us away from such amateur beverages, transforming us into "Cocktail Geeks," for better or for worse. (I like to think for the better.) On our gin-induced flight to Shangri-La, we were in good company, also present in our cabin were several of the Emerald City's first-class bartenders, away from their Capitol Hill cockpits, as well as other industry folks and media notability.

We sampled several bright and uplifting cocktails; I, of course, went for all the froufrou looking drinks in the sunset spectrum of pink and apricot. My palate was much pleased as was my field of vision. The order of truffle chips was a tasty touch, but whetted our appetite so much we only sat through a few round of drinks before departing for more substantial forage (I'm sure, due to our early departure, we missed some really good in-flight entertainment.)

The three of us descended our way down to the Harbor Steps to check out a restaurant that had recently opened. The place looked nice, the menu looked decent, and we had a friend's recommendation, but somehow the venue didn't seem to set off our radar, so we changed course and headed up into the Market.

Oddly, the early evening weather was warm and dense, the air being heavy and humid as if we were deep within an equatorial jungle. The sky began to take on a copper-colored hue, glazing the once familiar Emerald City skyline 'neath a rosy haze and heightening our anticipation of something marvelous awaiting us around the corner.

Then, a golden idea came to me and I led us through an alley, beyond the infamous "gum wall," up a hidden staircase, past Rachel (the pig) and out on a tiny terrace until we reached my desired destination with a smooth landing, Place Pigalle.

Place Pigalle is a special place. Small, comfortable, and peppered with just the right amount of class. (Perhaps it's the French influences that permeate the place?) It's perched location offers spectacular, unobstructed views of Puget Sound, who's dark blue waters began to glimmer with a bronze glint by the time we were seated at our white-linen-covered table.

Following our entrance, a pair of fishmongers navigated their way to the slender bar. Also present in the intimate, softly lit dining room were several seasoned couples, as well as a table of executives still formally buttoned-up in their well-tailored suits.

Shortly after the three of us each ordered a glass of wine--rosé for me, of course, Malbec for the Mademoiselle and Tributary for the Monsieur, a trio of Europeans entered the establishment, and instantly were recognized by the neighboring table of executives, who all rose to exchange handshakes before the Continental threesome were seated at their own, separate table.

Following a few bites of fresh-baked sourdough and the creamiest of butters, our starter courses came our way consisting of a hearty lentil and house-made sausage soup; and a light, though flavorful, halibut seviche, all of which was rather delectable.

When it came to our entrées, we could not contain our crooning as we each kept taking nibbles from one another's plate: fresh marlin medallions, lightly seared, served alongside tenderly roasted potatoes and autumn vegetables; al dente fettuccine submerged in a savory lamb Bolognese; and chipotle veal shortribs that effortlessly slid right of their bones and truly melted in one's mouth. Between the wine, the food, and the company, that night it felt as if we truly were coasting above the clouds on a decadent, culinary pleasure cruise.

Quality Time

A dear friend of mine, who I have had the serenity to have known over half my life, has spent considerable time living abroad and exploring the world. Whenever she returns to the Emerald City in-between adventures, we see each other periodically, usually at whatever party or event I'm hosting, and once in awhile we do spend time one-on-one, but those times usual end up being not as frequent as we intend. In our hearts, we know we will always be there for one another and no matter how much time or distance passes, we will see each other's bright smile sooner or later. My friend is set to embark upon another adventure in the upcoming weeks and we've agreed not to let time slip away from us and to make the most of the days remaining until then.

Last week, we brunched (at Tilikum Place,) then headed over to the Frye Art Museum, took in a bit of frankincense and Italian-inspired architecture at the much gilded St. James Cathedral, stopped for espresso, browsed books at the newly re-located Elliot Bay Book Company and meandered through the streets, both meek and grand, of Captiol Hill toward Volunteer Park.

Unfortunately, we arrived as the conservatory was closing, but the Asian Art Museum was still open for an hour so we opted for a quick visit. While at the art museum we discovered a brochure describing various lectures on Asian art with an upcoming one on the art and architecture of India. (A while back, my friend had left to visit India for a few weeks and ended up being away from the Emerald City for a few years!)

Last Saturday, we attended that lecture and it was amazing. A highlight of the presentation is that the speaker opened my eyes to spiritual and philosophical concepts that have manifested themselves in both architecture and urban design. Saturday University is the name of the lecture series and there were only a handful of others attending that appeared to be around our age, the rest of the auditorium was a significantly older crowd as one might expect to see at such an event on a sunny, early Saturday morning.

After the talk, our intellect was on fire and we kept discussing what we had just learned as we wove our way, once again, through the streets of Capitol Hill headed to a yet-to-be-determined spot for lunch. We ended up at a Vietnamese cafe and ate outside, taking full advantage of the glorious autumn sunshine. While we waited for our food R & B and Pop hits of days gone by (Beyonce, Britney, T-Pain etc.) played on an outdoor speaker and we both couldn't help but sing along (Apple-bottom jeans/Boots with the fur...) and bob our heads as we reminisced on times gone by.

After lunch, we were still hungry, for more knowledge. We made our way up to Elliot Bay Books in hopes of stumbling upon another lecture, no such luck. We reversed course and headed downtown with the Klondike Gold Rush Museum as a destination in mind. (It's the only National Park that's indoors!) Along our way to Pioneer Square we popped in to the Central Library, again in hopes of finding another lecture. One was about to start in half an hour in celebration of To Kill a Mockingbird, which also included a screening of the film, but we didn't want to be indoors for so long on such a sunny day.

We ended up at the Chinese Room of the L. C. Smith Tower (Thank you S.W.) and took in a Google-Earth-like view of the Emerald City. I pointed out various buildings and told my friend a few anecdotal stories of their histories. She shared with me childhood memories of various venues within view. The air was warm, the breeze on the 35th floor balcony was gentle and we couldn't help but linger long wondering aloud what is to become of the land beneath the viaduct, as well as what deconstruction and renewal our own futures might hold in the year to come.

Eventually, we took our leave and swiftly descended in the manually operated, 1912 Otis elevator back to earth and wandered through Pioneer Square, stumbling upon the Saturday Market in Occidental Park, before ending up at the Klondike Museum, where we read in-between the lines of the what was being presented to us and created our own narratives of the featured Sourdoughs. We did catch a short film on the history of the Yukon Gold Rush. In a particular scene they showed a line of men climbing a mountain, each with an average of 50 pounds of gear on their back. My friend and I couldn't help but remark, since they all were already in a line up the side of a mountain, wouldn't it have been more efficient if they formed a human conveyor belt and passed goods and supplies from person to person (Chinese-Fire-Drill-style,) instead of each person carrying so much heavy gear by themselves then dropping it off and having to go back down the mountain and do it all over again?

After exploring the Klondike, we made our way back downtown and I tended to a weekly floral installation, after which, we enjoyed a pair of scrumptous cocktails at Vessel (Thank you K.L.) and were treated to an array of fresh market fruit, gourmet cheeses, and charcuterie from Salumi (Thank you C.B.) With Vessel being my home away from home, it comes to little surprise whenever I run into a friend there, which I did.

After sating our thirst and appetite, we had nothing on our agenda until 9:30 that evening at SIFF Cinema, and again began to wander the streets once again, ending up at the terminus for the South Lake Union Streetcar or as most Emerald City denizens like to affectionately refer to it "The S.L.U.T.," with the "T" representing trolley. While on the streetcar we were surrounded by a rather jovial group, it appeared as if they had been imbibing. Three gentlemen and two ladies, both of whom were expecting.

"Whoa! Is that a raccoon?!" One of the guys asked, referring to the raccoon tail I recently embellished my key chain with. "What's that in your pocket?" He continued.

"Wouldn't you like to know." I slyly replied. His friends all started giggling.

"You asked for it," one of them teased him.

My curious inquisitor was tall, good looking and wearing decent designer denim. "I guess nobody wants to let a pregnant lady sit down!..." he shouted to the streetcar riders and two gentlemen sitting behind us, got up and left their seats. The inquisitor's friends did point out there were several vacant seats in other parts of the car. Then one of his friends pointed out that the inquisitor's zipper was down.

"Hey, why did you have to spoil the show?" I quipped, "I know you're pregnant and all, but there's a reason why I wasn't giving up my front row seat."

Everyone started laughing, except for the inquisitor who bowed his head sheepishly to conceal his blushing. "Awww, look, he's embarrassed," teased one of his friends.

"So, where ya going?" The inquisitor tried to recover.

"We don't know, wherever the SLUT takes us, Hooters?"

We all ended up disembarking at South Lake Union Park, but headed in different directions. I didn't realize that yesterday was the grand opening of the park. It's a cute park, with quite a bit of promise. (Might be a bit better if it had a beer garden, just sayin'...) Once we had our fill of the unforgettable fragrance of fresh fertilizer we decided to head uptown along Mercer, but somehow went under the wrong underpass and ended up at Seattle Center.

As we crossed the Center's campus we noticed tents above the Fisher Pavilion and heard live music. We went closer to investigate and it was Festa Italiana. We watched as a few couples mambo-ed on the dance floor and just marveled at how much goes on in this city in one day before making our way to The Sitting Room for another round of drinks and another little bite to eat (Thanks D.,) after which we headed over to SIFF Cinema (Thanks A.G.) where they are showcasing a series of new Spanish cinema.

The movie we saw, After, was a bit dark and intense, but quite evocative in making one reevaluate if the life they is true or not. In some ways it tied everything back to the lecture we saw in the morning on how, sometimes it matters little if what we do is deemed as good or otherwise, ultimately, the important thing is putting one's heart into the action at hand. I'm so thankful to have had spent a glorious day with the company of a dear friend and all of my heart.

An evening of seclusion.

Human beings are social creatures. That is one tenet I recall from my Sociology class. Perhaps that is why solitary confinement is reserved for the most baneful of criminals? Maybe that is why some of us execute the "Silent Treatment" to those close to us when offended? Maybe that is why some many of us are afraid of being alone?

Could it be that in our vastly individualistic society, whenever we come across a connection where we think to ourselves, "Finally, somebody gets me; they see me for who I really am," we feel we have the green light to instantly begin investing in forging an everlasting bond with that person?

Who can say for sure, what we do and why we do it? One thing I am certain of is: Seattle's Darling is a social creature. A highly social creature.

My honed powers of observation are not just limited to home furnishings, food and fine spirits. It also extends to people. How they present themselves in attire, speech, body language, movement, preferences in food and drink, geography, family history, friends and other associations. The list goes on.

As I've mentioned before, in many ways, I am a highly sensitive person. You can imagine, every so often, I have to take some time to rejuvenate my body and revive my spirit. Furthermore, whenever experiencing significant pain, my mind and my senses are easily overloaded. Friday morning when I awoke I was greeted with a dull thudding in my head and muscles that ached nearly everywhere, (apparently my wisdom teeth are coming in.) By the time I was finished with work all I wanted to do was crawl into bed, close my eyes and rest. So that's exactly what I did.

When I awoke, a few hours later, I still ached all over and decided to draw a hot bath. As I was waiting for the tub to fill, I went through my text message inbox: invitation after invitation to come out for the night; birthdays, a dinner party, other assorted parties, friends visiting from out of town, friends of friends visiting from out of town... I just wasn't feeling up to snuff to be around people and actively engaged in the moment.

Ordinarily, when at home, I have the radio on, usually tuned to Classic King FM or NPR. This night, on a much needed night alone, I just wanted silence.

Before stepping into my steaming bath, I grabbed a thick book off of a nearby shelf. One I had read, only once, but written by one of my top three favorite authors, George R. R. Martin. I slid into my nearly scalding bath and submerged myself into another world: Westeros. A land where cunning and ambition can raise one far, where chivalry can be as much of a hindrance as a virtue and very few Princesses end up marrying gallant Princes. Martin's fascinating characters exhibit so much humanness, each with their own unique voice, modus operandi and raison d'être. 

Being such a deft and crafty writer, Martin offers up an exquisite amount of detail and seems to effortlessly weave nearly infinite layers of hope (for love, family and justice,) desire (for lust, prestige and power) and intrigue (the silken threads that tie everything together) into a comprehensive, gorgeous and enthralling tapestry one can't help but to feast their eyes upon it. By the time my bathwater turned tepid, I was some 300 pages in.

I toweled off rather swiftly, slid back into bed and re-visited Westeros, with it's all-too-real inhabitants; in between chapters, I would scour the appendix to have a clearer grasp on the realm's various dynasties, family trees and associated geography and heraldry making better sense of assorted rivalries and alliances. After a few hours, when sleep finally beckoned once more, I drew the shades, put in a pair of earplugs and closed my tired, but sated eyes.

Birds of a feather...

One of my fondest discoveries in San Francisco was a quaint little bar known as Blackbird, it's in the Castro, on Market and Church and from my understanding just recently opened. It was referred to me by my cocktail-loving DJ friend, the one who was just recently proposed to (yay!)

Upon entering the establishment, I took an immediate liking to the place. A rather modern place, with a few stylistic old world elements (think along the lines of Hendrick's imagery) to enhance the venue's character and lend a nod to the era of when bourbon and gin cocktails reigned supreme. A somewhat narrow space, with concrete-gray colored walls; a few high-boy bistro tables in either window; an industrial, metal table towards the right of the entrance surrounded with an octet of institutional chairs, and an orange leather booth that ran along the left side of a pair of long, narrow, raw wood, high tables with matching institutional stools.

The bar itself was made of a heavy, dark wood, and had an antique appearance (also lined with institutional metal stools.) Suspended above the bar was a row of exposed tungsten bulbs dangling at various lengths and intervals--hmmm... notice a trend recently? (I must confess, upon my latest relocation to Midtown, I myself, installed exposed tungsten bulbs in my bathroom.) Adding even more length and vertical movement to the space, the ceiling was covered in slender boards of unfinished wood, wood that very much complimented the tables.

Blackbird's drink menu, written in black magic marker on rather large pieces of brown butcher paper (another charming touch) is hung against a perpendicular wall entirely decoupaged with old newspapers. Listed are about a dozen house cocktails, (which appear pretty impressive at first glance-until realizing about a third of them are vodka based) accompanied by a decent selection of beer and wine. (Upon a subsequent visit, I discovered they have very friendly happy hour prices as well.)

Slightly further into the space, another booth of orange leather, this time much lower and much longer, a row of square, raw wood tables and (surprise, surprise,) a bundle of industrial metal chairs. Toward the back lay a much used pool table and an ever slightly used photo booth, as well as the restrooms.

For my first drink I was torn between the Batida, which featured real coconut milk or the Dutch Courage which contained egg white. I went for the liquid courage: Bols Genever, maple syrup, egg white, lemon juice, lime juice, a dash of orange flower water and served with a sprig of mint. I was pleased at Blackbird that they measured their pours and squeezed fresh fruit for every order. Unfortunately they don't use fresh eggs, they use egg whites from a carton and I immediately could tell the difference. The yummy, creamy, frothy, milkshake-like texture I am so fond of, was just not there.

For round two I asked for a custom cocktail and my bartender was at a bit of a loss. (I'm so thankful such a situation seldom happens to me in the Emerald City.) I attempted to guide her through a beverage I had enjoyed recently at Vessel and was able to recall most, if not all, of the ingredients. She did her best, but the result was not quite exactly what I was hoping for.

The mediocrity of my cocktail mattered little for the people-watching here was spectacular. I sat at the lower booth, facing the bar, on my right, were two married European couples and to my left, a table of assorted Hipsters--boys and girls. I would watch people as they filed in; the Pretty People, the B-Gays, the Lipstick Lesbonics, the Bears, the Cubs, the Cougars, the Yuppies (yes, they still do exist,) the Daddies, the Bridge-and-Tunnel crowd (think Tavern Law on a Saturday night,) and the tourists (myself included.) I found it a bit fascinating seeing such an array of people flocking to the same watering hole, and they all were actually interacting with one another. That is something we seldom see in the Emerald City.

------

A few days later I brought in my friend who was the impetus of my whole SF trip, she had just finished Nursing School at the prestigious University of San Francisco. I flew down, along with her sister, to keep her company on the drive back to the Emerald City. That day we discovered Blackbird's great happy hour. Wine $4, Beer $3 and Wells $3. She had a vodka with soda. I had a cocktail, which is not on special (High Maintenance? Maybe, but hey, I was on vacation.) This time I went with the house Negroni: Blue Coat Gin, Aperol, Lillet Rouge served with an orange twist. It worked. I have a friend in the Emerald City who loves Negronis and I know he'd take a liking to the Blackbird Negroni.

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My last venture to Blackbird I went to meet up with my DJ friend (did I mention he's recently engaged?) It was a Wednesday night, around 8 o'clock and I was a bit early. The bar was the most crowded I had ever seen. After patiently waiting to place an order I was informed they were sold out of their house specialty, The Martinez. So I just went with a whiskey sour. $3. I didn't realize it was still happy hour. Perhaps that explained why it was so crowded?

It took awhile for me to secure seating, but I was in no rush. One of the long wooden tables near the door was eventually vacated after which, I slid into the high booth and just drank in the scenery while sipping on my sour. My friend arrived, sporting a new haircut and took a seat beside me. That wasn't the only thing new he wore. He had a ring on his left hand. I was so excited! Turns out it's a Teno.

For the sake of old times, my friend ordered us a pair of Last Words and we plotted our plans for the night, where we might go for dinner and further drinks and where we'd end up for some dancing. Well, our plans evolved as we met some lost couch surfers. My friend told them of a nearby hill, Corona Heights, where you can hike up and take in a fantastic view of the city. I was feeling a bit adventurous so after filling ourselves with some burgers nearby we stopped off at the corner store and grabbed a bottle of Maker's (and a can of coconut water,) and set off for the hill.

Though pretty steep, especially for an urban hike, the climb wasn't bad at all and well worth it. Once we reached the pinnacle we were able to take in an amazing view of the entire city. We found a boulder to perch upon and broke open our bottle of Bourbon. As the hours went by, the more we revealed to one another: we spoke of love, lost and found; of family; of life, past and present and the possible future; all the while we watched the city slowly become shrouded in layers of fog and mist until we found ourselves at a loss for last words, surrounded by a sea of glowing brume and an empty bottle of whiskey.