pan africa market

i can’t walk by pan africa market without smelling it. an exotic aroma of spices and meat seeps out the perimeters of the door and windows, something that doesn’t often happen on seattle streets. now that the summer tables are no longer on the sidewalk, the restaurant is often quiet, with a couple of staff members lounging at a front table and texting.

this was the mid-afternoon scene the weekday afternoon we finally remembered to give the place a shot. spicy cooking perfumed the orange dining room as we chose one of the poorly wiped tables at which to enjoy lunch. pan africa resides on a highly desirable piece of pike place real estate and the true size of the place can only be realized once inside. a wall of windows exposes first avenue, while rear panes peak into an inside hallway of the market.

ethiopia dominates the menu, though items like piri piri and yassa make enough of an appearance to make it a “pan” restaurant. choosing among the curries, tangines and stews, all woven with coconut, saffron and yams, was going to be a challenge – until our server arrived. with him, he brought information of what was not available that afternoon; anything with groundnuts (peanuts, a quarter of the menu), the doro wat, any african beer on the menu (there was enough to get us excited), a number of wines, and more.

we settled on the beef tibs ($12) and a sampler plate (about the same) with the chenin blanc. we were brought a corona, a glass of shiraz and an apology. there was no chenin and these were on the house. ok, i could accept that.

the two other diners in the restaurant left shortly after we arrived. music would have done wonders to distract from the echoing emptiness, the occasional clang from the kitchen. but when the food arrived, the plates were large enough to conceal the dirty vinyl tablecloth. sure, it appeared instantaneously and couldn’t have been made to order, but what emanated from it was a concentrated version of the aroma that had originally brought us in.

both dishes came on injera, that ethiopian “bread” that looks like a flat sea sponge clinging to the ocean floor. the sourdough flavor somehow works just right with food that is heavily spiced or spicy. green and yellow lentils dotted the sampler plate, one deep and earthy, the other sweet and spicy. a generous portion of sautéed kale lay in the center, musty with a bit of crunch. despite my infrequent contact with these flavors, something about them was comforting and safe.

i’m only able to imagine africa. heat and sand, poverty and serengeti animals come to mind, but the spices that were the driving force behind these dishes made the country seem very real.

yet, much as i tried not to, i couldn’t refrain from looking about from my table and thinking of the small tweaks that could reinvigorate the restaurant, updated menus being first and foremost.  i don’t mind flicking an old piece of onion off the tablecloth if the food is delicious and cheap.  it just doesn’t look like many others feel that way.

oddfellows

for the many-th time this week, i got called off of work. seattleites don’t go anywhere in the snow, much less out to dinner.

well, a few of them went to just-opened oddfellows, i found, when i stopped there for a mid-way-home hot toddy. the space is airy and open and the gears of the restaurant, from the beer coolers to the stove, are visible. the restaurant personality of each owner (linda derschang and ericka burke) can be seen through out the place, rustic exposed wood blended with bright white window frames and long rows of tables pushed together. there was something inspiring about seeing the two ladies chatting quietly and eyeing the dining room together while i was there.

it took café presse to prove how beautiful an early-to-late, all day food, read your paper and drink coffee or have a martini and chat, kind place is. oddfellows starts at 7 am with oatmeal and ends late with french dip; everything in-between appears to be simple, approachable, and affordable. i managed to restrain myself from ordering one of the fruit loop rice krispie treats, but i’ll be back.

juno

it was a cold day off. i wore mittens and tights under jeans.

the juno dining room, however, was warm in both temperature and décor. an unshakable hotel-restaurant feel pervaded (the name-tag pins, the plethora of managers), to be sure, yet the booths were deep, the bar dark, extensive, and inviting, and a fire burned in the rear of the room.

i chose the quiet side of the bar, away from the cocktail hour business men and be-sweatered older women. the bar chairs, woven leather things, were attached to the ground, my legs, stiff with two layers, had trouble fitting under the bar just right.

my bartender was cute but clearly stretched thin, which meant less pestering and suited me just fine. juno’s bar menu is made up of tastes, affordable small plates to keep the martinis from absorbing too quickly. the cocktail list is largely based upon infused vodkas, sweet berry flavors, and bright colors.

my new yorker received a skimming, but for the most part acted as a ruse to conceal my eavesdropping. as i watched, the blazer-ed hostess scanned the seven or eight open table reservations for the night, the late server arrived, and a few forks clattered to the floor in a poor handoff. the soundtrack alternated between appropriate, cozy jazz, and mariah carey-ish lobby music.

i eventually got my tastes, three small plates carried by two large gentlemen. lamb carpaccio ($6) was delicate and thinly sliced, generously drizzled with olive oil. roasted olives sat on top like barnacles. all quite successful except for ten or so olives that were saturated with a liquid-smoke flavor that engulfed any subtlety from the lamb or olive oil. risotto croquettes ($5) were inoffensive balls of creamy fried rice. the violet red onion jam beneath them, however, was so sweet i had to hurry to rescue my croquettes from absorbing any of it.

a beef and lamb slider ($3) was straightforward and well-cooked. the addition of beef tempered the lamb and an aioli and piquillo pepper gave it some character.

dinner hour approached and the tuesday night crowd arrived. a perky man-waiter took an order behind me, noted desired wellness on steaks, extolled the virtues of grey goose. the hostess ran for the phone, i didn’t see the bartender for twenty minutes and didn’t mind. i don’t know whether he could sense that i wanted a quiet, leisurely snack or was just busy – it didn’t matter (though, try as i might, i couldn’t help but notice how many waiters ignored my dirty plates while he rushed around). i spun gently on my stool and held my breath as i sucked down the last dregs of liquid gourd.

desserts came in dessert form as well, but i couldn’t bring myself to face the black pepper cheesecake or avocado white chocolate mousse.

i’m not sure why the bartender left my drink off the check – i didn’t even get a chance to charm him or drop that i worked in a restaurant. it was probably just that he’d tried the seasonal cocktail himself.

barrio

it’s too early to write a review about barrio.  so i’ll simply share my impressions of a meal on its one-week anniversary, keeping in mind that it represents only one moment in the restaurant’s life (like any review, really) and knowing that i’ll go back.  

with the inspection you give the room upon arrival, you might guess that this is a project by the owners of purple café (it is), but the similarities don’t beat you over the head. the room is lofty, expansive, sleek, and shadowy.  two hundred candles (busser-lit each night) create a flickering wall in the middle of the room and soften the black paint that surrounds. like at purple, the bar is the focal point and sitting there, in the eye of the vastness, makes you feel more grounded.  

perhaps because of the height of the ceilings and the distance between walls, the food is surprisingly petite and down-to-earth.  no region of mexican cuisine is off limits when it comes to the menu, but barrio’s northwest location is also taken into consideration (reference wild salmon ceviche).  

start with chips and salsa – you’ll want the salsa to accompany everything that follows. our selections – grape tomato, ancho chili, and tomatillo – were distinctly different and charming in their own ways (fresh tomato, deep smoke, roasted vegetal, but none were spicy.  

a dish of salt and pile of lime wedges came early in the meal and was especially appreciated with the guacamole ($7).  the avocados were ripe and just mashed but void of the salt and citrus that would enhance their best features.  

sikil pak, an ancient mayan dish made of puréed, toasted pumpkin seeds ($6) is nutty and a bit perplexing, texturally similar to almond butter and quite satisfying on a tortilla chip.  

ceviches and crudos garner an entire section of menu and picking out just one is a pain. we ultimately settled for the ahi tuna crudo ($12), nearly naked atop just ripe avocados, save for a touch of orange and tamarind.  fish and avocado shared a texture – slippery, but with substance – neatly offset by a few sesame seeds. 

hearts of romaine salad ($9) was simple and balanced and inhaled by our table without comment.  tart orange segments, toasted hazelnuts, and translucent shavings of queso añejo complimented the watery romaine like tiffany solitaires above a little black dress.

the tamale ($8), pre-removed from its plantain leaves, was lusciously moist, just a touch sweet.  the schmear of dark chipotle salsa was just the right earthy and animally compliment to the duck confit filling.  had i been served this tamale at la carta de oaxaca, it would have fit right in.  

there are tacos. your server is not kidding if she tells you they’re not especially sharable – they’re three bites, filled with golden raisins, bbq prawns, house-made chorizo, toasted sesame seeds, or flank steak (not necessarily all at once).  the tiny tortillas are delicate and fresh, full of all the characteristics that make “house-made” a desirable quality.  my companions raved about their (different) tacos, but i wasn’t left with a distinct impression after i swallowed my spice rubbed, grilled albacore and cabbage ($5).   it was the guacamole effect again, and a kick – acid, heat, salt, heavier citrus vinaigrette – was needed somewhere in equation.

i admit, i didn’t glance at the wine list, as the cocktails diverted my attention. naturally, there’s a tequila and rum focus (piña coladas, caipirinhas) woven with classics like a corpse reviver #2 and moscow mule.  needless to say, however, the margarita seemed the most appropriate choice.  its barrio twist was the triple sec stand in, damiana orange liqueur.  made on the baja peninsula from the damiana shrub, it gives the drink not only citrus, but intriguing floral and herbal notes.  

the churros were sublime, the dulce de leche crème brûlée decadent and well-crafted. i ate the salty pepita brittle off the chocolate mole cake and we left the rest of it in order to focus on the churros and crème brûlée.  

a happy moment – the bill for four of us, including well over ten dishes and nine margaritas was a tad under $200.  

we crossed the street to la spiga for a nightcap.  after absorbing some good natured ribbing from owner and schmoozer pietro, “you ate there and not here?”, i asked him what he thought about the competition he could see out his window.  he shrugged and said, “we’ve been going there after work.”

shiro’s

the little clay pot was hand formed, its top painted with multi-colored stripes.  with the top removed, a rush of warm, bacony breath is emitted, and the custard jiggles just slightly.

but the magic of the little pot doesn’t really reveal itself until you get an eggy spoonful to your mouth.  the custard sits on your tongue for just a moment, velvety and so much more than soft, then melts into liquid so easily its actual existence seems questionable.  the flavor is exquisitely mild, vaguely smoky (though bacon-free) and a touch sweet.  the steamed egg, mostly whites, is almost fluid in its softness and rivers of delicate broth run through it.  a shrimp is suspended here, a piece of chicken or shiitake there.  the whole dish has a gentleness to it, as though your body will hardly have to make an effort to digest it.

this is the chawan-mushi, just one of the wonders in a meal at shiro’s, the namesake restaurant of the man who opened seattle’s first sushi bar in 1967.

though we’d have been willing to wait, two seats happened to be open at the sushi bar upon arrival.  not only that, but shiro himself was eating at the bar.  the chefs, jolly and chatty behind the low wall of silver or pink filets, joked about how nervous they were with the boss there.

as making selections from the menu was clearly going to be a brutal game of elimination (how do you choose between monkfish liver paté and a baked giant clam?), we opted for the $60 set menu.

the adventure began with a football shaped plate with a three distinct fish arrangements.  jellyfish and cucumber were tossed with a mildly creamy, mildly sesame sauce.  it was a pleasant surprise to find that this jellyfish was far less gummy than some i’d had just down the street recently.  in fact, it had a near-crunch and was approximately the same texture as the cucumber.

squid and tobiko were in the middle, while a broiled shishamo (smelt), its top half laid upon its lower, took the right side of the plate.  it was smoky and had almost a jerky quality, though far more tender.

a sashimi plate contained the high quality versions of expected sushi bar standards.  each fish was subtly accompanied by an accent piece; the salmon got a mini lemon lemon slice, the tuna a leaf of shiso, the mackerel miniature radish sprouts, each flavor contrasting with its fish in just the right way.

the sushi bar is animated, the thumping heart of the restaurant.  two firefighters from california next to us banter with the sushi chefs, insisting they can’t eat (or afford) any more, then quickly, weakly, relent with the appearance of another fish they’ve never heard of.  with each arrival, the words “soy sauce” or “no soy sauce” are exchanged, the chefs’ way of making clear which fish are enhanced by salt, and which are obscured by it.

and yet, with the first bite of black cod kasuzuke, i may as well have been alone, my attention was so diverted.  this is shiro’s signature dish, whose recipe was once published in the new york times, the dish that is on every tasting menu the restaurant offers, the one that nearly caused me physical pain it made me so happy.

the fish had a gentle sweet soy marinade, yet the cooking is the enchanted part.  it’s officially called merely “broiled” but it’s hard to comprehend that there’s not something far more complicated that makes the skin a bit crisp while the flesh is creamy, buttery, and butter flavored, and seems to liquefy in your mouth.  if i loose my teeth in old age, this is what i will want to eat.

in a blind tasting, i don’t know that i’d recognize this as fish.  its texture is too silken, utterly lacking in fibrous bits, and void of all fishiness.  and just down the bar was the creator, laughing over sake, chopsticks in hand, eyebrows so animated they were nearly vertical, completely unaware of the joy his food was causing me.

it’s nearly the end of the meal and i am fully to capacity, when sushi begins to fly over the bar.  spanish mackerel from japan.  geoduck.  hawaiian fish.  puget sound fish.  a slice of smoky, bonito topped salmon that had seen an instant of hot pan was so crimson i half expected it to dye my fingers pink.  i eventually gave up, and i think it was only because the chefs could see the sushi building up on my plate that they ended the frenzy.  it is hard to imagine anyone consuming the 80 or 100 dollar menus.

dessert, thankfully, was a bowl of fruit.

skate wing

it’s been almost a month now, but i still consistently think about my birthday lunch at ten 01 in portland. it might have been the afternoon light streaming through big open windows in a restaurant that contained only us. it might have been the two martinis or the fact that three luxurious courses were only $15. but i think it was the skate.

there was nothing wacky about it, just sweet corn and bordelaise to adorn, but gentle cooking had left it infinitely moist, with crispy brown bits clinging to its outside.

skate is a bottom-feeder and a ray (thus the wings) and (best of all) cartilaginous. it can be a challenging and time-consuming thing for kitchens to deal with, and thus is often passed over. the fish is covered with connective tissue rather than scales. silvery, with a fine goo and hidden thorns, this must be carefully pared off.

i had two skate encounters in one nyc week recently. one simple and elegant at balthazar, with beurre noir and peppers, the perfect accompaniment to a cloudy afternoon and a carafe of wine.  the other was at tailor, in the form of skate frites.  the skate was placed in steak form rather than splayed out in the usual invasive fan, and purple potato tater-tots with sweet ketchup were its best friends.

though skate is a worldly fish, that eaten in seattle is generally from the pacific ocean, as it’s found from northern mexico to alaska.  lark served it the other night in it’s traditional coating of brown butter, lemon and capers, and a lark twist of hearts of palm and the babiest of all spinach.

underused, underappreciated, and reminiscent of an irobot vacuum, give skate a chance.

beast

it was sunny,  but not warm.  really, about the best you can hope for at the end of october in the northwest.  it was a bit early for me to eat a full meal, but since i’d gotten up at some ungodly hour to take the train here – portland – it felt later than it really was (one pm).  i was at beast, for the second brunch seating, one of the better places to be on a cold october morning.

it’s only a room, but it feels like more.  the far wall is painted in blackboard paint, covered in quotes, pictures, and culinary conversions, and recently served as the backdrop to chefowner naomi pomeroy’s tough full page shot in gourmet magazine.  there are just two tables, but they’re long.  most of the space is consumed by the corner that is the kitchen.

the presence of the kitchen lingers with you throughout the meal, even as your back is turned and your attention is on the perfectly poached egg in front of you.  with the offer of coffee and juice, it’s hard to avoid the impression of your parents’ kitchen (albeit an upscale version; i never got my juice in a wine glass or my coffee in a personal press).

the rules are strict at beast, but there are rewards for those who chose to abide by them.  in fact, they’re not rules so much as guidelines in place to help you have a good time.  for both brunch and dinner, there are two seatings offered.  the menu is multi-coursed, and set.  this means no substitutions, period.  it is what it is and it may or may not be for you.

the meal started sweet.  brown butter crepes, delicate, edged in brown, bathed in maple bourbon hard sauce.  before the sugar can get overwhelming, gently acidic apple butter makes its way from the inside of the crepes.  a lazy piece of candied bacon provides the necessary salt, hazenuts the crunch.  spreading the dalop of mild whipped cream evenly over the crepes was the way to go, imparting a lovely creaminess to it all.

wine pairings were optional but more than worth it.  not only was each wine a flawless match for it’s accompanying dish, but they were intriguing, unique, and left you feeling like you’d learned something.  beautifully acidic, flowery and rich barth riesling rebgarten came with the creapes, an amazing palate cleanser and contrast to the food.

i would have been content with a second plate of crepes, but instead we got duck breast.  this was okay, too.  seared with a rosy center, the meat was simple yet rich, and demonstrated pomeroy’s significant beast cooking skills.  basque peppers were mild in heat, potent in flavor, while simple potato hash acted as the quiet backbone of the dish.  the fun part came in the toppings – hollandaise and an egg who’s yolk spilled out like water from a balloon.

with this dish we were given les vins contes “poivre et sel”, a light, funky loire red from gamay and pineau d’aunis.  it was oddly cloudy in a way that made you skeptical, but upon tongue contact revealed itself to be tart and floral, earthy in a way that made it duck’s best friend.

it seems that most portland cheese courses are from steve’s cheese, a local specialty cheese shop focused on small producers and farms.  at beast, we had three simple cheeses with a vanilla flecked poached apricot and lightly vinaigrette-ed mache.  as lovely and conclusive as the cheese was, it wasn’t the end.

a slender piece of chocolate truffle cake was triumphant in making us eat one more thing just when we were sure we couldn’t.  it was sleek and cool in the mouth, it’s sweetness restrained and tempered by the vanilla bean whipped cream.  as if this wasn’t enough, it came with my favorite wine of the meal, a dessert mourvèdre (olivares monastrell dulce).  rich and out-and-out sweet, it wasn’t cloying, and did magical things when sloshed around with a mouthful of chocolate.

four courses of (excellent) food was $28.  i felt i’d gotten a deal while also knowing the restaurant had made a profit. and isn’t that the ideal economic exchange?

four portland restaurant trends

i spent my  birthday weekend in portland.  i was inebriated and uncomfortably full the whole time.  it was glorious.  

though both west coast cities with happening food scenes, seattle and portland’s different personalities and politics are plainly articulated through restaurants.  these are four things i saw significantly more of in portland than seattle, for better or worse (mostly better).  

substitutions politely declined

as a server, this is about the most glorious sentence that could be printed on a menu (perhaps with the exception of “we politely request that you bus your own table”).  it means you’ll no longer have to crawl back to the kitchen and ask, so respectfully, as if the request was your own, “is it possible to substitute steak for clams in the clam chowder?  um, and they’re also allergic to salt…”

if you’re “allergic” or vegetarian, simply order something without your allergen or meat. and don’t go to beast, where the website clearly states, “beast has a lot of meat all over the menu.  we (somewhat) politely decline substitutions.”  

when buying a painting, you don’t get to ask the artist to please take out that tree because you’re allergic to it.  a chef is an artist, their dish is the way it is as a result of much thought about how each flavor plays against the next.  removing the tree upsets the balance of the art – so does removing the chives.  i can only hope this trend spreads to seattle, and quickly.  

communal dining

i know there is communal dining in seattle, and it’s gradually becoming less of a novelty, but in portland it’s more rampant and less scary.  one long table is inherently a risk to its sitters.  perhaps  your neighbor can teach you something, can entertain you, works in your field and can get you a job.  but the steak knife wielding stranger at your elbow might also ask you after every bite, “what do you think of the soup?  what do you think of the fish?  i think it’s a little salty.  is that tarragon?  i’m pretty sure there’s tarragon in there.  i’m sure there is!  i love tarragon!”  

I don’t want to be prodded at and i don’t want to hear anyone else dissect the food (as much as i like to do it myself).  in portland, people overwhelmingly were able to sense when others at their table just wanted to have dinner with the person they came to dinner with.  

half bottles 

(for reasons i can’t understand) half bottles are an unusual find in seattle.  in portland, they’re as common as absinthe.  if we’re all eating small plates, why aren’t we drinking from small bottles?  i often loose interest in a bottle of wine once halfway through, the same way i do when faced with a mountain of entrée. 

generally more interesting wines than glass pours, half bottles are ideal for lunch, or the hour you need to waste before you catch the train.  

if it’s an economic concern for restaurants, i can attest that though spending $80 on a bottle of wine isn’t something i’ll do often, spending $40 on a half bottle of bubbles and then $40 on a bottle of red at meat time hardly fazes.  it’s not that i’m that deficient math, but rather that trying two different wines, and having my wine correspond more precisely with my food, makes it worth it to me.  

open kitchens

part of the motivation, to be sure, is that diners these days are interested in what happens in the kitchen, and not just to make sure the chefs wash their hands.  it’s the communal table idea, again – we’re all here to share an experience, whether eating or cooking it, so why not be in the same room?  diners think it’s cool to have a chef hand them a plate of food at the bar and chefs, rather than waiters, get to hear the appreciation.  

at sel gris, the kitchen is immaculate and chefs wear real chef jackets (a pdx rarity).  at le pigeon, plastic quart containers full of various sauces were dipped into just inches from our heads.  one of the chefs wore a clyde common t-shirt.  i don’t have a preference between jackets and t-shirts (though i like to see tattoos), if they’re carried off professionally.  

comments?

kushibar

from across the street, kushibar could be some kind of animal pen.  maybe one holding an especially dangerous animal, as there are large panes of glass just behind the horizontal wooden slats.  

it’s not a pen, though, but the sizable (and actually very stylish and modern looking) sort-of-outside dining area of kushibar, filled with wooden tables.  finally, a chance to feel like you’re eating outside without actually being outside.  

the deck has mildly successful heat lamps, so it’s best when it’s crowded.  you can peer out at the street through the slats if you like to watch second avenue happenings (drug deals, real change sales men, someone from uw getting sick after too much fun at amber), or can just appreciate the cozy sauna-ness (sans heat) of where you’re sitting.  

 

 

 

there is less character inside kushibar, a new project from the gentlemen who brought us umi sake house.  it’s tavolata with a touch of momofuku, a long room with high ceilings, pale wood, and an open kitchen.  it’s sleek though not unique.  

three menus were on our table when we began considering food.  a traditional folded version in plastic sleeves, a half-piece of paper with daily specials, and a cube of wood with food listed up and down the sides.  fortunately we located the cocktails with the help of our server, and i was able to have an intriguing mix of lychee infused vodka and sake clutched in my fist as i navigated the food situation.  the drink was a touch sweet, but also extremely floral and aromatic as well as surprisingly successful with the salt and occasional spice of the food.  

“kushi” refers to a stick or skewer in japanese and here you can get anything you want impaled upon one; any part of a chicken (livers, kidneys, gizzards, and so on), different mushrooms, all kinds of fish and vegetables.  

the skewers are cheap, a couple to a few bucks.  the eel was moist and had a sweet tang and a smattering of sesame seeds, the mushrooms were nearly unadorned and cooked to a moist and robust perfection.  i washed my scallop wrapped tomato down with huge glug of lychee cocktail to erase the scallop version of fishy the big bite left on my tongue.  the eggplant, however, was meaty rather than slimy, enhanced by bonito flakes and a delicate heat.  

a light fried skin clung to tofu that disappeared on your tongue.  more bonito flakes were piled on top and the cubes of tofu swam in a pond of dainty, well-salted broth.  a little of the jelly fish went a long way, but i can hardly complain about the fact that it was gummy.  what i can say is that chef billy beach knew to add the crunch of vegetable to it, and sesame for flavor.  

in nyc, it seems a new ramen restaurant has been birthed about once a week since momofuku blazed the noodle trail.  i miss the large noisy dining rooms full of clattering chopsticks, slurps, japanese beer, and cheap meals.  particularly when i’m in ten-months-of-ramen-weather-seattle.  

but kushi bar has ramen (and udon and soba and miso)!  the house ramen ($11) is chicken or pork broth with pork, corn, egg, sprouts, and scallions and you could fit a decent sized watermelon in one of the bowls.  the broth (i tried pork) was powerfully porky – if that doesn’t sound delicious…well, it was.  there was a good heft to it, the kind where you knew that if you left it in the fridge a solid fat seal would form.  it did not, however, feel overly oily and didn’t overwhelm the noodles.  

these noodles (house-made) were just as they should be.  soft but not over-cooked, they barely required chewing.  the noodle to broth ration, however, was an unfortunate situation.  as much as i love sipping broth, particularly when it’s well made, five cups is a little much.  my noodles were gone before i’d made a dent in the broth and i barely had a memory of consuming any full-on pork pieces.  

i worry that this could come across as a negative experience.  my occasional complaints, however, did not a bad meal make.  our check was gloriously low and i left feeling full and content and slightly buzzed.  i can’t wait to return for an early happy hour, when i can sit on the deck in the daylight, or for an after-work cocktail and a bowl of the curry popcorn or the tofu. if kushibar were open for lunch, i’d be eating the ramen once a week.

veil

i really wanted to love veil.  i thought the cool, white decor was beautiful, though i felt a bit uncomfortable sitting in it.  lobster and mac and cheese are some of my favorite foods, and i wanted them to be extraordinary together.  they were just expensive together.  

yet i was still oddly sad when i heard veil was closing this week, though i haven’t been there in well over a year.  maybe it’s that i’m being forced to consider the economy, when i’ve tried so hard to ignore it…i’m hoping this isn’t one of the first reflections of the stock market (etc) we will see in the restaurant industry.

then again, there aren’t many people i know who have been to veil in the past couple years.  it’s unfortunate, because i can’t help but think that a consistently full restaurant would have given them the confidence to keep their food daring, as it was first reputed to be.  i also feel confident that if veil had been born in belltown, it’s life would have been very different.  

veil’s open the rest of this week and having a good-bye party saturday night.