Salty Sweet : The Brewed Debut

Mocha Bagels with Kahlua Cream~ and a giveaway

I have measured my life in coffee spoons.

This is the start of a new game, will you play with us? The critically acclaimed pastry artist, writer, designer, photographer--not to mention colleague and good friend--Christy from Five Types of Sugar and I will be doing a series of themed posts together every now and then on a chosen ingredient or cultural notion to compare their weight--a Melbourne v. Seattle thing. We begin the series with coffee, so stay here to read my ramblings on Coffee culture in Seattle, and visit Christy to find out about Melbourne. We will post a recipe we've each created around the theme--obviously Walter, what else do we do?--as well as "relevant" interview questions because we are both so incredibly hot, young, interesting, and talented in this industry and can't imagine why you would want to waste your time doing anything other than getting to know us through our thoughts on war, the inner psyche, chaos, how tightly to tie your shoes, drugs, love, sex, the fine pastry arts, camera lenses, the meaning of the universe and human existence, fish species, and of course, for today--coffee.

There's one more catch to the Salty-Sweet series; a prize for our favorite (though randomly chosen) reader who comments on BOTH of our sites. We have noticed that people are more prone to visit when there is something in it for them. Shame on you. But, as we wish to be the most popular girls in school, we're going to bribe you because we love you. This episode the winner will receive coffee both from Seattle and Melbourne, so if you would like a chance to win our coffee, you must visit us both. And do not despair over where in the world you are or what your customs regulations may be. Salty is a customs agent slayer. on y va.

Coffee. It's a drug. Everybody's doing it, come on, give in to peer pressure and take a hit. I've had coffee in every city i have been in. Undoubtedly there is never enough space in a montage...however, i do not make it a point to take a coffee wherever I go, but rather it just happens to occur. You see, being born in Seattle, i view coffee obsession as my birth right, and am lured to the taste by my genetic disposition. Naaaaaaahhhhhh, that's a load of bull. It took me a long time to like coffee, and even now i still do not like the classic American drip very much, and would you beleive that if offered the choice i would take milky black tea first? whaaat? Didn't all Americans dump that shit in the Boston Harbor? But that is not to say that i do not like coffee, on the contrary. I love a petite espresso after a meal, and i love a foamy cappuccino or steamy late on a cold day or an early morning, and i would never say no to Starbucks anywhere, ever.

The Seattle "stereotype" of nature-y musical coffee guzzlers does not exist because of Starbucks, Tully's, Seattle's Best, or any of the others, but because Seattleites, along with (evidently) the vast majority of the world enjoy the taste, and that is why the world has grown up into this coffee culture, it is not a fad, it is part of our culture, our world coffee culture.

And now for the best part, being interviewed (psychoanalyzed) by the Sweet~

Sweet: * What is your favourite coffee drink?
Salty: My favOrite (hehe) used to be an Americana because they were the cheapest and I could make them quite easily on my own. But now Starbucks has the Espresso Truffle Late, and well, I now have romantic dreams about it.

* How did you two meet? (you and that cup, not you and a certain gentleman friend)
Hmmm...oh you are referring to salted codfish, well, i don't really know. Cod just swim around in big groups you see. swim swim swim. and i wasn't fishing or anything, but somehow this one decided he wanted to start following me. so I salted him in order to take him with me on long voyages like the Portuguese. Now everywhere i go i smell like salted fish. Anyways, what was the question? coffee-- I grew up in a small town across the Puget Sound from Seattle, that is, you have to take the ferry boat for 30 minutes to get anywhere, and it undoubtedly, like Seattle, is a coffee town. My parents are addicts. I remember a very large framed poster print on the wall of our kitchen of the Starbucks Siren (Mermaid logo) drinking an espresso, so I have always associated coffee as being feminine and kind of mysterious, and well, she is a beautiful mermaid so, drinking coffee is sexy! Haha, no, but since my parents drank drip like psychopathic fiends—or rather zombie robots in the morning who b-line to the coffee pot, I first thought it a “grown up drink.” So, as a child with Starbucks parents, I got to know hot chocolate very well first.

* When are you coming to Melbourne to have a cup of coffee with me?
I am coming to Melbourne on the ____ day of ____ month. But ____ happens to be rather soon! In seven weeks I will be graduating from University and then pretending to start a life. So anything, anything after those next seven weeks is possible. The world will be my toaster (coffee pot? You know Mallory makes both) to go anywhere, providing funds and a desire are there. And Melbourne is very high on the list. So is Tibet and the Azores. And Jamaica. For dancing purposes, naturally. And back to Portugal of course, the Algarve this time. And there's that one place that i know you are waiting for me to say, that one place that i feel like i've already lived in, and that i visit every time i turn my head toward a window, but in real reality, it's just in my head. maybe someday.

* If there was a ‘Mallory’ coffee drink available, what would it be? And why would people go crazy for it?
A Mallory would have to have fruit in it. But fruity coffee... im not sure how that works out. My favorite fruit flavor is mango, so maybe a late...hey wait I know, i've had coffee with cachaca, so why not a real Mallory coffee drink—cold coffee with port wine! Let's do it.

*Do you make your own, or buy your coffee?
A Starbucks (and everywhere else) grande late with tax comes out to about $4.10, so I try not to buy them very often as I am a very poor college student with debt up to my eyeballs. Usually I will reserve them as treats if I am meeting someone for a cup or if someone is taking me out for one. Other than that, I buy a $7.50 bag of ground Vienna roast.

* Brewed or Espresso?
Espresso. I don't even own a brewer. I own one of the cute little espresso pots that you put on the stove. And after living in Europe I started to really just enjoy the small little espresso after meals. And actually, i love crunching on chocolate covered coffee beans. A lot. I'm a biter.

* Dark or fair? (milk or no milk, that is. No, not your preference of the male species)
You know this is the second sexually suggestive question so far in this interview, coffee is the new oyster. or maybe we're just dorks. But you see reader, Christy has an incredibly good looking boyfriend imported from Portland (yeah whatever I can say that, psshhh think I forgot those pizza tossing photos?) where as I do not have a boyfriend here despite what everyone says, and therefore am a sad wandering loner, isn't that how it goes? But let's assume the question is meant to imply that she is collecting Melbourne men so that she can entice me to alter the answer to question number three by luring me in with their sexy Australian accents. But now coffee, white or black...hmmm. neither. So it's clear; what I want is a shade in the middle.

* Which of the following do you do when you are alone in a coffeeshop? Read/surf the net, or conspicuously gawk at good looking people?
I would try to stare at good looking people, but probably just end up staring out the window or at a wall with a crazy look on my face. I also love to eavesdrop into other peoples' conversations.

* Which do you prefer, coffee from Seattle, or from halfway around the world?
If given the choice I will always run, I mean fly, away.

* How many cups do you drink on an average day?
I usually don't drink too many, couple times a week, and always in the evening and not the morning, i'm an obsessive runner, and coffee more than anything seems to really dehydrate me. So it's a love-hate relation, but a treat after a long run.

* How would you characterize a good cup of coffee? (Tall, dark, warm and Italian, for example….hmmm….)
Before becoming a pastry chef/fashion designer/photographer/writer, Christy took her college degree in Psychology and now practices clinical study on the side. Anyways. I would characterize it as--sweet milky English breakfast tea.. Ahk!

Christy's answers to my fantastic interview questions are over at her house. So get your butt over there. After you finish with the rest of MY stuff here of course.

Alright. Now for a coffee recipe. What to make for this...our one rule was tiramisu is off limits. I always think of Kahlua when contemplating coffee desserts, so something with Kahlua cream. hmmm. What do people eat with coffee...coffee cake, boring. Biscotti? nahh that's the easy way out. Cookies? no that's for the tea party. Well, bagels--yes! Bagels! True coffee and a bagels seems more the New York thing to do, but Seattleites love Bagels, and i have never made them before, so chocolate coffee bagels with Kahlua cream? Hell yeah! The quint essential Salty Sweet bagel. So let's get our coffee on.

This baking day landed on the first day of Spring according to the calendar. Now spring in Spokane follows the kindergarten jibe of in like a lion out like a lamb, and the weather lately has been snow flurries, spotted with clear red skies, followed by door busting wind storms and flash hail falls that then end with bird chirpings. Charming. But when the Vernal Equinox arrives, Spokane listens, and for the first time since November, the mercury rose above 50F (10C). What does that mean? It means everyone is outside playing! But i have bagels to bake. But i could not pass up the first day of spring, i may be a dummy but i would never go as far as missing that--you see it's our tribal triumph over having lasted the winter. In your face nature! We won! So in between baking and photographing, my very good buddy E (who from now on will be known as Nixon, though i'm not exactly sure why) and I decided the best thing to do was climb trees and skip river stones. Next we will be playing Pooh Sticks. So, happy spring to you all, a beautiful season of possibility. Tree climbing makes you very thirsty though, so naturally the place to go, is, Starbucks. Coffee in any season. Now eat a bagel.

Mocha Bagels with Kahlua Cream
Ingredients: (for 12 bagels) 6-8 cups flour ~ 1 tsp yeast ~ 3 tsps finely chopped coffee beans ~ 2 cups lukewarm water ~ 1 tbsp salt ~ 3 tbsp sugar ~ 4 oz shaved or finely chopped chocolate ~ 1 tbsp oil

method: 1) dissolve yeast in water, and then add the sugar, salt, oil, and 6 cups of the flour and mix. after a couple minutes add the chocolate, coffee, and eventually the rest of the flour if needed. 2) once the dough pulls away from the sides of the mixer bowl, use a dough hook attachment for 12 minutes. i kneed by hand because i'm cool like that. The dough will be incredibly tough and will make you very sore, but kneed it until smooth. 3) grease a bowl, roll it around, and cover and proof for 1.5 hours (try a warm oven) 4) turn oven to 500F and start a pot of water to boil. cut up dough and roll out into strips (should make 12) and wrap around your hands to form the right size, dip your fingers in water to seal the ends of the dough overlapping by at least an inch. massage it until it is all the same thickness and seems are nearly invisible. 5) by the time you're done with them all the first ones you shaped will be ready to boil. 6) boil bagels until they float, remove, drain, and lay on a parchment covered baking sheet and sprinkle with chopped coffee beans and chocolate 7) bake for 15 minutes with a baking pot of water on the lower rack of the oven.

For the Kahlua cream, all it is is whipped cream, whipped cream cheese, sugar, and Kahlua mixed together.

Coffee, like most things that make me smile--such as colonial architectural patterns-- is a mark of human connectivity. i mean look, beneath all the different names, foams, sugars, creams, cups, syrups, and labels, it turns out that we all grind the same bean. And for that, even if only slightly, you can feel at home for.

Remember we both have coffee (don't worry, not a bagel or a tart) for one of you dear readers--so if you would like to receive a fun package both from me and from Christy, then leave a comment to both of us, and we'll close our eyes and pick a winner. It's a card game of luck, are you lucky? And if we have not frightened you away, we look forward to seeing you again next month. for the next one. on the next theme.

a bientot

(ps. as if i couldn't get anything more into this post, climbing tree made me think about wood, the exceptionally difficult theme for this month's Click food photography contest. above is my entry)

Eat and Run (Literally) - The Seattle Marathon

this tank runs unleaded on yogurt and oats

Warm. Wet. And gray. The perfect conditions for the perfect Seattle race. My first Seattle race, I only ran the half race of 13.1 miles (21.1 kilometers), but felt no less honored to be among the 1200 other racers snaking through the Emerald City. For most the race began on 5th and Harrison, though for some of us who clearly misdiagnosed the traffic buildup on I-5 south, the race began by jumping out of a car on the 167 exit ramp. Anything to add a bit of extra dramatics non? As long as you get to the start when the horn is blown, all is bueno.

Once at the start line, the promenade hit straight all the way down 5th avenue, dipping up and down along the shops and early morning spectators for the 7:30 start. Quest Field and Safeco appear in the mist on the right as we trodded over the I-90 Express lanes toward the Mt. Baker tunnel. Lake Washington to the right, through the trees and over the river to grandmother's house we go. The mist is thick and warm, a layer of condensation or a layer of perspiration? None could be the wiser. Water stations are not necessary--all the water needed is inhaled alongside my oxygen. Finally there appears Lake Union, now we are herded over I-5 returning humbly downtown. Two miles to go until the cowbell-ringing lined path ushering us into memorial stadium. A little sun too, why how nice of the heavens for that. Now get me a bag of bloody ice before my decrepit knee decides to completely stop working.

There were no Thanksgiving recipes from the Salty Cod? Sorry my dear friends--my hand partook not one note in the thanksgiving feast(s). But perhaps a pumpkin yogurt for sunday morning road race fuel can makeup for my shortcomings. Mix two parts yogurt with one part pumpkin goo and spices. Not much of a recipe. But simple in running is always the best. The Seattle half was my first race after the French (ok fine just myself) destroyed my knee last December. Perhaps a few more halfs and then he'll be ready for the whole. But I know that you who are my fellow runners understand.

Athletes don't eat dairy before a competition you say. But i do. No carb-overload pasta stuff-athon the night before a big race for me. No, for the wheat free runner that game changes. To what carbohydrate you ask? To rice. Rice the night before, yogurt and oats the hour before. Does it work? Why yes yes it does. Every morning at 5:30 yogurt and oats lead the way for workouts. Today-well races are special. Throw in a power bar, and perhaps in honor of the thanksgiving weekend, a special yogurt is at hand. Pumpkin pie yogurt with a roasted pumkin seeds. Now don't those make the GU glucose gels look appetizing...mmm. But no I jest--those syrupy translucents are thigh savers at mile 10.


One is the loneliest number, they say. Runners are solo jocks, out there alone, in pain alone, in victory alone. And I used to agree. But running is not done alone. The myriad voices in the ear (maybe that's just the ipod. dunno.) the hundreds alongside whose hearts pound rhythmically too, the family at the finish line, the friend who gets you there and extinguishes your anxiety, your friends who will read this (so you better have a story for them), and the irreplaceable weight of the people who fill your thoughts as the bouncing hours and minutes tick by in rhythm as each foot falls, one in front of the other. The runner has that person(s) upon whom is dumped all the woes and fears of ankles and knees, shoes and burns, sore muscles, seeming pointless goals reported daily. Mile counts. Hour counts. Today was this, tomorrow we do that. Does anyone other than the runner care--no. But they will never tell you so. And for that they are irreplaceable. Running is impossible without these members. And so one is not always the loneliest number, one can oftentimes be awfully crowded.

Get up and run! Next race we do side by side.

à bientôt

Sydney's off to Seattle--with Winey Tear-Stained Cookies

pomegranate Merlot Langues de Chat--the Jefferson peace coins for the trip to my parents

So I have a cat. Well rather, my housemates and I have a cat. And her name is Sydney. But what my housemates and I manged to accomplish, as budding first-time home renters, was the purchase of the monster prior to asking for the landlords approval. Now, after two months, we casually get around to asking. And the verdict: well of course it is no, else there would be no story here for me to yarn before your eyes. So the cat must go. But go where? Ironically it is not even my cat, i'm not a cat person --but my three housemates were denied and refused harborage by their families or significant others, and therefore the burden, like many others i have dumped, falls to my poor parents. She will get along fine there though, for their home is a halfway house for hooligans, drunks, rehab patients, mentally handicapped dogs, my brother, boxes of crap i don't want to throw out yet don't want to keep (love you guys), oh yeah and on occasion--me.

So the pestilent cat must be taken to Seattle. Hooray! A few days away from Spokane! It has been over three months since my last visit, and when the mountain passes are free of snow the distance between Spokane and Seattle dwindle to under five hours by car. So, this weekend--we are away. But right before we go--we bake some cookies of course. When Captains Merriweather Lewis and William Clark "discovered" the western United States they took with them Jefferson peace coins of the nation to offer the native tribes they stumbled upon as mementos of thanks and tidings of we come in peace. At the Salty Cod, short of printing Thomas Jefferson's face on a shortbread biscuit, we try to follow suit.

But then what of these strange cookies? Well, a recipe reminiscent of a cat (duh) to offer to family accompanied by repetitive arigato head motions. Langues de chat--cat tongues are long dry french butter sugar cookies, but softened to a crybaby version with wine and Persephone tears (pomegranate jewels). Am I crying for losing the cat? Sadly no. The cat is much better off without me. With other animals to play with and an outdoor forest to explore. Perhaps it's just one of those days (weeks) where the bags of bricks fall one just after the other. And maybe the wine...sitting next to my computer (glass-less, bad sign?) is perfect to make a white cookie pink like a cat's tongue, and fate perhaps then arranged the pomegranate in the bowl, tear shaped seeds, jewels from which mythology has given us to correlate to sadness and having fallen in a web. We all feel sorry for ourselves from time to time, but once reality is checked, and perhaps a few days to get...away; and the sun somehow finds its way back into the sky, even if it is still only behind the clouds. Reality is remembering that despite the presence of storm clouds--the sun did in fact rise. Reality doesn't always have to be seeing to beleiving, in fact I prefer it to not be.


Langues de chat: (traditional from Chocolate & Zucchini)
ingredients: .5 cup flour ~ .25 cup sugar ~ 2 egg whites ~ 1 tsp vanilla ~ .25 cup butter
method: mix. refrigerate one hour. using a pastry bag make strips, and bake 400 for 7 minutes.

with wine and pomegranates: add extra sugar, extra flour, 4 tbsps wine, and a quarter cup pomegranates.

Sydney, lonestar Spokey--now a sister to three dogs and two wizened felines. She will be just fine. She has taken kindly to the room that used to be my little sisters, which before hers was mine, and now is a computer office/ guest room with boxes stacked against walls, a telescope here, a guitar case there--physical displacement is given more credit than it deserves. You feel at home where you want to feel at home.

Wine and pomegranates. Well i'll take inspiration from any source, the good and the lonely. But remember that the only things to do with leftover pomegranate tears is to drown them in a bowl of steamy porridge. And next time--we'll use a damn glass.

Perks of a short trip home? Rainy soccer games--both brother and sister. But even better--what can i take from the pantry...tante pufflette si tu es la j'aime beaucoup tes confitures! i am making off with two jellys...shhhh!!

a bientot

Does 2 + 2 Equal 4 or 22?

Happy Birthday to MYSELF - Some Mario Batali, What! - and "The Very French Bakery" in SeattleI'm 22 now. It is not as exciting as 21. Was 21 exciting? I worked last year. Right now I don't have a job. Because I'm a lazy-ass nobody. Ah well, at least there is cake.

What do yo want for your birthday? I was asked. My answer: Bourdain on DVD, Cake, lots of wine, and more cake. And I want to eat the whole cake by myself. And the wine too for that matter. No for serious mallory, you don't turn 22 every year. Well that's for damn sure. So, my dear old dad invited me out for lunch, and then like a good agent--i have many an agent propelling my career as executive food journalist--he led me to a French bakery at Pike Place Market, a bakery actually called "Le Panier: The Very French Bakery" should we be a little skeptic?...Just a little? We are pretentious snobs. But this is Seattle, so i'm hopeful. Let's investigate. On y va.

Le Panier is a "traditional French boulangerie" --do you not agree that the French probably are tired of hearing that--where could we find credentials. Upon entering one is thrown into a cute little bakery with an atmosphere wholly uuncommon to those in France, though on the other hand, after quickly glancing through the sugary scented glass, it must be noted that they did in fact stock the essentials. Pain au chocolat, croissants, financiers, palmiers, quiche, Madeleines, macaroons, meringues, and of course, le baguette held vertical in its stall behind the counter operators. Alright, so they had it all. So what. I don't feel like i'm in France. mallory--that is because you are not in France. So instead of so what we decide rather on so plenty: Le Panier is a perfect representation of what a parisian bakery is like. It is a bit of something good trying to show what else is out there--maybe one day a good-to-do Seattleite will watch a flaky skin slowly fall from his pain au chocolat to his knee, resting softly on his trouser, giving him the idea of do they taste like this in France? What else, I wonder, could they have as well? And the next day he is at the departures gate at Seatac on a direct to CDG. All of that from a French pastry shop? Yes, yes indeed. And it's right here in Seattle.

Le Panier was opened in 1983 on Pike Place and the corner of Stewart Street by a Frenchman and a University of Washington French studies graduate. The boulangerie has been serving hot baguettes year round ever since to not only the bubbling hot tourist crowd, but to old and new locals as well. The new line of multi-million dollar condos built just above the market on the hill gives the area a new "residential" crowd, so watch out tourists, you've got Seattleites to deal with now. Don't make them angry. You might either get a fish thrown at you, or perhaps a coffee burn. Stereotyping my own city into a Travel Chanel cliche? Why yes. Flying fish, coffee junkies, tree hugging sea people in Sperry Topsiders and North Face fleece? Alright alright, but there is one description i have heard that I am beginning to think is right--Seattle: obsession.

What does one find inside the shop? Surprisingly it was not overcrowded. Living in Paris one knows that the morning and evening baguette queue at nearly every corner boulangerie can oftentimes snake out the door and wind around the corner as if reenacting a 1940's rationing bread line. Today at Le Panier, the wait was not bad at all, the hot weather, of course, could well be a factor. Whereas Parisians can and do eat baguette everyday regardless of time of year; bakeries in the United States statistically are overwhelmingly more popular in the autumn and winter months. Seattleites--if the weather gets above 17 degrees (fine, 65F) then pull out the ice box, put on the bathing suits, it's summer time! Screw the bakery, we're getting ice cream and margaritas! Don't forget to put on the sunscreen.

Once inside, one finds seated around the room at the many available tables (what one would never find in a boulangerie in france) patrons sipping cappuccinos and oranginas straight out of the little round bottle. A busy staff in crisp blacks running to a fro behind the counter, restocking the tarts and crisps as they quickly disappear. On the whole the place is an A+ for a little France outside of France--but not France itself, that, is impossible. The prices--a little hefty i must say at $2.50 for a pain au chocolat, though, on the other hand, the $1 for the meringue, which yes, I once again have become the slave of, is a deal as its Parisian brother runs at the much higher 1euro. Chouette.

But what is it that makes it different besides it being in Seattle (obviously)? Well, there is the smell--where is it, what is it? All Patisseries and boulangeries in Paris have the smell; it permeates the sidewalk for meters, and hits you like a shot of liquor as you cross the threshold into one. It is the smell--is it flour? The mixture of sweets? Maybe just a different kind of four, any way, I have no idea what it is, but it is unique to the boulangeries of France. If I can smell the smell, no matter what where or how, if the smell is there, then France has finally been duped and cloned. Until then, we have Le Panier, a little piece of France, rather a little representation of the good things, and my friends, France, is the goods things.

A quick purchase of a baguette for my dad, and a meringue for myself, and we leave Le Panier to flaner a little around the market, ending at the flower stalls for the choosing of yes, the most beautiful bouquet in the market. I very much so love flowers. Have you caught on to that yet? Pike Place market is the mecca for beautiful fresh flowers. Wanna impress? Get a Pike Place bouquet.


It is awfully nice to see Seattle again; it truly is the emerald gem of the US. A quick day trip there and back--my Seattle stays the same, but now, now it looks just a bit smaller. But, they say, the smaller the cozier. After the bakery we returned home--where my family, and the myriad windows of which earlier I had graffitied with the phrase chouette awaited my return. My mom, after my brat-like answer of "cake and wine for dinner" planned her own menu of poulet cooked in wine and mushrooms (some call it coq au vin) along with a risotto and green salad. Awfully nice....but where are my presents!

The star of the evening--aside from the autographed Mario Batali "Italian Grill" book which my dad secured for me along with a photo of the man himself autographing the thing (thanks dad--c'est trop chouette) --was the three layer gf birthday cake of vanilla and chocolate with a raspberry butter cream, baked by mom and decorated by GR (Ryan, her name is Ryan, Ryan Noel, actually, would you like her social security number? her favorite color is green and she has a fear of velvet) beautiful, very beautiful. A decor of flowers, did I mention i love flowers? perhaps, I received many. Many alongside the mini-barbeque, chouette! It is for my new back yard--complete with grilling utensils, napkins, (wine) glasses, trays, and all that jazz. Let us see if Mario can teach us a few tricks.

Just glad it wasn't Bobby. No I jest--I'd grill with Bobby anytime, because im a slut for celebrity what can I say. Though the minute Bourdain arrives, I throw my 360 and it's all trash talk on you grill boy. Mario, you're safe though. You're safe. N'inquietez pas.

Twenty second birthday; why do I feel like a little kid still sticking my tongue out. Ah, n'importe de quoi, maybe I am. This means now that I really do need to start eating 22 haricots verts instead of 21.

Cake, famous chef autographs, cake, family, cake, my poulet, cake, wine, cake, and a little reminder that just because I am no longer in France, doesn't mean I cannot see, find, and create France around me. Thank you family, for the wonderful birthday, it is great to be back in my cidade; my cidade....for now.

à bientôt

See Seattle When the Fish Don't Fly

You've seen it. The Seattle this world loves to see. Every food and travel show dives into the same joints: Pike Place Market, the first Starbucks, Pioneer Square, the Space Needle, and my favorite Emerald City cliche--the ferry boats. Yes my friends I give you Seattle. It has always been there for me, but always just there. Taken for granted. The portal for when there is somewhere I need to go, someone I need to see, never just itself. Have I taken this iconic city for granted? Missed my chances to discover the real Seattle? Failed to sip a latte on every corner? Have I not done Seattle? Here is the scandalous truth: I have never been to or in the Space Needle, I have never bought a flying fish from the public market, and I have never penetrated the bouncer worthy crowd wriggling like netted tuna in futile attempts to enter the legendary coffee shop. But do I need to? I know they are there, passed by, observed, tucked the images away as static features of the scenery. Ferries are transportation, basal elements of necessity for we the island and peninsula dwellers. So there they have been, and as I prepare to leave the country, I decide to pay tribute to my birth city, to fall in line with the thronging out of towners and tour, just tour. Sperry's on and Nikon at the ready, we do Seattle--noting the famous food finds, and thinking back on all those collectively we have experienced throughout the years. You've seen Rachel, Giada, those bastard Dean Brothers, and Bordain--the only one with a brain--but now you see me. And Rachel, you got nothing on me. Nothing.

Ah we will leave at 10 a.m. Can we catch the 10:45? No, not today. Why does my hair take so long. 11:30 we make. 35 minutes--we dock. First up: coffee. I've only had one cup, pick a Starbucks, any Starbucks. But no, why not find another joint, another "Seattle coffee". Through pioneer square we go, strolling gaily in search of our mom and pop. Well, there are dozens. We pick a bright one, with a back door and umbrellas. Organic, how quaint. Yet you taste the same. Hmmm. What's next--ah shopping. An interesting phenomenon occurs upon entry into any bookshop in any part of the nation, deja vu. For as much as I love books, and beleive me of my lust, I cannot help but feel that the amount of bookshops I have visited pales only in number to the amount of restrooms I have toured. I have seen many of those. Shopping seems to all blend together in the end; that picture frame is lovely, it would sit well next to the last dozen we saw. Is it time for the food yet? Welcome my friends to the International District, home of the super sized Asian grocery market Uwajimaya.

This is a grocery store. Fruits, vegetables, cereal, and chips--as well as packed seaweed, frozen quail eggs, dried suction cups, sake aisles, and a steady hum of conversations in Japanese. Only here does the air forever smell simultaneously of soy sauce and floor wax. Don't be fooled by the foreign charm of "imports"--there is nothing cheep about Uwajimaya. That Hello Kitty card box costs as much as any other. The produce is phenomenal, here you find the specialty roots, the hard to find spices and Pacific delicacies foreign to the shelves of our paltry Albertsons and Safeways. What to buy at Uwajimaya; white rabbit coconut candies, sake in a fish shaped bottle (it must be a cod I tell myself) and sushi for lunch. Mind you not that bland California vegetarian crap, but real sushi, packed with as much crab, roe, and salmon tartar as possible. To sit in the food court surrounded by sizzling woks, under rows of hanging paper lanterns, and adjacent to greasy windows housing some specie of whole-fried bird complete with head is a wonderfully comforting experience. We share our sushi, it is gone too fast. And my face is now sweaty, as I am ashamedly a very sensitive spice wimp, and even the smallest amount of wasabi is a rush. Enough of our "China town", it is time for more coffee.

The walk across downtown from the International District to the public market is the most familiar. On it we pass the infamous dines featured on television and in travel guides. We pass Salumi, the sausage shop made famous by the shop owner's son, Mario Batalli. Bourdain paid the charcuterie a visit, lunching on slabs of meat with the owners before heading to the beach for a fresh caught dinner of goeuoyduck. Ivars seafood bar--dinner before every Mariners baseball game, "keep clam" is the slogan, bubbling chowder and battered halibut are as Seattle as it gets. Rachel Ray had some fries there, I beleive. Before her visit to Agua Verde in the U-District, where, I must say, the best halibut tacos are to be found. I promise I will get to the market, or rather the zoo in a more proper sense.

No one is buying produce. No one is buying fish. They are just looking, looking and taking pictures. I can't breath. How can this many people fit in here? I want to be screaming fire code violation. But this is the fun of it eh? The soul of the market, I will beat you to the best flower bouquet (which I do--I always get the best--straight from the flower lady's hand, the Barbie pink bouquet thank you). We take our time, sampling the honey, graciously accepting the peach sliver offered on the edge of the vendor's knife. The meat on a stick truly is the best.

Across the street from the market is the location of the first Starbucks. Now they serve the same coffee as they do in the other five thousand Starbucks around the world; but this one is special. This one has the original logo, original lights and counters, and this one has a line sprawling the length of the market. A 45 minute wait for a latte. By the size of the crowd one would expect to find a raucous celebrity studded night club inside. Nah, I think we'll go get a cup at the bucks a block over.

The ferry ride back to the Island at the days end was particularly enjoyable; I realized my absolute favorite aspect of the city: seeing it shrink away as the ferry pulls away from it. It consolidates, becomes intimate, a package by the see all palatable in one glance. It seems to perch on the edge of the sound, almost as if it emerged from the sea. This is how i like Seattle, this view from the ferry as head home to my blackberry bushes, suburban roads and country neighborhoods. I love Seattle because it is there. It is always there. I have a city when I need it, but only when I need it. I don't need a trip to the Space Needle, a fondness for grunge, and a ride on the touring Duck mobile to know the city, I have my city; my backdrop city that symbolizes the view from home, and will always be home.

Rick Steves I dare you to top that. And for the rest of you, my readers, next time you are on the Best Coast, take a trip to Seattle and visit all those traps of legend, and if superfluous rides on ferries amuses you, then by all means I urge you to indulge. Now what you should do when you get to the other side is beyond me. I suppose get back on. Unless you'd like to stay for dinner.


A bientôt

To Wine and Dine with Diana

Early August evenings in Seattle are particularly enjoyable for those who prefer comfortable and tepid weather, warm enough to forget blankets, but cool enough for sweaters. Clear skies with rose streaked clouds makes necessary the ray bans instead of the umbrella precariously perched on the porch. While the weather may be held at a steady room temperature, the wine, however, is to be kept on ice. The Chateau Ste. Michelle Winery; not only a beautiful backdrop for a secluded country pick nick, but an unrivaled venue for live music. On this particularly beautiful evening in Woodinville, the grounds of Chateau Ste. Michelle were honored to host Diana Krall; Canada's princess of ivory. Jazz is a fascinating subject, it has sparked revolutions, defined and made heard cultures and regions, and has accompanied and carried movements throughout history. It represents change and pain, while at the same time tradition and pleasure. The versatile nature of jazz has carried it through myriad generations of listeners, musicians, and connoisseurs each with their own unique needs for it. Yet, the songs remain the same. Those played by Louis Armstrong and Nat King Cole have been carried by Sinatra and now by Bublé and Diana, but each rendition is wholly fresh and varying from the others as black varies from white. Lounging on blankets in the lazying sun while over-consuming the Chateau's reserves paired with classic bowls of fruit, dried meats and fish, soft cheeses, and croûtons is truly the description of relaxation and luxury--if not clichéd images of snobbery and the overindulgent bourgeoisie class--yet such luxuries can be taken humbly and without guilt, if only one is willing to take such evenings with gratitude and acknowledgment of how truly lucky one is to be found present in a setting of such beauty, sound, and taste.

The bragging rights of Chateau Ste. Michelle are many, as the oldest and most established winery in the state of Washington, Ste. Michelle hosts a trophy arsenal to rival those of many American wineries. While the wine is processed and distributed at the chateau in the Seattle suburb of Woodinville, the vineyard can actually be found in the dry and warm deserts that lay east of the Cascades in Eastern Washington. The ancestral roots of the winery reach back to 1934 when the Pommerelle and National Wine companies were formed. In 1954 the two merged, and in 1967 a premium line of wines deemed Ste. Michelle Vintners was released, followed a decade later by the building of the Woodinville chateau. The wines produced are many, the pearl of the vines being their Ethos Cabernet Sauvignon, described to exude "aromas of black fruit, molasses, cocoa, cedar, earth and a touch of black olive." Described so as I have not had the privilege of its acquaintance, my wine palette is much more naive, uncultivated, and virtually pleased by anything. As such my sister and I were satisfied with 2005 Chardonnay and Semilon, whites to counterbalance notre pere's ardor for tepid reds.

We were met at the concert by a few of my dad's work mates, who, in saintly fashion, came leaden with ground blankets, mini chaises, pick nick foods, and drink. Though our brie, smoked salmon, and fruit salad paled in comparison to the excessive wicker basket loaded with silver candlesticks, crystal glassware, and tinned pate of our neighboring pick nickers, it was more than perfect for the evening whose focus was pinned on wine, and more acutely on Diana.

Food, music, and drink: the primordial triforce not to be meddled with. They all say it; memories with loved ones are predominately created around said social situations. Food and drink brings us together in company and conversation, music playing the accentuating factor. This is a universal human trait. Miss Krall was amazing, better live than any I have heard, a true musician whose untampered with voice can stand on its own. Surreal bacchanalian situations such as these are the definition of escape--no work, no worry. Jazz puts you at ease (with or without the wine), and, as witnessed, is coddled by a vast range of ages that for each represents something entirely different. So, eat, drink, and if you can, just listen.

A bientôt