Basics: $3 wells; $3 draft beers; rotating menu of $3 sushi rolls. Daily specials run 3:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m.
At first glance, Liberty might appear to have lost some of its initial luster: the tables are a little battered and worn, the unfinished hardwood floors are beaten and covered in scuffs, and the two wall-mounted planters near the front cradle dangling remnants of dehydrated ferns.
Fittingly, of course, both containers are black.
Careful, though. After a few well drinks and a couple of here-and-there chats with the easy-going waitstaff, Liberty's pummeled interior can have a brainwashing effect, morphing its surroundings from those of neglect to those of comfort. Think of your favorite pair of wrecked-up, broken-in jeans you've owned for years. Sure, they've seen better days, but you slip them on time and again because they feel so goddamn good. That two yards of denim is pretty much Liberty, which I dare say is the most Seattle-esque bar I've ever seen: at once being a high end/dive hybrid that avoids the ironic or pretentious quagmires that similar bars fall victim to.
True, while Liberty's bartenders pour a cheap rail drink here, it's truly a cocktailer's bar. Set beneath minimal track lighting in a room painted in darkened, bourbon-soaked ketchup and mustard tones, the skeletal bar is nothing much to drink in visually. Boy, though, is it deep: at places it goes back four or five bottles. With nothing fancy to detract the eye, the booze is forced to take center stage, ready to be drank in, literally.
Of the few specialty cocktails we sampled (there were numerous pages to choose from), the Bramble ($8) emerged the clear favorite: gin, blackberry and lemon that cloaks the booze enough that it goes down smooth with just a murmur of juniper aftertaste. Well drinks were hearty, but not particularly overpowering.
It's Liberty's food offerings that, by some accounts, are the bar's biggest failing. Much to the APIC's disgust and horror (he may have screamed like a 6-year-old girl, come to think of it), nothing served here is deep-fried: it's just sushi.
Don't misunderstand: the food is delicious. The menu traipses through rolls, nigiri, sashimi and vegetarian fare, crossing a wide range of made-to-order bites that, at $4-12 each, satisfy both palettes and wallets. Taylor's choice, the Sonic Boom scallops ($6/4 pieces) was remarkable, balancing out the juiced-up shellfish with smooth mayo and crunchy sprouts. Also, there's a selection of $3 happy hour rolls that rotate on a daily basis: this day's was the Sonic Boom tuna, which wasn't near as exciting as its scallop counterpart.
In general, though, sushi makes a less-than-ideal bar snack. As far as sponging up booze, a few pieces of fish and clumps of rice, however delicious they may be (and they are at Liberty), just aren't up to the task.
That'd be about the only complaint I have. Well, that and the depressing background music: it's supposed to be a "happy" hour, not a "wrist-slashing" one.
Liberty. 517 15th Ave E (15th between Republican and Mercer), Seattle's Capitol Hill. Daily 3:00-7:00 p.m.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
The Atlantic Crossing
Basics: $1 off draft and bottled beer; $1 off well drinks; $2-6 food specials. Daily food and drink specials run 3:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m.; daily food specials also run 11:00 p.m. to close.
The Atlantic Crossing is the type of bar that almost – almost – makes you wish indoor smoking was still legal in Washington. The dimly-lit bar – overly shady even at 3:00 on a sunny August afternoon – practically begs its customers to imbibe booze and inhale nicotine simultaneously, as if its namesake is the spot on the map where the twin addictions cross paths.
The Crossing also intersects several genres of bar: the neighborhood, the sports, and the dive. There’s the catch-all trophies, jerseys and hi-def flatscreens broadcasting ESPN and FSN batting for the sports element; the balding 40- and 50-somethings sipping alone together, literally bellying up to the dive bar; and the slim, chatty lady bartenders in their 20’s that make each drinker feel like he lives in the surrounding Roosevelt neighborhood.
Labeled a “British and Irish pub,” in actuality The Atlantic Crossing is little more than a hole-in-the-wall dive that blends in with most businesses on Roosevelt Way. Anyone not living in the area and who wasn’t stopped at a red light on NE 65th would doubtfully know the joint exists.
And to regulars here: they like it that way. It’s the type of crowd that prefer a drinking place where they know the bartender, she knows them, and together they can revel in their neighborhood rather than the city. Case in point: this particular afternoon the soundtrack jolted from Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” to Gaga’s “Bad Romance.” The change in atmosphere was immediately palpable, uncomfortable to the point that the barkeep changed the song after a scant few “Rah, rah, ra ah ah-ah”’s. The five men seated with a three-stool buffer between each both breathed and sipped a little easier.
Food options at The Crossing don’t wander far from the deep fryer, but they do satisfy (beer-battered avocado tastes much better than it sounds), and the well drinks come out with a medium pour. And, after all, since eye candy is pretty much off-menu, cheap drinks and deep-fried foods are about all you could ask from a neighborhood dive.
The Atlantic Crossing. 6508 Roosevelt Way NE (NE 65th St and Roosevelt Way NE), Seattle’s Roosevelt. Daily 3:00-6:00 p.m., food specials nightly 11:00 p.m.-close.
The Atlantic Crossing is the type of bar that almost – almost – makes you wish indoor smoking was still legal in Washington. The dimly-lit bar – overly shady even at 3:00 on a sunny August afternoon – practically begs its customers to imbibe booze and inhale nicotine simultaneously, as if its namesake is the spot on the map where the twin addictions cross paths.
The Crossing also intersects several genres of bar: the neighborhood, the sports, and the dive. There’s the catch-all trophies, jerseys and hi-def flatscreens broadcasting ESPN and FSN batting for the sports element; the balding 40- and 50-somethings sipping alone together, literally bellying up to the dive bar; and the slim, chatty lady bartenders in their 20’s that make each drinker feel like he lives in the surrounding Roosevelt neighborhood.
Labeled a “British and Irish pub,” in actuality The Atlantic Crossing is little more than a hole-in-the-wall dive that blends in with most businesses on Roosevelt Way. Anyone not living in the area and who wasn’t stopped at a red light on NE 65th would doubtfully know the joint exists.
And to regulars here: they like it that way. It’s the type of crowd that prefer a drinking place where they know the bartender, she knows them, and together they can revel in their neighborhood rather than the city. Case in point: this particular afternoon the soundtrack jolted from Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” to Gaga’s “Bad Romance.” The change in atmosphere was immediately palpable, uncomfortable to the point that the barkeep changed the song after a scant few “Rah, rah, ra ah ah-ah”’s. The five men seated with a three-stool buffer between each both breathed and sipped a little easier.
Food options at The Crossing don’t wander far from the deep fryer, but they do satisfy (beer-battered avocado tastes much better than it sounds), and the well drinks come out with a medium pour. And, after all, since eye candy is pretty much off-menu, cheap drinks and deep-fried foods are about all you could ask from a neighborhood dive.
The Atlantic Crossing. 6508 Roosevelt Way NE (NE 65th St and Roosevelt Way NE), Seattle’s Roosevelt. Daily 3:00-6:00 p.m., food specials nightly 11:00 p.m.-close.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Cellars Restaurant and Lounge
Basics: $5 well drinks; $4-5 wine and champagne; $2.95 draft beer; $4-7 food. Daily specials run 4:00 p.m. to close Sunday and Monday, 4:00 to 7:00 p.m. Tuesday through Saturday.
One of the things I love most about Belltown is the front-row-center season ticket I hold to the endless revivals of Homeless Guy Theatre.
That’s not meant to sound callous: I’ve lived Downtown going on five years now, so I’m quite accustomed to hobos, pan handlers and crack addicts. Disassociation has become a necessary evil with the constant interactions. (Though, to be fair, there could be any number of drugs tweaking said addicts’ systems – not specifically crack – so it’s incorrect and short-sighted of me to assume rock candy is their drug du jour.)
But: back to alcohol.
On warmer days, Cellars opens its garage-style windows, creating a mixer of bar and patio areas. Staffers pull gauzy curtains aside to reveal an undoubtedly urban view: articulated busses, commuters desperately trying to navigate First Avenue, and the sun setting over Elliot Bay behind Belltown Billiards, a weekend hot spot/pool hall/hetero meat market.
On this particular of warmer days, however, there was a bit more than the sunset to drink in. Outside the patio fence swayed a matted-haired homeless guy alternately yelling at passing traffic and taking swigs off a three-quarters empty screw-top bottle of Hogue Cellar’s pinot grigio. After he sealed the bottle and nestled it safely near his dusty, tore-up backpack, he vacillated between dancing a wine-fueled jig, puffing off of what seemed to be a never-ending supply of smokes, and staring down drivers as they stop at Blanchard’s red light.
Three waitresses attempted to ask him to leave, but it was the fourth one who actually succeeded: a Latina waitress, the first trio being white. It was at this point I began to suspect the bum in question was not only somewhat of a wino, but also a teensy bit racist. He did eventually pack up the almost-empty bottle and teeter down the street, much to the relief of two businessmen who had been seated on the patio and witnessed the majority of his antics.
Not five minutes after the the wine chugger had left, a well-dressed lady joined the suits outside, placing the following order: “I’ll have a glass of champagne. Oh and go ahead and put some vodka in it.”
Now why would I spend so much time focusing on what happened at a happy hour rather than reviewing the bar itself? Because Cellars is pretty much unexceptional all the way around. The drink specials look promising enough, but both my martini and Manhattan ($5 each) came loaded with melted-down ice cubes, either a rookie mistake or a lazy, inexcusable error. Even the décor is pretty standard: “It has that industrial look with exposed brick and overhead ventilation ducts,” the APIC* said. “Then you throw in a few chandeliers and you’ve got yourself a post-modern, formulaic happy hour bar.”
Quel formulaic, indeed.
Cellars Restaurant and Lounge. 2132 First Ave (First and Blanchard), Seattle’s Belltown. Daily 4:00-7:00 p.m., 4:00 p.m. to close Sundays and Mondays.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Barrio
Basics: $6-7 margaritas; $5 sangria and select wines; $3 Mexican beers; $3-5 small plates; $1 smoked salt caramels. Daily specials run 3:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m.; evening specials run Sundays through Thursdays 10:00 p.m. to midnight, Fridays and Saturdays from 11:00 p.m. to 1 a.m.
Walking into Barrio, particularly on a rainy Seattle afternoon, you could see why the metal letters spelling out the restaurant’s name next to the entrance are rusted. Understandable: it’s Seattle. It rains here. We get wet. Now where can I hang my umbrella?
Once inside, though, the bar's fascinatingly cobbled-together décor vanquishes most thoughts of overcast skies. Barrio makes excellent use of its space, combining wood, metal and concrete with remarkable ease. Square angles and curved arcs playfully banter throughout the main dining area. Molé-colored walls contrast against a dozen or so splintery espresso-colored 4x6 beams suspended from the ceiling over a swooping fireplace.
And of course: the candles. So many goddamn candles. A thick, latticed grid separates the two dining areas, supporting hundreds of luminous pillar candles. The rear dining area features several more dozen spiraling down from the ceiling, their flames flickering and shimmying off the maize-colored walls. (Side note: Cameron, Barrio's general manager, assures me each candle is lit by hand every night. On closer inspection the candles, at least in the latticework wall, look to be faux pillars rigged with oil lamps. Either way, the effect is striking and impossible to overlook.)
On the whole, Barrio sports a rugged, masculine décor, anchored in strong, bold statements and supported by other subtler elements of design. Coincidentally or not, the beverages are the same: bold flavors with subtle undertones to enhance, elevate and improve.
The APIC* and I are, admittedly, accustomed to simple, formulaic drinks when going out: he the vodka and ginger as of late, I the vodka soda as of always. When we sidled up to the Barrios snaking bar, covered in a mosaic of jagged, uneven porcelain chips, we felt inspired to order something more sophisticated and adult.
(And by “inspired” I mean that Barrio doesn’t list well drinks for happy hour, so we were pretty much screwed as far as two-note sippables.)
The margaritas ($6), frankly, can be dangerous and go down entirely too easily. On the specialty drink menu, the rum-based PFC Punch #1 ($10) was by far the favorite of the four we ordered: a sweet, peachy cocktail packing the tiniest trace of alcoholic assault that subtly stings all the way down.
The tacos ($3) were stuffed to the point where a knife and fork made more practical sense than attempting to eat by hand. The pork loin al pastor is particularly worth mention: the spicy, red sauce blended together well with onions, cilantro and pineapple extras.
The bar packs up after happy hour, and I mean really packs up. On a Wednesday there was a steady stream of people waiting up to 15 minutes for seating. It was around this point when the place grew too loud for the APIC*, which I will concede is one of Barrio's few detractors: with all the exposed concrete and metal, there's not a lot going on as far as sound absorption.
Walking out more bleary-eyed than before (thank you, expert bartenders!), and struggling to push open the heavy Mexican mission-style doors, we again came face-to-face with the restaurant’s rusted letters. After spending some time in the interior, it’s as if these patinaed letters play off the masculine decor, foreshadowing what first-timers can expect inside.
Whether that's by design or by the booze, I'll let you decide.
Barrio. 1420 12th Ave (12th between Pike and Union), Seattle’s Capitol Hill (Also 10650 NE 4th St, Bellevue). Daily 3:00-6:00 p.m.; late night Sundays through Thursdays 10:00 to midnight, Fridays and Saturday 11:00 p.m. to 1 a.m.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Kristos
Basics: $4 well drinks, $3 Bud Lights, $3.75 draft beers, $5 wines, $2-7 small plates. Daily specials run 3:00 p.m. to 6:30 p.m. and 10:00 p.m. to close. Well vodka: McCormick’s.
Upon entering Kristos, patrons are almost asphyxiated by the color blue: the walls are painted a deep, lustrous cobalt that looms its way up to the second story loft. Teensy, delicate ultramarine-colored occasional lamps dangle in clusters over the tables. Even the booth's seat backs are upholstered in a roughly thatched fabric of steel blue.
Built in behind the bar is an irregular patchwork of darkened champagne-colored stone, like something out of The Brady Bunch den (but in a very appealing way). Lithe purple tulips swoon out of bud vases, while pristine white orchids float completely submerged in water contained in wide-mouthed hurricane vases.
It’s a nice a scene to drink in as the generous gin and gingers poured here. A downright beautiful scene, in fact, until you look out the windows, reality kicks in, and you remember you’re getting a buzz on under the freeway.
Kristos is gorgeous but would be better suited in trendier Belltown than right under Interstate 5’s Ship Canal Bridge. The sleek, glamorous bar with a soft-spoken electronica soundtrack has little in common with the overly claustrophobic Serafina or the beer-sloshed Zoo Tavern, two of Eastlake's mainstays. But it seems to be working. Eastlake has already undergone a metamorphosis in the past few years, acquiring a half-dozen or so swank and trendy condo complexes and a few specialty boutiques. Maybe Kristos is sign of things to continue to come in this neighborhood.
But none of that matters during happy hour. This Greek-inspired lounge is consistently busy as customers continually fill the blue-underlit bar. The drinks, tonight poured by Kristo himself (or Chris, as he’s better known), were heavy handed, which is exactly what a rail drink should be. The chicken Caeser ($7) was fairly unremarkable, though the Greek salad ($5) came as a hearty, heaping mound of chopped cucumbers, bell peppers, tomatoes, Kalamata olives, red onions and feta. Not the most outstanding salad ever, but it more than did the job of filling our drunk stomachs.
Kristos. 3218 Eastlake Ave E (Eastlake and Harvard), Seattle’s Eastlake. Daily 3:00-6:30 p.m., late night 10:00 p.m. to close.
Upon entering Kristos, patrons are almost asphyxiated by the color blue: the walls are painted a deep, lustrous cobalt that looms its way up to the second story loft. Teensy, delicate ultramarine-colored occasional lamps dangle in clusters over the tables. Even the booth's seat backs are upholstered in a roughly thatched fabric of steel blue.
Built in behind the bar is an irregular patchwork of darkened champagne-colored stone, like something out of The Brady Bunch den (but in a very appealing way). Lithe purple tulips swoon out of bud vases, while pristine white orchids float completely submerged in water contained in wide-mouthed hurricane vases.
It’s a nice a scene to drink in as the generous gin and gingers poured here. A downright beautiful scene, in fact, until you look out the windows, reality kicks in, and you remember you’re getting a buzz on under the freeway.
Kristos is gorgeous but would be better suited in trendier Belltown than right under Interstate 5’s Ship Canal Bridge. The sleek, glamorous bar with a soft-spoken electronica soundtrack has little in common with the overly claustrophobic Serafina or the beer-sloshed Zoo Tavern, two of Eastlake's mainstays. But it seems to be working. Eastlake has already undergone a metamorphosis in the past few years, acquiring a half-dozen or so swank and trendy condo complexes and a few specialty boutiques. Maybe Kristos is sign of things to continue to come in this neighborhood.
But none of that matters during happy hour. This Greek-inspired lounge is consistently busy as customers continually fill the blue-underlit bar. The drinks, tonight poured by Kristo himself (or Chris, as he’s better known), were heavy handed, which is exactly what a rail drink should be. The chicken Caeser ($7) was fairly unremarkable, though the Greek salad ($5) came as a hearty, heaping mound of chopped cucumbers, bell peppers, tomatoes, Kalamata olives, red onions and feta. Not the most outstanding salad ever, but it more than did the job of filling our drunk stomachs.
Kristos. 3218 Eastlake Ave E (Eastlake and Harvard), Seattle’s Eastlake. Daily 3:00-6:30 p.m., late night 10:00 p.m. to close.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Vermillion
Basics: $3 well drinks, $3 Washington wines, $1 off other drinks. Daily specials run 4:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. Closed Mondays.
Art galleries and alcohol can make the perfect joint venture: booze, more often than not, can fuel the crazy Bohemian spirit within. Many Seattle bars – The Hideout or Grey, for example – mix the paintbrush with a Pisco Sour to mellifluous results. Vermillion, on the other hand, is more akin to a fine Champagne flute brimming with flat Andre Cold Duck.
I chalk most of it up to the architecture: Vermillion is essentially an art gallery – that happens to include a bar. Little, if anything, is done to join the two. They meet only to pass one patron off to the other, neither customer fully realizing what it is they’ve come for.
All is not lost at Vermillion: the drinks were strong enough to warrant a toast at $3 each. The septuplet of uneven rattan lanterns mixed with skylights made for a welcoming and well-stocked bar. A simple, compelling, geometric wine rack cradled an impressive array of whites and reds.
As nice enough a place it was, we never felt Vermillion truly understood what it wanted to be: a gallery, bar, or gallery/bar hybrid. The juxtaposition between the overly bright art space crammed next to – rather than ingratiated in to – the dark bar area was too jarring for us to feel completely at ease while there.
Which probably explains why we only spent 20 minutes before we moved on for more drinks.
Vermillion. 1508 11th Ave (11th and Pike), Seattle’s Capitol Hill. Daily 4:00 p.m.-7:00 p.m.; closed Mondays.
UPDATE: Grey, mentioned above, is now closed. Sad day.
Art galleries and alcohol can make the perfect joint venture: booze, more often than not, can fuel the crazy Bohemian spirit within. Many Seattle bars – The Hideout or Grey, for example – mix the paintbrush with a Pisco Sour to mellifluous results. Vermillion, on the other hand, is more akin to a fine Champagne flute brimming with flat Andre Cold Duck.
I chalk most of it up to the architecture: Vermillion is essentially an art gallery – that happens to include a bar. Little, if anything, is done to join the two. They meet only to pass one patron off to the other, neither customer fully realizing what it is they’ve come for.
All is not lost at Vermillion: the drinks were strong enough to warrant a toast at $3 each. The septuplet of uneven rattan lanterns mixed with skylights made for a welcoming and well-stocked bar. A simple, compelling, geometric wine rack cradled an impressive array of whites and reds.
As nice enough a place it was, we never felt Vermillion truly understood what it wanted to be: a gallery, bar, or gallery/bar hybrid. The juxtaposition between the overly bright art space crammed next to – rather than ingratiated in to – the dark bar area was too jarring for us to feel completely at ease while there.
Which probably explains why we only spent 20 minutes before we moved on for more drinks.
Vermillion. 1508 11th Ave (11th and Pike), Seattle’s Capitol Hill. Daily 4:00 p.m.-7:00 p.m.; closed Mondays.
UPDATE: Grey, mentioned above, is now closed. Sad day.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Fado
Basics: Monthly rotating drink specials; $3-5 small plates; Weekday specials run 4:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m.
Four words for you: Best. French. Fries. Ever.
The APIC’s* uncommon obsession with deep-fried foods rivals his need for oxygen. Sadly, this has led to many late-night hot dog stands and several trips to Dick’s to nosh on the grease-bathed hypocrisy that betrays our health-conscious, gym-going nature.
(Side note: whoever decided to put cream cheese on a hot dog should either be martyred or canonized … I honestly can’t tell which is more appropriate.)
Normally I avoid anything drowned in scalding oil, but these fries! Sweet. Juicy. Plump. Subtly seasoned. If anyone knows their way around a potato, it’s the Irish.
For those unaware, Fado is a small national chain with restaurants in 11 states that specializes in Irish pub fare. Bangers and mash? Yes. Corned beef and cabbage? Fado has it, as well as “the best-poured Guinness I’ve ever had in Seattle,” says my Irish-born college roommate Pat, who lists Fado among his top reasons to move to the Puget Sound after graduating.
Fado mixes the traditional Irish pub with new-fangled technology: it’s one of the few places in the city that broadcasts international soccer games live via satellite regardless of local time, and not just during the World Cup. Die-hard Manchester fans can find themselves cheering at 5:30 a.m. Seattle time if they really need their football fix. Plus, how many bars would pour a brew at that hour?
And while the pub can draw out the inner hooligan, Fado hosts the bookish type too, at one of the city’s most popular trivia nights. (Wednesdays. 6:30. It gets ridiculously crowded.)
Would I go back on a regular basis? Probably not: the drinks weren’t all that strong and the seating became increasingly uncomfortable the longer we stayed. But the next time my dad is in town and asks me what’s a good place to grab a beer? I know exactly where to take him.
Fado. 801 First Ave (First and Columbia), Seattle’s Pioneer Square. Weekdays 4:00-7:00 p.m.
Four words for you: Best. French. Fries. Ever.
The APIC’s* uncommon obsession with deep-fried foods rivals his need for oxygen. Sadly, this has led to many late-night hot dog stands and several trips to Dick’s to nosh on the grease-bathed hypocrisy that betrays our health-conscious, gym-going nature.
(Side note: whoever decided to put cream cheese on a hot dog should either be martyred or canonized … I honestly can’t tell which is more appropriate.)
Normally I avoid anything drowned in scalding oil, but these fries! Sweet. Juicy. Plump. Subtly seasoned. If anyone knows their way around a potato, it’s the Irish.
For those unaware, Fado is a small national chain with restaurants in 11 states that specializes in Irish pub fare. Bangers and mash? Yes. Corned beef and cabbage? Fado has it, as well as “the best-poured Guinness I’ve ever had in Seattle,” says my Irish-born college roommate Pat, who lists Fado among his top reasons to move to the Puget Sound after graduating.
Fado mixes the traditional Irish pub with new-fangled technology: it’s one of the few places in the city that broadcasts international soccer games live via satellite regardless of local time, and not just during the World Cup. Die-hard Manchester fans can find themselves cheering at 5:30 a.m. Seattle time if they really need their football fix. Plus, how many bars would pour a brew at that hour?
And while the pub can draw out the inner hooligan, Fado hosts the bookish type too, at one of the city’s most popular trivia nights. (Wednesdays. 6:30. It gets ridiculously crowded.)
Would I go back on a regular basis? Probably not: the drinks weren’t all that strong and the seating became increasingly uncomfortable the longer we stayed. But the next time my dad is in town and asks me what’s a good place to grab a beer? I know exactly where to take him.
Fado. 801 First Ave (First and Columbia), Seattle’s Pioneer Square. Weekdays 4:00-7:00 p.m.
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