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.
