Under the pretense of visiting my cousin for his birthday, I took the floatplane from my home in Victoria, BC to Seattle, WA for the weekend. He was coming up from Cali to visit his good childhood friend, whom we’ll call Hooligan #2. Seeing as how I’m forever promising to visit him and never actually do, I figured now was a good time to make the trip. But my real motivation - I needed to go Seattle to pick up some Murphy-Goode wines, which the BC LDB does not import. (Let us here lament the ineffectual LDB, who will soon become our running joke.)
Arrive Seattle, Lake Union. Floatplane is highly recommended. Seattle is already pulsing under the early May heat. Cuz is not there to get me. Figures. But soon enough Hooligan #2 rolls up. From here the boys spend the day napping, talking about cars and girls, and I harass them to take me out to no avail. It seems we’ve all reverted to being eight; and by ‘we,’ I mean ‘them,’ and by ‘reverted’ I mean are ‘still.’
They do take me to the grocery store however. Oh America! Sometimes I truly do miss you. The neon is bright, the overhead music hypnotic and the booze so readily available. I pace slowly along the wine aisles, fingers running along labels, stopping now and then at something new, or something I haven’t had in so very long. And cheap! Gloriously inexpensive. Now I see why our forefathers fought taxation.
I hail a sales clerk to help me search for Murphy-Goode. A funny little man with a round belly and a red face, he clearly takes advantage of his occupation. His eyes widen as I tell him why I’m looking for only Murphy-Goode wines. His shoulders fall a little when I explain who they’re looking for. “I only just got Facebook for my girlfriend,” he says, glumly, then launches into a rant about how Facebook helped him pressure a friend into moving his truck from the driveway. I listen politely and can’t help but grin when he so enthusiastically wishes me the best.
Later, the boys go to the Mariners game. Cuz neglected to inform Hooligan #2 of my visit before Hooligan #2 had given away his spare tickets. No hot dogs for me. I am not sad. Entertaining myself in Seattle is never difficult.
We hit the Pyramid beer garden before the game and meet up with some other Juneauites. Pyramid has a very smart thing going for them, but should seriously consider hiring another DJ. As the crowd swarms the beer booths he pulses out some Creed on his Toshiba. Audible groans.
Boys leave for game; I leave for dinner. There are some new places I should check out, but tonight I head to my old favorites on an appetizer tour. Cafe Campagne first. Right off Pikes, it is tucked away on a cobbled alley. It has its fair share of tourists, but maintains a following of Seattle’s most stringent Francophiles.
I hoist myself onto a stool at the bar and linger over the wine list. As I’m on a wine mission, it seems right that wine should direct my diner. My mind immediately jumps to champagne and oysters. But as I peruse the list I spot a rosé from Cassis being offered by the glass. Could there be a wine more indicative of summer?
Somewhere between rosy and golden, this Bagnol wafts apricots and afternoon sun. The palette is light and leans dry while hinting at bright, summer fruits. It pairs perfectly to the calamar a la Provençal: perfectly trenched calamari tossed in olive oil with kalamata olives, lemon juice and maybe some thyme.
While savoring my perfect pairing I become friends with my waiter and the gentlemen on either side of me. Before I’m able to leave, Fabien pours me strident Beaujolais when neighbor-to-the-left offers a bit of his pate de campagne. Neighbor-to-the-right will not be outdone and shares his cheese plate. Piglet has finished all her calamari and has nothing to offer. So I smile politely and stroll onto Le Pichet.
If Cafe Campagne is the quintessence of France then Le Pichet is the epitome of Paris. Stein and Hemmingway are locked in conversation in a corner and Amelie makes espresso behind the bar. I fain apathy and let my server order for me. She pours a pinot and severs the special: a frise salad with chicken livers. Obviously a wise woman, I shirk my detachment and we rhapsodize about the merits of chicken livers when cooked right and the spar over Oregon, Burgundy and politics of the Pacific Northwest.
Cuz calls. Game over. I spear one last liver while my server recommends her favorite late night haunts. We exchange FB pages and I promise to tow her around the boutique vineyards of Vancouver Island if she ever makes the pond hop.
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