One rather unfortunate fact about urban restaurants is that they can often be "trendy". This is not to say that the trends themselves are bad - after all the recent emergence of Capitol Hill as a homemade ice cream hot spot (can you reasonably call anything related to ice cream a "hot spot"?) is nothing to complain about. The unfortunate thing is that trends come and go, they can be exclusive and uppity, and they can put a false focus on food as a hip lifestyle accessory, as opposed to, well, simply good food.
Take small plates: it's only logical that this trend should lend itself well to tapas bars, and even, in the case of Txori, a real San Sebastian style pintxos bar in Seattle's Belltown. Along with fellow foodie John, we visited Txori for the first time tonight, and had a wonderful meal of pintxos, those little bites I have been craving since I left Spain in May. Owned by a Basque, the food at Txori (meaning "bird" in Euskera, the Basque language) really captured the spirit of Donostia (aka San Sebastian). The atmosphere, on the other hand, was typical Seattle: spare walls, people casually sitting at postage stamp-sized tables with cocktails and ordering off a chicly minimalist menu.
Of course, I knew this would be the case. It's impossible to transport an entire culture of evening pub crawls, with hundreds wandering the narrow pedestrian avenues, filling the streets with chatter and stopping in at their favorite haunts to reach through the crowds and pluck their pintxos of choice from the platters laid out in all their glory across a hundred year old bar. That this is not what Txori is is hardly Txori's fault, and no reason to avoid the place. I'm just saying that if you ever have the chance, go to San Sebastian, because nowhere else in the world can recreate that scene.
But, as noted above, Txori does an excellent job recreating the food, and our smiling waitress, although not herself Basque, made me fondly recall the gracious Maria and Anna, desk clerks at the Hotel Parma in San Sebastian, who always greeted me with a smile and pleasant conversation. The mushrooms were outstanding, the squid in its own ink was unbelievably tender (How do they do that?! Is the ink the secret?), and they even had txakoli, a barely bubbly Basque wine, although it wasn't quite as tasty as what I remembered from my travels.
Definitely, I want to go back. But I couldn't help but feel a little wistful for the pintxo bars of San Sebastian, where some bars are high end and some bars are divey, and while they are always competing for what's new and novel, the concept of pintxos themselves will never go out of style and are enjoyed by all. How many people are going to enjoy Txori, and how many would look at the fact that it serves blood sausage and octopus and $10 cocktails and never set foot inside? If Txori is still here ten years from now, will it be out of fashion, the hipsters and foodies having moved on to the latest craze, or will it grow comfortably into someplace that everyone knows, where everyone goes to get an evening bite with friends both young and old, foodie or not?
I hope it stays. I hope it continues to delight people with unexpected tastes, while keeping old favorites, and proves that so-called small plates are more than just a trend here. Because ultimately, it should be about good food and good company, and taking a little time out of the day to slow down and savor the good things in life.
So Txori, stick around. And hey, homemade ice cream, you can stay, too. Good food is good food, no matter what.
Showing posts with label John. Show all posts
Showing posts with label John. Show all posts
Monday, July 13, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
The Joule of Wallingford
There is a tiny restaurant in Wallingford that goes by the name of Joule. On winter Sundays, they dispense with their everyday menu and offer up a theme dinner for the bargain price of $20 per person. Add to this the fact that they also offer house wine for only $4 a glass and, well, this is a deal that's hard to beat in this city.
But what's really hard to beat is the story of how Michael, Liz, and I finally made it to our dinner reservation there last night.
It started out simply enough. Michael and I motored our way down Lake City Way, heading onto Roosevelt on our way to Liz's place.
"Aren't you going to turn here?" Michael asked innocently when I drove past the Roosevelt Safeway.
"No, Liz told me this morning her house is on 70th, I'll turn there." I had, in fact, dropped Liz off at her place before, but it had been awhile, it had been after dark, and I'd never bothered to remember which street it was on anyway. Momentarily I pulled up across from a house on 70th. Michael hesitated.
"This isn't right," he told me.
"Well, this is what she told me. Come on, get out of the car, and go see if she's there." Honestly, it didn't look right to me either, but I was positive Liz had said 70th... that morning after church, with the fellowship hall full of the clamor of post-service chat.... and I was talking with that new guy... he was standing between us... OK, OK, this sounded bad, but I had repeated it back to her, and had gotten confirmation in the affirmative; this had to be right.
Michael was still unconvinced. We were running late by now, and I impatiently urged him to get into the car while I checked. I lightly ran up the steps of the craftsman on the corner and peeked through the window, only to find a living room that looked very much like an actual living room, complete with mission style furnishings and lovely artwork. In short, it looked nothing like the rental house where Liz lived with seven guys would actually look. I ran across the street, trying to get my bearings. All the houses looked like perfect mini-craftsmens, the kind where middle-class urban families settle when they decide to have children, or at least a family dog. Something was wrong.
It was then that I realized something was more than wrong, something was downright sinister. Michael, and the car, were gone.
OK, Ruth Ann, don't panic. Think, think.
My first thought was to run down the street screaming, "Liz!" I even tried that once or twice, then realized I should be thankful that everyone was probably watching the Superbowl and therefore unable to hear me make a fool of myself. Then, it came to me. 70th Street sounds an awful lot like 75th street, when you think about it... could it be?
I spun on a dime and started running uphill towards 75th. I didn't even pause when I passed the man lugging his Christmas tree as he trudged up the sidewalk; this whole experience was turning surreal. Who takes out their Christmas tree in February? And why carry it for five blocks? I had no time to ask such questions, however; I was almost there.
Liz, however, was not there at all. Three of the guys, all wearing hoodies, answered the door about a minute after I rang. "Someone was coming to give her a ride," one of them offered.
"Yes," I responded, "That would be be me."
Dejectedly, I stood on the sidewalk in my shirtsleeves, warm from my recent run. Surely, I thought, Michael must have realized where Liz was and come to pick her up, and surely he would come back to find me - although, having been left stranded once already at 70th, I wasn't feeling particularly optimistic.
Then, just as I was pondering whether to wait or head back down the hill, our little Vibe pulled up to the traffic light. Michael and Liz were both inside. We made it to our reservation (thankfully John, the other member of our party, had had the good sense to arrive on time), and sat down to a lovely meal. Hot duck noodle soup, ginger roasted carrots, and chicken rolled and stuffed with sticky rice, gingko nuts, and dates were just some of the delightful dishes included in our prix-fixe meal.
At the end of the evening, we stirred sponnfuls of honey studded with finely shredded quince into hot water to create a soothing tea. The theme for the evening's supper had been "Cure for the Common Cold", and each ingredient was purported to have specific health benefits. I'm not sure if dates really have a "calming effect", but we all felt relaxed as the meal drew to a close.
I look forward to another winter supper at Joule soon, but next time I don't plan on running up any hills to work up an appetite.
But what's really hard to beat is the story of how Michael, Liz, and I finally made it to our dinner reservation there last night.
It started out simply enough. Michael and I motored our way down Lake City Way, heading onto Roosevelt on our way to Liz's place.
"Aren't you going to turn here?" Michael asked innocently when I drove past the Roosevelt Safeway.
"No, Liz told me this morning her house is on 70th, I'll turn there." I had, in fact, dropped Liz off at her place before, but it had been awhile, it had been after dark, and I'd never bothered to remember which street it was on anyway. Momentarily I pulled up across from a house on 70th. Michael hesitated.
"This isn't right," he told me.
"Well, this is what she told me. Come on, get out of the car, and go see if she's there." Honestly, it didn't look right to me either, but I was positive Liz had said 70th... that morning after church, with the fellowship hall full of the clamor of post-service chat.... and I was talking with that new guy... he was standing between us... OK, OK, this sounded bad, but I had repeated it back to her, and had gotten confirmation in the affirmative; this had to be right.
Michael was still unconvinced. We were running late by now, and I impatiently urged him to get into the car while I checked. I lightly ran up the steps of the craftsman on the corner and peeked through the window, only to find a living room that looked very much like an actual living room, complete with mission style furnishings and lovely artwork. In short, it looked nothing like the rental house where Liz lived with seven guys would actually look. I ran across the street, trying to get my bearings. All the houses looked like perfect mini-craftsmens, the kind where middle-class urban families settle when they decide to have children, or at least a family dog. Something was wrong.
It was then that I realized something was more than wrong, something was downright sinister. Michael, and the car, were gone.
OK, Ruth Ann, don't panic. Think, think.
My first thought was to run down the street screaming, "Liz!" I even tried that once or twice, then realized I should be thankful that everyone was probably watching the Superbowl and therefore unable to hear me make a fool of myself. Then, it came to me. 70th Street sounds an awful lot like 75th street, when you think about it... could it be?
I spun on a dime and started running uphill towards 75th. I didn't even pause when I passed the man lugging his Christmas tree as he trudged up the sidewalk; this whole experience was turning surreal. Who takes out their Christmas tree in February? And why carry it for five blocks? I had no time to ask such questions, however; I was almost there.
Liz, however, was not there at all. Three of the guys, all wearing hoodies, answered the door about a minute after I rang. "Someone was coming to give her a ride," one of them offered.
"Yes," I responded, "That would be be me."
Dejectedly, I stood on the sidewalk in my shirtsleeves, warm from my recent run. Surely, I thought, Michael must have realized where Liz was and come to pick her up, and surely he would come back to find me - although, having been left stranded once already at 70th, I wasn't feeling particularly optimistic.
Then, just as I was pondering whether to wait or head back down the hill, our little Vibe pulled up to the traffic light. Michael and Liz were both inside. We made it to our reservation (thankfully John, the other member of our party, had had the good sense to arrive on time), and sat down to a lovely meal. Hot duck noodle soup, ginger roasted carrots, and chicken rolled and stuffed with sticky rice, gingko nuts, and dates were just some of the delightful dishes included in our prix-fixe meal.
At the end of the evening, we stirred sponnfuls of honey studded with finely shredded quince into hot water to create a soothing tea. The theme for the evening's supper had been "Cure for the Common Cold", and each ingredient was purported to have specific health benefits. I'm not sure if dates really have a "calming effect", but we all felt relaxed as the meal drew to a close.
I look forward to another winter supper at Joule soon, but next time I don't plan on running up any hills to work up an appetite.
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