“In such an iconoclastic city, even the fine dining

is Punk Rock.”

Diner rankings for the uninitiated,

Splash dashed across

their clickable meanings.

An incisive piece of

Journalism on why we’ve yet to overtake

Paris when it comes to omelettes.

When I went on the “date” with the chef

from Michigan who was happy that Seattle was

Finally Coming Up, I for a moment

pictured myself in 24 hour sport coats, cutting small portions

into tiny ones, with a variety of serrated

blades, laughing conversations about lesser airports

of the world, all thick framed glasses and

the server’s white button down rolled up to

reveal their Black Flag tattoo and

hip hop instrumentals swirling over every $200 plate.

Dueling concept sof what food even means: “Has the art gone out of

Farm to table dining? Three top chefs chat about the dumbing down

Of artisan culture.”

“Five spots for lunch under $10.”


“Three cans of beans for a dollar– coupon inside.”

We went on another date, and one aborted attempt at late night

paths crossing, her in her chef’s uniform,

our buses literally passing. When she talked about

her plans for clams, I thought about the

Orange Soda in my fridge, and even brought it up. “What, you got it like a

Joke? So inside. So Seattle.” Sure, I guess.

I was confused. She held her fork like an heiress.

But on her profile all it said was Porn, Punk, and Pizza.