This past Sunday was an early one for us--both kids up before the chickens, and Pacifica and I were dressed in our breakfast finery and out the door at 6:30 a.m. Morning sure is beautiful in Seattle, and Pacifica and I were some of the few folks out looking for a bite to eat. Our first stop was the Caprice Cafe, which looked cute and open save for the "Kitchen Not Open" sign. Next we tried Senor Moose, which was dark and vacant. Ditto Shultzy's. We abandoned Ballard, and headed back up to Phinney Ridge, where we tried Mae's Phinney Ridge Cafe, again no luck. From the back seat, the little girl in the Cinderella dress was chanting "I'm HUNGRY" and sounding more like an ugly stepsister every minute.
I thought we might have to settle for I-Hop, but then remembered a Beth's Cafe, which always seemed to have long lines on Sundays, stretching up Aurora Avenue, and nearly to
Butch's Gun shop. Incidentally, both Beth's and Butch's have been around for decades--their perseverance a testament to the economic magic of Aurora Avenue, and the natural human desire for handguns and chicken eggs 7 days a week, 365 days a year.
While Butch opens at a leisurely 10 a.m., Beth keeps the doors open all night long...and it shows. Walking, we caught the staff munching on breakfast (or dinner?) in ripped vinyl booths beneath dusty vents and off-colored tiles. There were a few patrons, but plenty of seats, and we chose a particularly nice (small rips only) booth near the window, where we could barely hear the traffic hurtle past on the highway. The walls were nicely decorated with the art of Beth's patrons, most suggesting the consumption of alcohol and other substances, and reminding me of the days before I learned to tie a necktie. The waitress brought us our own blank slate and cup full of crayons, plus a Hello Kitty coloring book just in case we weren't inspired.
I drank up my standard-diner coffee while Pacifica polished off her juice. (Note: I made the mistake of looking into the tin creamer pitcher after seasoning my coffee...putting it through the dishwasher a few decades ago would have done wonders on the yellow milkscum on the inside. Luckily, it is pasteurized) Though Beth's specialty, the 12-egg omelet, looked tempting, we both settled on basics: pancakes, eggs, and some meat. Pacifica went for the small stack
, me for the tall; her for the scramble, me for the over easy; and she for the bacon and me for the fried ham.We barely had time to draw a rainbow, and our food arrived, nice and hot. I was impressed by the lack of embellishments on Pacifica's pancakes--no funny faces or attempts to spruce it up; and who needs that anyway? Pacifica was happy to get a full carafe of whipped butter, and after dumping 1/4 cup of syrup on her 'cakes, dug right in. The food was standard--the cook did a nice job on the over-easy eggs, but burnt the ham little too much. Pacifica avoided her eggs and took one of mine, and commented on the chewiness of the bacon. We talked about why goats chew side to side, rather than up and down, and wondered why Greenlake
is called green lake. I wondered about the sanitary problems posed by sweaty linecooks in sleeveless T-shirts, but kept it to myself lest we both lost our appetites.Pacifica was hungry--it took a while, but she finished everything save for a quarter of a pancake, which the waitress nicely wrapped for us to take home. We
were a bit disappointed to find out that they do not distribute candy to kids, so left without a sucker, mint, or kid toy. Nevertheless, we both agreed that the service was excellent--one of the friendliest places we have visited so far. I probably will not be back for the food anytime soon, unless I am partying late and need dozen-egg omelet around 2a.m....
