Over the previous weekend, I met a man named Niall who’s a native Seattleite. He struck me as a “man about town” but about 10 years too young. This week I agreed to meet up with him for a bit of bar exploration. Actually, I (probably quite aggressively) told him he had to take me out because he knew so much about the Seattle bar scene. After a tromp through rainy Cap Hill, we began the night a Fogón, a ~Cocina Mexicana~ on East Pine. After a quick walk, we enter into the most happening place I have ever seen on a Wednesday.
A tight and sexy male host seats us at a typical half-booth, half-table. I don’t even glance at the food menu, I just dive straight into the happy hour tiny A-frame menu (which reminds of every drunk IHOP experience I’ve ever had). I order the cheapest appealing drink, the bartender’s margarita. It’s cranberry infused, so it’s like the best combo of a margarita and a vodka cran – a couple of my faves. It’s a Wednesday so I’m “taking it easy.”
Fast forward 30 minutes and I’m drunk, spilling my darkest personal secrets to this man. Meanwhile, the waiter was routinely attentive, especially when my date and I realized the roof was leaking onto our skin and it wasn’t just me excitedly spitting through my life stories.
As we decide to leave, I realize I’m not done yet. I ask my friend, “where else is there to be on a Wednesday night?” And he simply replies, “follow me.” We head East to a bar/obscure amateur art gallery called Vermillion. My date makes it out to be a cool hip art gallery, but it is more of a hodgepodge of recycled sculptures and unique lighting.
The place smells slightly of Euro hostel, and the bar in the back looks just that. However, the vibe is chill as fuck and I genuinely enjoy viewing the art pieces, and mostly, reading the dramatized and ethereal descriptions. At this point, I see the night fork into two distinct paths: follow this boy into the night and enjoy the void that is mid-week midnight on the Hill, or take myself home to reflect. Luckily, I choose the latter.