A Seattle Tradition
I have somehow managed to get an earlier flight than I usually do, a feat I would have thought impossible for I normally fly at the crack of daawn, but one which causes us to arrive in the city earlier than I am accustomed. This means we have to postpone the traditional first stop in the Seattle tour – a culinary stop – despite being fairly hungry. We could grab a bite somewhere else, but that just wouldn’t feel right. It wouldn’t fit into the pattern I’ve established on my somewhat regular trips to Seattle. While we wait for the lunch hour to roll around we opt to check in with the Market. Parking under the Viaduct we make our way up the hill, each step another on a familiar path. Every sight, every sound, every smell brings back memories of past visits. I think again about my patterns, the habits I’ve formed in my solo travels, and how they must appear to someone else. This is the second time that Courtney has come to Seattle with me and it’s pretty obvious we are making the same rounds we made last time, if only in a slightly different order. In mid-thought we arrive and even knowing what is coming I am hit with a wave of nostalgia.
We enter off First Ave. through the Economy Market entrance passing between DeLarenti’s Specialty Food & Wine and the First & Pike Newsstand. The smell of freshly roasted nuts and fried doughnuts reminds me how hungry I am. Continuing on we pass the dried fruit stand to the right and Pike Place Fish to the left. The fish mongers are going through their patter, crowds gathered to see the fish thrown and to occasionally buy a fish, their voices carry out over the crowd, one calls, they all answer. On many occasions I have stood near this spot, listening to this symphony of salesmanship, watching the tourists crowd around, telling myself that I am not one of them. Never mind that I come from out of town and stand around listening and watching these men work without ever buying anything. I know their tricks. I know that it’s better not to get too interested in the monk fish lest they yank it’s tail through the display and make it (and you) jump. I know that sometimes when they are throwing fish back and forth they will throw a fake fish into the crowd making everyone scream and then laugh. That removes me from the tourist class, right? Perhaps someday I will buy something from them.
The crowded Main Arcade…
Caution, Low Flying Fish…
We continue on, past the fruits and vegetables, the rows of flowers, gorgeous red and orange dahlias that light up the stalls and make one think of fire. The crowd swells, walking inside the main arcade becomes difficult so we push our way out of the market onto the street. More fruits and vegetables, but out here are the smaller locally owned farms. Fall means root vegetables. I take in the purple carrots and wonder if they taste the same as the orange variety. There are garlands and wreaths of peppers, more flowers, more smells. We walk across the street and catch a whiff of cinnamon from the Cinnamon Works. Another stomach rumbling smell, another thought that someday I will need to buy something from that shop. I fantasize about starting the morning at one end of the Market and eating my way down to the other end, sampling a bit of everything, only moving on when I was ready to eat more. There are more fish. Cascading water keeps a constant flow of fresh water going across the shell fish. We walk by Mee Sum Pastries and I eye their BBQ pork hombows. Tempting, but not the traditional first meal. Beecher’s Handmade Cheese – giant tubs where, depending on the time of day, you can watch them making their own cheese. Le Panier a “very French bakery” offers the sweet smell of freshly baked bread and croissants – they would make a welcome combination with Beecher’s…all my thoughts seem to tend toward food. Another delightful whiff of cinnamon, this time from Piroshky-Piroshky, their sweet piroshkies overpowering the savory in my nose. I think back to past trips and Piroshkies in Volunteer Park – one more custom. To the left still more stalls. Local farmers with their crops. Artists selling everything from photographs to glass wear. And like that we reach the end of the Main Arcade. We have seen so much while barely scratching the surface of what the Market has to offer. One could easily pass an entire day at the Market and not see everything, and I would be perfectly content to do so. In fact I have done so. This walk through is just an abbreviated version of a familiar habit. Another piece of the pattern which has fallen into place. And just like that it is time for yet another. Our stomachs are grumbling and it’s time for the next tradition.
The Frankfurter…
We head down to the waterfront, passing a myriad of tourist shops and seafood restaurants before finally reaching the place I have been thinking of since we boarded the plane. The Frankfurter. A southwestern sausage topped with sauerkraut, dill relish, spicy brown mustard and ketchup has become my ceremonial first taste of Seattle. A trip to Seattle is not official until I have had my southwestern. I will admit that nostalgia may be clouding my opinion of the quality of this selection, but it has become so much more than just the sausage. Standing there, with sausage and fresh squeezed lemonade (which is little more than sugar water with one lemon squeezed into it) looking out over Puget sound. The seagulls crying from the rooftops on the piers to either side of the stand, pigeons dancing around at your feet hoping for a small castoff. The smell of the salt air mixing with the creosote from the pier supports. Cars zipping by on the viaduct, thudding as their tires pass over joints between the sections. It saddens me to think they are working toward the removal of the viaduct. This location offers an ambiance to rival the finest restaurants in town in my humble opinion. They have a second location in the Seattle Center, but I’ve never bothered to go there. Heck, they’ll ship sausages across the country – buns too. But until they find a way to pack and ship the sights, sounds, and smells that go along with this location I’m not interested. This location is the one that has stamped itself in my memory. This one fits my Seattle pattern. This is my tradition.
Food of the gods…
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