A poet is eating a hamburger. "Look," she says, indicating the jalapeño pepperâa little faded, wrinkly from time spent in brineâthat is pinned to the bun by a toothpick topped with an orange plastic frizzle. She's not got much more to say about her hamburger; she only eats half of it. It's a "carne asada burger" at the Southlake Bar & Grill, with "south of the border seasonings with cheddar, jalapeño, avocado, lettuce, onion, and tomato." At happy hour, which is now, the hamburger costs $3.99. ("Add fries for a buck!"âthe poet has complied.) With admirable economy, she pronounces it "very sufficient."
The Southlake Bar & Grill is the new enterprise of the Schmidt brothers, two men who know how to make a Bar & Grill stick: They've run the Greenlake Bar & Grill since 2000 and the Eastlake Bar & Grill since 2004, in locations that had each housed many previous attempts at restaurateuring. A very sufficient happy hour is the hallmark of all three B&Gs: Seven days a week, from 4:00 to 6:00 p.m. and 10:00 to 11:00 p.m. or midnight, more than 20 food items go for $1.99, $2.99, or $3.99, with various alcoholic beverages in the same price range.
The poet's three companions are not inspired to grandiloquence, either. A plate of deep-fried coconut prawns is consumed without comment. A blackened-salmon Caesar is notable for its fish being very thoroughly cooked ("I weirdly liked it," says its eater). A "Santa Fe grilled cheese"âcheddar, pepper jack, tomato, avocado, black bean and corn salsa, mayo on thick sourdough breadâis a strange concept, could've been more grilled, but is judged to be fine ("a quesadilla sandwich," "Mexico on toast," "I'm happyâit's extraordinarily difficult to fuck up grilled cheese").
A drink that's supposed to be vodka but proves to be gin is replaced with impressive alacrity, and service in general is very efficient. The Southlake space (technically in the Cascade neighborhood, around the corner from REI) is virgin ground-floor condo retail, all windows and hard surfaces, promising a mighty din when full. The distant ceiling's predictably painted dark gray, fans and pipes and vents exposed; walls are predictably painted tasteful shades that defy description. (Tan? Wheat? The poet is silent on this subject.) Furnishings are dark, sleek, contemporary; booths are upholstered. An upstairs level, with a laminated sign about the Southlake "coming soon" and a pile of art in waiting (three 22-by-22-inch abstract panels named PJĂTTERYD from Ikea; a thickly painted aerial view of a carp), has the unmistakable air of someplace you're not supposed to be.
While the Eastlake Bar & Grill has a deck overlooking Lake Union and the Greenlake Bar & Grill has sidewalk seating, outside the Southlake is a plaza with a view of the classic Immanuel Lutheran Church across the street, freshly painted, aglow. The poet walks off into the night, her shoes squeaking.
