The Uncle of Georgetown
Should you be driving in circles out near Boeing Field looking for Uncle Mo's Tavern, it's the low-lying roadhouse with the readerboard that still says "OCT. 28 COSTUME PARTY." No one at Uncle Mo's seems to be in any rush to get up on the roof and change the sign. There are drinks to be served (and variously consumed or spilled), and there are many, many pull-tabs to be handed out and peeled open. Uncle Mo's has its priorities.
If a man may be judged by his bar, then it is safe to say that Uncle Mo has a sense of humor. Due to the addition of hard liquor to his offerings, he was required to rename the place; he chose "Planet Georgetown AKA Uncle Mo's Tavern" (hence the difficulty in locating it when it is right there all along). The irony of naming this outpost on a lonely corner after a once-thriving global drinking and dining enterprise is compounded by the slogan "In Beautiful Downtown Georgetown." If downtown Georgetown exists, the intersection of 13th Avenue South and South Albro Place isn't it; furthermore, this intersection is arguably devoid of beauty, though I, for one, find the small planes screaming in for landings mere feet above the roofline achingly gorgeous. The frosting on the ironical cake: a neon sign in Uncle Mo's window reading "SORRY, we're open"—a joke, an apology, an invitation rendered in glowing glass tubing. It's kind of beautiful, too.
Among the clutter of memorabilia behind the bar and stuck to the walls (like—ha—that chain of other Planets) are other jokes: a souvenir statuette of a Mexican hombre with a belly so big he must eternally push it in a wheelbarrow in front of himself, a photograph labeled "SUPER BOWL 2005" of Miss Piggy with one human breast exposed, an anatomically correct Pee Wee Herman doll. The latter is one of a series of collectible dolls (including Krusty the Clown and Mickey Mouse) entombed in individual Plexiglas cases, along with, oddly, antique shoes. The macabre is not beyond Uncle Mo's sense of the comic: On a shelf, a realistic-looking skull wears a pair of Ray-Bans, and from the top of a wooden phone booth, a near-life-size stuffed jester menaces drinkers.
Uncle Mo likes his burger with two kinds of cheese (yellow, white) and a thin slice of grilled ham (an innovation I applaud), and he likes his draft beer to be so cold that a ring of ice forms around the top of the glass (ditto).
Uncle Mo cares about his patrons. Signs warn to buy, sell, or imbibe drugs elsewhere, and free popcorn awaits just inside the front door. And Uncle Mo's patrons return his affections. When asked about him in his absence, they report that he is nice. (Only one dissenter calls him cranky.) And whose uncle is Uncle Mo? "He's everybody's uncle."
Uncle Mo's is located at 6266 13th Ave S, 762-1614.