Crepes have come quite a ways from their humble beginnings as buckwheat pancakes peeled off of large flat stones in the fireplaces of Brittany. Today's flavor combinations are limited only by a chef's imagination.

Here in the Northwest, we are blessed with excellent fish, and thus have an excellent selection of salmon crepes. My older, more worldly friend first introduced me to the salmon crepe at Crepe de France, a tiny hideout in the least-traveled part of Pike Place Market, back when I was 22, hungry and dirty after a day at the skate park.

Years after that formative first bite, the crepe au saumon still has a transcendent quality. The salmon, folded with cream cheese, mozzarella, and green onion into a burrito-like shape-albeit a very delicate, French one-and doused generously with a wonderfully light bechamel and plenty of fresh dill, is the epitome of creamy smoothness. The crepe itself is thin and slightly springy, and plays a perfect supporting role to the salmon.

I asked “G” Brown, crepe cook extraordinaire and an honorary member of the Brown family (brothers Ronnie and Mark) that's been running the place since 1991, how they get the bechamel to be so smooth. He revealed that they add a little water to loosen it up, which explained its lightness but still left me in the dark as to how it could be so rich. Their basic chocolate crepe is similarly smooth. Its gooeyness is truly without equal, though the banana and Nutella crepe at Joe Bar is close on its heels.

Joe Bar, in the iconic Loveless building, has long been a favorite. Its salmon crepe is very different in style from Crepe de France's version, served with spinach and Oregon blue cheese, but excellent in its own right. The salmon comes from Jeb Wyman, who, full disclosure, was my former journalism teacher at Seattle Central. In addition to being an inspiring teacher, he's quite the commercial fisherman, and his fish is top notch.

Joe Bar's salmon crepe has no sauce; the only gooey element is the slightly melted blue cheese. And this is a good thing, because it allows the salmon to be the main feature.

Having sated my desire for fish-filled crepes, I decided to branch out. Emboldened by many memories of lovely crepes and baguette sandwiches at the old Sucrey Saley on Olive, where Pie Bar is now, I visited the new Saley Crepes location on 9th and Olive. Feeling adventurous, I decided to try to the “Crepe Dog,” a polish sausage wrapped into a crepe with onions and their ubiquitous and mysterious crepe sauce. “Don't laugh,” the menu urged, "it's delicious."

I didn't—I gagged. There are a few ways you can fuck up a good polish sausage, and one of them is to serve it with a sauce that is evocative of slightly melted soft serve. After I freed it from its mushy blanket and scraped it clean of sauce, the sausage was fine, and the thick cut fries were decent, especially when dunked in the restaurant's bright, garlicky hot sauce.

Moving on from that disturbing experience, I decided to try something completely foreign to my palate: La Creperie Voila, in one of the Convention Center's two outdoor stalls on Pike. Despite passing by it at least weekly for years, I'd never tried it. But I'm glad I finally did.

Its roast chicken crepe, with just the right amount of mozzarella and tender chunks of white meat, was a delight, even consumed alone in the cold at one of the sad metal tables. Perhaps the intense taste of thyme and pepper on the chicken meat-reminiscent of my most successful batch of homemade chicken soup-created the illusion of warmth where none actually existed. Also pleasantly hearty: the buckwheat crepe batter, which, according to batter maven/crepe cooker/cashier Carissa, is a more traditional Breton style than that usually encountered in Seattle.

I highly recommend La Creperie Voila, but maybe don't go during Comicon (March 27-29). According to Carissa, shit gets crazy: people trying to eat crepes in horse masks with duct-tape swords and an hour-long wait.

On second thought, that might be the most awesome time to go.