There is something deliciously reckless about doing what’s bad for
you. A certain exhilaration accompanies the abandoning of the
well-manicured lawn of common sense for the wild fields of dissolution.
And so it was that I anticipated my possibly fatal exploration of the
wonders of four of Seattle’s best greasy spoons. I imagined the effect
that plates and plates of biscuits slathered with sausage gravy, or
eggs scrambled with bacon, or a waffle dripping with butter and syrup
would have on my all-too-human cardiovascular system. Yet what glory is
there without risk? What great success was ever achieved without the
possibility of abject failure and even death? Knowing the possible
consequences, I embarked on my quest.
The number of tasty, greasy breakfast spots in Seattle exists in an
unfortunate ratio to the number of hungover or otherwise desperate
Seattle residents in need of a hearty serving of bad-for-them food to
get through the morning (or afternoon). But if you’ve got the strength
to stick out the lines, your reward lies in the slick of ameliorating
grease that coats the slippery path from temperance to indulgence.
When talking about grease in Seattle, the Mecca
Cafe (526 Queen Anne Ave N, 285-9728) commands attention. I
don’t remember having ever been to the Mecca for breakfast before, but
that may be because I don’t really remember much about the time I’ve
spent in the debauched embrace of this dark place. And though this
morning I drank nothing but good, strong coffee ($2), I saw pints of
bloody marys collecting like peanut shells on the smooth Formica of
several nearby tables. Spurred on by the caffeine, I bulldogged my way
through a plate that included scrambled eggs, two thick slabs of crispy
bacon, a mound of greasy hash browns, and a waffle made fresh by my
server ($11.20). And while the egg was anemic and the hash browns
somewhat flaccid, that comforting waffle and salt-lick-salty bacon sent
me on my way corpulently complacent.
If you prefer your grease served in sunnier environs, make the trek
across the bridge to West Seattle’s Chelan Cafe (3527
Chelan Ave SW, 932-7383). Populated with churchgoing folk and Port of
Seattle workers off the night shift, and staffed by middle-aged women
who might call you “hon,” the Chelan is celebrating its 70th
anniversary this year, and it’s always buzzing, but never crowded in
the way central-city spots often are.
On a recent Sunday morning, I devoured two pieces of egg-heavy
French toast, a nice blob of hash browns (still not crispy enough), and
a fluffy egg ($4.99), while my dining partner dug into the Chelan
benedict ($6.79), which layered biscuits, gravy, spicy sausage patties,
eggs, and hash browns in one soul-saving, heart-destroying, incredible
package.
But not as incredible as the biscuits and gravy at The
Dish (4358 Leary Way NW, 782-9985) in Fremont. There is
something about a well-made biscuit—its buttery, flaky layers of
bread resisting complete saturation by the chunky, spicy, sweet
gravy—that makes me believe that this world is governed
benevolently by something greater than us. The Dish serves theirs
with a pristine slice of watermelon that is nice to suck on between
bites, to prepare the palate for another taste of heaven. The defining
feature of the gravy here is its sweetness. I don’t mean honey sweet or
sugar sweet, but meat sweet, the mark of a sausage constructed with
care, full of complementary flavors that, in turn, enhance the buttery
ebullience of the stock. In short, it’s one of my favorite meals in the
city, but be prepared to wait outside to get into the tiny, friendly
dining room.
You may also have to wait at Glo’s (1621 E Olive
Way, 324-2577). But I suggest going on a Tuesday morning before work
where, if you’re lucky, you’ll walk right in and sit down at one of the
few tables. When the menu arrives, there are many directions you can
go, but if you’re at all intrigued by the possibility of a coronary
brought on by sheer deliciousness, I recommend the corned beef hash
($9.25). It took a while to arrive, but when it did I could see
immediately that it was going to be something special—heavy on
the beef, crunchy on the outside, and served with the best home fries
I’ve had in the city and some scrambled eggs that were fluffy and
sprinkled with paprika. I didn’t want to eat it all. I shouldn’t have
eaten it all. But I did eat every last bite of it, and then I didn’t
eat again until dinner.
And really, that’s how it should be. A big, greasy breakfast should
fortify you against the rigors of the day, allow you to coast through
to dinner or beyond on a wave of fat and caffeine. I felt like a seal
after these breakfasts, sleek and blubbery, insulated against the cold
and rain. I felt ready to press forward until my body, frail thing that
it is, succumbs at last to my accumulated misdemeanors. And though I’m
not ready to depart this world anytime soon, I could think of worse
ways to check out than with a belly full of biscuits and gravy.