One minute, the world is full of Pike Place Market tourists
slack-jawedly gaping at fish yet to be thrown; a few more steps and
you’re greeted in French in a dim, cool, quiet room, its walls
covered in antique mirrors. Upstairs is a snug, shiplike garret of a
bar, all dark wood and bright windows, but in summertime it’s
Maximilien’s terrace that’s the most unexpected loveliness.
No one on the terrace gapes at anything, though what there is to see
is gape-worthy: ferries crossing the sparkly Sound, West Seattle’s
pretty arm, and, to the south, the girders of the stadia and the orange
cranes of the port. No one takes photos or shoots video, either:
Maximilien’s clientele tends toward stylish sunglasses and a contented
murmur. Even a birthday party getting off to a happy-hour start is
relatively subdued, continental-style, with new arrivals welcomed with
rounds of kisses on both cheeks. A tableful of businessmen is so
discreet that eavesdropping takes a concerted effort.
“Well, I know a lot of folks are pulling out of Vegas—too
expensive… I get in trouble there.”
“Do you gamble?”
“Oh, not financial trouble, just other trouble: I drink too
much.”
The businessmen eschew the happy-hour menu (weekdays 5–7 pm,
Sat 8–10 pm) in favor of martinis and dinner, perhaps wisely.
Glasses of red or white Grenache for $4 are fine, but a “Maximilien
Margarita” ($5) looks and tastes like pink lemonade from a mix, is
lacking in the tequila department, and makes a dubious offering for
Francophiles. A “French Martini” ($4) is not an improvement: vodka,
pineapple and cranberry juice, and raspberry liquor, with an
unpleasant artificial berry bite. It’s likened to making out with a
bad kisser who’s wearing a lot of lipstick.
The happy-hour snacks also leave something to be desired, starting
with the bread, sections of pallid baguette that are glossy on the
outside and spongy within. The crunch of crust and air-pocketed
interior have been lost in translation. Some slices of this
bread are rendered into toasted croutons and served with a ramekin of
garlic chèvre, edible but bland; it gave rise to shameful
positive memories of grocery-store Alouette Spreadable Cheese. Mussels
are steamed until some were dry, the broth bitter with un-cooked-off
white wine and still-sharp garlic. The true travesty: Belgium fries,
served promisingly in a cone of paper in a metal stand, but limp,
ungolden, and undelicious. Where they should be tender, the
insides are pasty. A comparison with the fries at Campagne is
instructive if completely depressing.
Still, there’s the contented murmur. The snacks, while not
good, are cheap: $2.95 each. And there is wine, or a martini, and open,
salty-scented air.
Maximilien, 81A Pike Street, 682-7270.