Capitol Hill appears to have adopted a zero tolerance policy
regarding early-evening glumness. No matter how dark and dismal the
world may be, around every corner a happy hour awaits, hoping to warm
your exterior and inspirit your interior while promising not to denude
your wallet. Many places have had happy hours for aeons—classics
include Tango (fancy), Charlie’s (divey), Liberty (sushi)—but the
economy’s slumping has prompted pretty much every restaurant and bar to
join in. Just recently, Monsoon added a happy hour (with menu items
from Monsoon East, opening soon in Bellevue), as did Dinette (after
installing a tiny, sweet bar); Artemis has expanded happy-hour hours
(along with yet another new chef); Esmeralda, the “Mediterranean
bistro” now occupying the abundantly odd space on 12th Avenue
where the (also abundantly odd) pizza/burrito place was, offers
“sunset” specials (not at actual sunset, which currently occurs around
3:00 p.m.); and the Saint has introduced a “5 for $5” happy hour, five
drinks and five Mexican small plates on sale from 5:00 to 7:00 p.m.
daily.
While the others remain to be explored, a recent Friday at six
o’clock found the Saint packed with seekers of cut-rate “Tequila
Salvation” (the Saint’s motto). The triangular building on East Olive
Way, formerly home of the Wingdome, is now painted an unmissable blue.
Inside, it is lit by five suspended orbs that glow like moons
immersed in a tequila sunrise; the other end houses the six-seat
bar/temple to agave, the bottles interspersed with innumerable candles
on high-reaching shelves. On a couple of the highest: two bursts of
red-flower bouquet, near a blackened bull skull. It’s a pretty place,
with whitewashed, weird-shaped walls showcasing portraits of old-time
matadors, their faces variously grim, seductive, solemn, totally
dopey, highly bad-assed, and, in one case, identical to that of
Kevin Spacey.
When the Saint opened last spring, some complained that it was too
expensive. Now a few $5 and $6 tequila cocktails have joined the $9 to
$12 ones, and food prices have come down a little. In the edible
department, the 5-for-$5 menu is satisfactory, if not a lot more:
flavorful but chewy carne asada tacos, decent nachos, mini enchiladas
that want a bit more sauce, chicken mole that tends toward bitter
(though better than too-sweet), and the winner, bright-tasting
ceviche on light, ungreasy house-made masa rounds.
The staff, while somewhat harried, was entirely pleasant. “I’m just
helping out my homey,” one apparently conscripted server said
cheerfully. And in the arena of salvation, the shaggy-haired bartender
made one of the very few proper margaritas in Seattle: pure lime
goodness with lots of ice, forsaking sweetness and—heaven
forbid—premade mix. 