Happy hour is clearly happiest when it allows one to dwell, however
briefly, above one’s station in life. When it’s pitch-black by 5:00
p.m. and the icy hand of the ambient chill is reaching up the
pants-legs, little is more comforting than a cold, strong drink in a
warm, richie-rich bar—and if a delicious, cheap dinner
accompanies the delusions of grandeur, so much the better. Afterward,
the wintery evening is not so abominable, and getting home is rendered
pleasantly vague.
Brasa (2107 Third Ave, 728-4220, happy hour daily
5–7 pm, lounge only) hosts Seattle’s all-time favorite fancy
happy hour, and its charms are nearly all-encompassing. Brasa’s
lounge—not too big, not too small—has a long, curvy,
cushioned banquette affording a sweeping view of the premises.
Magically, a half-wall and excellent acoustics make the patrons in the
dining room both invisible and inaudible. When Brasa opened almost 10
years ago, the design was exciting: flowing floor plan, ironwork
railings, abstract suggestion of a lowered ceiling over the bar. If not
yet classic, it’s still highly functional in ways newer places ought to
envy, all hush and glow.
Brasa means “live coals” in Portuguese, after Brasa’s
wood-fired grill and oven. Chef Tamara Murphy’s Mediterranean menu is
rightfully revered, and the bar food, while simpler, is still
representative of her skill. Of more than two dozen options, everything
sounds fantastic—tapas, paella, steak frites, grilled or
fire-roasted vegetables, seafood, pizza (including one with figs,
Serrano ham, chèvre, and a balsamic reduction, $5.50). Servers
tactfully notify those who are straying into gluttony when ordering.
One sandwich ought to be more than enough for a regular
human—maybe the vaunted Brasa lamburger or messy Moroccan steak
in house-made pita ($6.50 each). One pork empanada ($4.50) seems paltry
by comparison, but the meat is so tender-honeyed good, the pastry so
light and lightly fire-blistered, it’s worth it. (The pork sandwich
might be the perfect marriage of quantity and
crazy-deliciousness.) Squid ($7.50) resembles regular bar calamari
but tastes phenomenal with its hidden spicy tomato sauce. And few happy
hours have dessert, much less hot, crispy churro-like doughnuts with
whipped cream and cayenne-spiced chocolate sauce ($4.50).
But it’s November: One’s thoughts turn ineluctably to oysters.
Brasa’s got happy-hour oysters right now, but they’re fried. One
envisions oysters on the half-shell lodged in a bed of ice on a shiny
metal stand, served with, say, a scoop of frozen champagne mignonette.
Elliott’s (1201 Alaskan Way, Pier 56, 623-4340, happy
hour Mon–Fri 3–6 pm, in the bar) serves more oysters than
God, offering a half-shell happy hour that’s governed by some
mysterious, beautiful calculus of the sea. At 3:00 p.m., selected
oysters are 50 cents each, with the price going up 20 cents every
half-hour until 6:00 p.m. This deal is bested only by the
25-cents-per-oyster happy hour at the bar at Flying Fish in Belltown,
but that’s got a narrower window (Mon–Fri 5–6 pm) and no
water view.
Elliott’s is famous nationally (and even globally), but locally it’s
often overlooked among the waterfront fray of tourist madness. Right
now, yellow-slickered seamen are the only people walking past Elliott’s
windows; beyond lies the gray mirror of Puget Sound. Inside, it’s warm,
the bar’s edged with a shiny copper rail, and the heavy chairs are
crafted of caramel-colored wood. It’s a fine facsimile of an
old-fashioned oyster bar (dating from 1974), including barmen in
immaculate white dress shirts, vests, and ties. Service is proper, yet
properly helpful and friendly. Warm rolls (free) rest in a
cloth-napkin-lined curlicued metal basket. Happy-hour martinis ($3) are
dispensed from individual-sized shiny shakers. Also rock bottom priced:
house wine, draft beer, and assorted snacks. The oyster stew ($4) is
essentially a cup of hot heavy cream with oysters in it; if you like
obscenely rich food, it will make you cry tears of melted butter.
Speaking of obscenely rich, welcome to Palisade (2601 W Marina Pl, 285-1000, happy hour daily 4–6 pm and 9
pm–close, in the bar). A billboard on Denny Way promoting this
Magnolia fine-dining establishment proclaims confusingly, “Now is an
occasion,” and the confusion never stops. The exterior involves a
cupola, massive columns, and Asian statuary; the sweeping dining room
has a planetarium-style ceiling, “Polynesian meets Northwest” decor,
and what appear to be the droppings of Dale Chihuly’s glass monster
suspended hither and yon. Piano music is broadcast both indoors and out
from a baby grand that plays itself, sitting atop an overhang above the
bar. The crowning glory of Palisade: its multipartite inland sea,
complete with starfish intertwining lasciviously and anemones abloom.
Typical table: a wealthy family snapping photographs of themselves,
especially of their most aged, who do not look long for this world.
Happy hour at Palisade is really cheap—wine and beer for $3, a
“guava ‘rita” garnished with an orchid for $4, and $3 snacks from which
one may create a multi-tiered pupu tower. It seems odd, considering the
fact that everyone here obviously lights their cigars with $100 bills.
It’s also not all that good; Dungeness crab cakes sans big pieces of
crab, greasy kalua pork spring rolls, rubbery scallop ceviche served on
a broken scallop shell. Does the allure of the inland sea (which is
objectively grand) make up for it? Not so much. 