One-Man Show

Nick Castleberry just wants to make good food for regular people.
The Summit Public House is a good place where regular people hang
out—a bar with a tiny kitchen with, until recently, no one in it.
Man, meet kitchen; kitchen, man. In a world—even
mid-recession—of elaborate plans and build-outs and delays, the
meeting of a man and a kitchen that need each other is a beautiful
thing. The people needed the man in the kitchen, too. From The
Stranger‘s online reader-reviews: “I would often stop at the
Summit after work for a few drinks, but would have to leave because of
hunger pains. With Castleberry’s there, you will never have to leave
the Summit.”

Castleberry started out making good food under the mentorship of
Matt Dillon, at now-famous Sitka & Spruce on Eastlake. Then he ran
the kitchen for a time at Artemis, at the intersection of Bellevue,
Bellevue, and Bellevue on the west flank of Capitol Hill. People who
ate at Artemis while he was the chef still talk about how good it was,
and they wonder what happened. Answer: A couple well-meaning Microsoft
guys ran the place. They went through three chefs in about a year. I
had a great Castleberry-cooked meal at Artemis that was preceded by
sheer chaos in getting seated, then punctuated by a nerve-shattering
unexpected flamenco performance—with live
percussion—approximately six feet from the table. Castleberry,
whom I’d met in passing before, came out of the kitchen looking
chagrined and shouted apologetically that he had NO IDEA WHAT WAS GOING
ON. He didn’t last there much longer. (Artemis was eventually converted
to a bar format; it’s now known as the Lookout.)

To find Castleberry at the Summit is an unalloyed joy. He’s got a
spot at the far end of the bar with a wooden box and some chestnuts for
decoration, an old-timey beverage jug for a tip jar, and a homemade
sign reading “CASTLEBERRY’S / LOCAL REAL FOOD AT THE SUMMIT.” He’s only
open Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, from 6:00 p.m. to midnight (though
he’s been running out of food early—there’s not much room for
storage). He sends out the menu via Twitter; one weekend, it was all
tacos. Now that he’s got an oven—for the first two months, he had
only a hot plate and a soup warmer, and he’s pretty happy about his
used residential electric stove—he’s talking about making pizza.
Castleberry’s is order at the counter, cash only, served mostly on
paperware. It’s simple, delicious food made with locally grown or
foraged ingredients. Nothing costs more than $8.

Last weekend, I had a few Kushi oysters, deep-cupped little
sweethearts served on a bed of rock salt in a red-and-white-checkered
paper boat. (For accompaniment, I got a small glass of cold Stoli from
the bar, belatedly learning that Castleberry was recommending either
Guinness or Campari and soda. The Summit has a full bar and 22 beers on
tap, ranging from PBR to 10 percent Port Townsend Imperial Stout.)
Salad was delicate butter lettuce with chickpeas, slivered almonds,
Reggiano Parmesan, and shallot-y green goddess dressing (the remainder
of which was swiped up via finger). Soup was red kuri and butternut
squash, rich but drinkably thin, buttery, made with a touch of honey.
(Someone I barely know e-mailed me about this soup and its honey: “holy
cow—can’t stop thinking about it—yum.”) There were
triangles of grilled cheese made with buffalo mozzarella on Texas
toast, the cheese making magnificent strings in the air. The truly
socks-knocking-off thing was falling-apart beef brisket in a
rich-on-rich arrangement with a bed of soft semolina. A few
chanterelles were hiding in the deep, savory sauce. Dessert was also
available; I was too full. As previously mentioned: Nothing costs more
than $8.

It should be emphasized that the Summit is the opposite of a fancy
place. It’s dark and low ceilinged, like a cave. In wintertime, it’s a
haven of a very basic, convivial sort, and in summer, it stays cool and
dim (in part due to industrial-strength fans that threaten to blow the
hair right off your head). Mirrors with the names of beers on them
provide ambience, along with a couple incongruously bright mosaic
pillars left over from its original tapas incarnation. There are a few
hard wooden booths, a pool table, some kegs sitting around. Before you
come to Castleberry’s at the Summit, you should ask yourself some
questions: Do I mind loud music? How about the occasional circling
fruit fly? People suddenly shouting about soccer? (Soccer and bicycle
racing take precedence on the TVs.) Also: Am I a patient person?
Castleberry’s at the Summit is, for the time being, a one-man show, and
if you’re not willing to sit and drink and wait, you are definitely in
the wrong place.