Screaming Green

Located in northwestern New Mexico on the Colorado Plateau, the
Chaco Canyon gained fame as the cultural hub of the Ancient Pueblo
Peoples. From 900–1150 A.D., they outfitted the region with a
wealth of ambitious architecture, including 15 major complexes of
wood-and-sandstone dwellings that remained North America’s largest
buildings until the 19th century.

Located in the northwest corner of Seattle’s University District,
the Chaco Canyon Cafe mimics its namesake in its creation of an
ambitious new world, but this endeavor extends beyond mere
architecture. This past summer, Chaco Canyon joined the ranks of the
few, the proud, and the ultimately politically correct by earning
certified organic status (Maria Hines’s Tilth is the only other Seattle
restaurant so certified). To step into Chaco Canyon Cafe is to enter an
idealistic utopia, the aims of which are laid out plainly on the menu:
“We respect our planet, our community, our people and ourselves. We
create simple, beautiful, and excellent quality food from fresh,
organic local and seasonal ingredients in a warm and welcoming
environment. We positively encourage our community by setting an
environmentally sound example in every aspect of our café.”

They’re not kidding about “every aspect.” Chaco Canyon’s
environmentally sound example-setting extends from the menu—which
is 90 percent organic and 100 percent vegetarian, with a healthy
selection of raw and vegan items—to the trash cans, which are
nonexistent. In their place are plastic bins, into which diners place
plates, utensils, and would-be garbage, which is hand-sorted by the
staff to ensure that no stray bean goes uncomposted. The cafe offers a
separate bin for recycling batteries. Above this bin hangs a sign
reminding recyclers of the need to cover the ends of discarded
batteries with tape. Beside the bin sits a tape dispenser. That’s just
the kind of place Chaco Canyon Cafe is.

My first visit was on a rainy weekday afternoon. My two dining
companions—one
vegetarian like me, the other an unrepentant
carnivore—and I immersed ourselves in the
cafe’s warm,
vaguely southwestern glow, achieved via the pale orange paint of the
interior meeting natural light let in by windows spanning three sides
of the room. It really is a cafe, with the dining area dotted with
laptop-using coffee-sippers and orders placed at the front counter.
Above the counter is the vast menu, a wordy cornucopia of salads,
smoothies, soups, and sandwiches, many saddled with near-macrobiotic

levels of fussiness. Case in point: the cilantro pesto pizza
($10.95), the centerpiece of Chaco Canyon’s extensive Raw Menu and a
reputed crowd-pleaser, with sun-dried tomato sauce, cilantro-walnut
pesto, and herbed macadamia ricotta served chilled on a dehydrated
crust of sprouted buckwheat, flax, and sunflower seeds.

With the goal of trying the most Chaco Canyon–y stuff Chaco
Canyon had to offer, we ordered the raw cilantro pesto pizza and the
popular Thai-peanut rice bowl ($5.95 small/$8.95 large). To hedge our
bets, we also got the soup of the day ($3.70 cup/$5.20 bowl), a light
potato-onion stew presumed to be the most benign offering. The Chaco
menu can be off-putting, with Raw Bowls described exclamatorily but not
very appetizingly as “Housemade sauces on a base of shredded zucchini
or raw kelp noodle… or both!” and the Really Really Green Smoothie
likewise a screaming “thick smooth salad in a glass!”

The cilantro-buckwheat pizza was eyed with suspicion by
all—this food bears no relation to pizza as any life-loving
person knows it. Notably, due to its rawness, it is served cold. But it
was delicious, with each small chilled slice providing a few
surprisingly flavorful bites of ground-nut-and-veggie what have you. We
all agreed we’d be happy to reencounter this nouveau veggie bruschetta
on an appetizer tray, where it would likely escape its unfortunate
classification as pizza. Also good: the organic green side salad
($4.95, included with pizza entrée), a collection of highly
fresh baby greens, tomatoes, carrots, and alfalfa sprouts tossed in an
exactly tangy enough apple-garlic vinaigrette. The Thai-peanut rice
bowl was a conglomeration of brown rice, fresh spinach, and house-made
peanut sauce—basic components of vegan sustenance, executed here
with the highest quality ingredients. While brutally simple, it was
perfectly good.

The potato-onion soup, however, was problematic, a thin stew that
seemed bland at first but came back screaming on the wings of heavy
black and cayenne pepper. The aftertaste: tenacious.

I have a soft spot for vegan inventions, having dabbled in veganism
for a year or so in college. Still, there’s no denying strictly vegan
cooking has its limitations, even in the hands of professionals. Chaco
Canyon’s tofu scramble sandwich ($6.95/$7.95 with soy cheese) tastes
almost exactly like the Fantastic World Foods Tofu Scramble I used to
make from a box mix, suggesting that either Chaco Canyon’s chef is
exactly as skilled as college-era me or (more likely) that scrambled
tofu can only taste so good, no matter who’s doing the cooking.

A similar déjà vu accompanied the veggie chili dog
($6.95). Here was a good old flavorful Field Roast sausage, served up
on a nicely toasted Essential Baking bun, with a side of strenuously
organic chili—and the results were again no better than what I
throw together at home.

Maybe that’s part of Chaco Canyon’s appeal: a place ready to serve
you the type of vegetarian grub you typically have to make for
yourself. Unlike many of the city’s vegetarian restaurants, which jump
through hoops trying to craft meat-free food even carnivores will
crave, Chaco Canyon wastes no energy trying to woo converts. The
slavish devotion to organic veganism here borders on the kinky. Just
maintaining a functional menu can be a high-wire act. “The seasonality
of produce is a major complication,” explains general manager Sarah
Coyle. “At different times of the year, it’s impossible to get organic
food, so we have to keep changing the menu to be able to sell
affordable organic.” One can’t help admiring such rigorous care. One
also can’t help wishing that such exemplary ideals tasted better.
Still, if you’ve got a fetish for rigorously ethical food—where
politics are as important as taste—Chaco Canyon is totally your
scene.