I broke my number-one rule and ended up on Capitol Hill on a weekend.
It started at Nacho Borracho, a place I’ve come to appreciate quite a bit. The amateur-hour antics seem to decrease proportionate to the distance from the dreaded Pike/Pine corridor. The only rub at Nacho that night was a brogrammer in wraparound Johnny Cage shades—possibly one of those guys who goes to “pickup artist seminars,” but either way, he clearly had committed—beefing with somebody sitting in a booth, or at least complaining to the manager that the guy should move and let him and his friends sit there. Cats can’t even passive-aggressive right.
The call was made to head for Pike Street, the beloved strip that went from funny ha-ha to funny oh-no in no time. You know all this…