The bartender is hands-down the slowest in town. Protocol dictates that, after a near-eternal wait, when he asks you what you'd like, you ask him what he thinks you ought to have. The featured cocktails this evening are the bloody Caesar, the redoubtable Pimm's cup, and variations on Jim Beam (ginger ale is a favorite addition). After brief scrutinyâhis solemn gaze through owlish glasses is an apparent assessment of the state of your soulâa prescription is issued, and your cocktail is undertaken. Subjects to raise: his recent trip to London, his sartorial splendor (top hat, bow tie, striped trousers, tails). He doesn't say much, and, as noted, he's not quick with the mixing, but at his bar, all the drinks are free.
Is a speakeasy still a speakeasy when nothing costs a cent? Seattle's longest-running secret lounge, named after a certain bird of a certain color, has been open Thursday nights off and on for more than a decade (and before that, rumor has it, in Tacoma). Prior to the most recent location changeâsometime in the last yearâadmittance was gained via ringing a doorbell mounted on a tree trunk on a busy city sidewalk. Then the key, attached to a fluffy feather, was launched from a second-story window. Now you only need to know where to go and that sharp dress is best. Men wear fedoras and jacket and tie, with one in a wifebeater, necktie, and porkpie hat; women favor party frocks that match the music, which is vintage vinyl along the lines of "The Watusi."
Elvis is present, both on black velvet and as a 3-D bust with a lamp sprouting out of his head. From out of the corner of the eye, the lamp-Elvis can be mistaken again and again for a real person. Someone's given him an artificial red rose boutonniere; next to him, a maraschino cherry rests in an ashtray, stem still attached. Next to that, a man naps decorously in an easy chair. There's shag carpet and a taxidermied bobcat ready to pounce.
The host/barkeep quietly wonders whether someone might go out for ice, and the question passes telephone-style back through the line. The ice arrives within six minutes. Out of the goodness of his heart, he provides liquor and a place to meet for a rotating set of friends and strangers almost every week; his wish is everyone's command. Those who're new might only realize they're in someone's apartment when they pardon themselves and find a regular residential bathroom, toiletries in view.
Approaching sirens cause a momentary panic. "Five-oh, everybody!" someone shouts, but it's unclear what to doâeverybody instinctively herds back toward the bar. The sirens continue on by. "False alarm," the voice says. "As you were, ladies and gentlemen." 
