Saturday morning headache, two buses, lugging a big bag, unfamiliar neighborhood. Slightly late. Class? The yoga center people look through their records. Class? At 10? Apparently I’m on Yoga Standard Time, and there is no class today after all. Also, I am from Mars. I grit my teeth while the day struggles to reorganize itself around me. Dejected, but trying to be open to “what is,” I trudge up the street toward Broadway.
At last: Realization. I’m near my favorite guilty pleasure. And I’m nearing glycemic freefall. A high ceilinged restaurant with lovely tall windows, recycled and repurposed stylish digs, wooden floor. Very hipster, and entertaining. An atmosphere replete with air. A place that is mostly style over substance.
The host likes the boots of a woman at a neighboring table. The tattooed waitress, when I ask for herbal tea and then for the flavors, says she will just hook me up. A pot of herbal chai materializes shortly thereafter.
The brunch menu is short and succinct. I begin to perk up. The day is starting to behave, after all. Then my table neighbor knocks the creamer over onto the floor, but easily grabs a napkin to clean it up and says in a mocking and admonishing tone to her companion, “There’s no use crying…”
Oddfellows Café and Bar, Capitol Hill, next to Elliot Bay Books.