When I was 11 or 12 years old, I wanted nothing more than to be a marine biologist when I grew up. I’m a convinced that watching Jacques Cousteau on TV had a lot to do with this. I was completely fascinated by the undersea world, I wanted to go there, I wanted to see those brightly colored fishes in all their glory. We made lots of trips to California’s Monterrey Bay in the summer time — we’d look down into the tidepools at bright anemones and starfish and I wanted to know more. Every trip to the aquarium was a revelation — to this day I remain infatuated with the long nosed butterfly fish, though I also have a crush on the clownfish, picked up at the Great Barrier Reef before little Nemo hit the big screen.
I can’t remember what inspired me to do so, but I scribbled fan mail to Mr. Cousteau. I wrote him a letter, by hand, in my 11 or 12 year old script, telling him of my fascination with the ocean and how, essentially, I wanted to be him when I grew up. I stuck with this obsession for quite a while but it became apparent that I was constitutionally unsuited to marine biology as an occupation. It is a science, after all, and I was not good at math. And while I am a good swimmer, I don’t like boats, I get seasick and cold and claustrophobic rather easily. I met a real live marine biologist once who told me about the nuts and bolts of sitting on floating labs, analyzing specimens while trying to shake the damp chill of the sea. My path changed, I went to art school, I became a writer.
But I am still mad crazy about fish. I still leave the aquarium enchanted and while I never learned to dive — my unsuitedness extends to bad sinuses and inner ear issues — I have snorkeled the Red Sea and the Great Barrier Reef and the spectacular waters of Kealakakua Bay in Hawaii. I used to carry a Seafood Watch card in my wallet, when I got my iPhone, the Seafood Watch app was the first thing I installed. I have a dry ink and colored pencil drawing of a clownfish wearing a crown, she’s my desk mascot and some days, I think I want her as a tattoo. I have added Hawaii’s glorious humuhumunukunukuapua’a to the pantheon of fish gods that watch over me. And I still feel my heart leap a little when I hear the name Cousteau.
I don’t know how long it took for the Cousteau Foundation to answer my mail. I’m not sure if I ran back and forth to the mailbox every day or if I forgot about it and went back to watching National Geographic specials on the great explorer of the oceans. But a response did eventually appear, and that’s all that matters. It arrived from somewhere French, I can’t remember if it was French Polynesia or France, but it was from a French speaking place. There was a typed letter in an onion skin envelope , the top right corner was covered with beautiful stamps that had pictures of fish on them. The letter was from one of the Cousteau sons, regretting that Jacques could not answer me directly as he was out on an expedition somewhere in the South Pacific. Study hard, because that’s the path to becoming a grown up marine biologist. Thank you, though for your enthusiasm for our work and for your love for the ocean. I can remember standing at the window in my room and turning this letter over and over in my hands, looking at the stamps, the Cousteau signature — the letter was signed in ink, by hand — and thinking this was possible.
I’m not sorry I didn’t pursue that path, I would have crashed and burned but I am sorry I don’t have the letter. We moved a lot, things were lost, thrown away, sold, left behind. The memory of that letter will have to suffice and really, it is better than good enough to have this tenuous thread connecting my 11 or 12 year old self to the great man of the waters. He would have been 100 years old today, and even though he is not here, I am still grateful for his life.
We dropped the car at the dealer at about 10 am in the heart of Renton’s auto row. We hadn’t arranged for alternative transportation — we didn’t know how long it would take but there was no place we had to be. I’d checked the map earlier to find a place for coffee — we walked three blocks, crossing six lane arterials, passing the Honda dealer and the Saturn dealer and the Cadillac dealer to a tiny place called Espresso Daviso. The woman in front of us in line wished us a “blessed day” as she headed back with her tall whatever and her iced something else. We ordered coffee and when the barrista asked what we were up to, in that casual “Hey, what’s going on?” way that some good barristas have, we told him. “You’re the only thing around we could find to walk to.”
“You know, two blocks that way,” — he pointed north — “there’s the DK Market. It’s, uh, funky. It’s got all this Russian stuff and there are piroshkis and bread and all kinds of things. It’s not your regular market. It’s kind of, um, well, it’s funky.”
Of course we went. We walked in, hesitant, through the under construction entry way, past the sign that said “pinatas available in Jimenez Market”, past the product shots of fry-it-at-home Indian bread, past the signs for eyebrow threading and what turned out to be a Chinese herbalist. My jaw dropped. We were in a warehouse of imported food from everywhere. There were stacks of Indian pilaf mixes, piles of rice bags , cans of mystery fruits and vegetables. There were pastes and pickles and pates. There were transparent cans of fruit soda and boxes of tea and tins of cookies. A Pakistani man explained the panadus rosewater syrup to me — “You mix it with water, you make a kind of lemonade with it, but she…” — he indicated his little girl who was giggling over her reflection in my cell phone — “she likes to drink it in milk.” I snapped the girl’s picture and then, showed it to her on the phone. She giggled with delight. “Say thank you!” said her dad.
Solemn Soviets pushed carts around. Two women who looked to be from — oh, let’s say Turkmenistan or Soviet Georgia — scrutinized the produce. Over in the canned goods, two young Vietnamese girls discussed something kind of processed fruit. I picked things up and put them down again. Paper think Dutch wafers, Russian tea, Turkish candy, Greek grape leaves. There were bundles of lemon grass and a fridge case with paneer and some kind of biscuits stuffed with Saudi dates. We’d walk past a palette of goods and the globe would spin, depositing us in Belgium for some preserved fruit and then, in Lebanon for tahina sauce. Sometimes a plastic package would be torn open, salted dried something or other, and then, piles of dried noodles. The butcher case held sausages and other mystery meats, the little drawers behind the herbalist’s counter were labeled in Chinese. At the checkout stand — we bought a loaf of Russian rye, a big jar of cinnamon, and some bulgar for tabouleh – I tossed a Kinder Bueno — a Mexican labeled German candy bar — into the basked. “For the barrista,” I told J, we have to go back and say thank you!”
Back in the coffee shop, the barrista lit up with delight. “You know, we bought a can of some kind of processed fish there. Just to see what was inside. We opened it up and there were teeth! They were just sort of looking at us, these fish teeth… I’m glad you liked it! Thanks for the candy bar!” We walked the three long blocks back past the shiny car lots. In the dealership waiting room, a man sat in a faux leather chair watching CNN while drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup.
DK Market is 720 Lind Avenue Southwest in Renton, Washington, just a few blocks off Auto Row.
The first time we went back to visit my sweetie’s family on O`ahu (I had already met them on one of their visits to Seattle), we flew into Honolulu, picked up a rental car, and drove across the Ko`olau range to their home on the Windward Side. I was immediately invited to sit with her dad out on the lanai, where pupus would be served.
He handed me a set of disposable chopsticks (with a courteous question as to whether or not I was okay with chopsticks – which I was), and in front of us was a dish of ahi poke. From earlier conversations, I knew what this dish was, though I had not encountered it before. In fact, no morsel of raw fish had ever before passed my lips, having grown up in Iowa – land of meat and potatoes – cooked meat, of course.
The voices in my mind, rather active under most circumstances, went into overdrive at this point. First, I assumed that the menu selections were designed by her father to be a test of his only daughter’s new beau – how will I handle unfamiliar foods? Any kind of future that I envisioned with his offspring would depend greatly upon this culinary battle (“Iron Chef” was not yet available for regular viewing, mind you).
But the loudest voice was the one that wanted me to be certain that I knew I was being expected to eat raw tuna. Raw tuna. Did I mention, “raw”? As in, not having ever been heated to any degree, uncooked, no oven or fry pan exposure, raw? On the outside, I played it cool as I deftly picked up the smallest piece of poke I could find (without making a display of digging around for it) with my chopsticks and slowly lifted it toward my mouth. Inside, there was a screaming voice (with a distinctly Midwestern accent), yelling to me: “Hey. Hey! Iowa Boy? You know that’s RAW FISH, right? RAW?!? You don’t eat raw anything!” – and variations of the same message, over and over, sometimes even in a bit more vulgar style.
Mind you, this was all happening in a very brief time-frame, as the quivering little chunk of redness was heading upward. Finally, with her test-imposing papa smiling at me and an internal voice about to pass out from hysteria, I ate it.
And loved it.
I loved the flavor – the oniony, spicy marinade, the slight nuttiness of the inamona, the sharp sea-salt, and of course, the richness of the fish itself; I loved the texture – the snappy crunch of the ogo, the melting buttery tuna, the mouth-filling moisture.
And I ate plenty of it that night. Probably much more than my share, but no one stepped in to change my behavior there – probably because they were too stunned at the sight of this Mainland Haole not only “passing the test,” but going for extra-credit points. (I should add here that there was also a dish of tako poke, which I tried but then avoided, as the rubbery texture of the octopus didn’t work for me as well.)
My beloved assumed I was just eating this food out of courtesy, until the next day when we had lunch with her Auntie, at a Waikiki hotel buffet – and I actually chose to take more ahi poke for my plate. She did not know, however, that the voice in my head even existed, much less that it still yelled at me each time I ate poke, for the next couple of years. Nor did she know that a new voice appeared at that time, a tiny little voice at first, that said in its wee fashion: “Gee. I kinda like this stuff.” Over the next couple years, these two voices battled with each other every time ahi poke presented itself before me – but the balance of power gradually shifted, as the “hey, you – it’s RAW fish” voice grew out-shouted by the increasingly assertive one stating that “I really like this!”
Years later, and I never hear the “raw fish” voice any more, as I have tried a few other varieties of poke, sashimi, sushi and the like. It just faded away, as an annoying cough gets to a point that, after a few days’ passing, you notice that it’s no longer there. So be warned, if you put ahi poke before me, better make sure you take the portion you want first.
Oh – and to this day, the sweetie claims that her father was not in any way testing me, that they served the poke because it was one of her favorite pupus, but I’m not really convinced. And I’m keeping the extra-credits.
Typically, we blast through Bellingham, Washington, making no more than a coffee and bagel stop downtown to fortify ourselves for either the Canadian border crossing at Peace Arch or the bumper to bumper traffic between Everett and downtown Seattle. Chock full of coffee and carbs, we grip the steering wheel, navigate Interstate 5, and wonder if Bellingham doesn’t warrant a little more time someday.
It’s an only an hour and half away give or take a bit, from our home in Seattle, close enough for a motivated day trip. I did spend a few lazy afternoons poking around Bellingham’s excellent book stores and junque shops some years back, but I’d never visited Fairhaven, a restored historic district just south of downtown, and it had never even occurred to me that a person might want to spend more than an afternoon in the university town to the north.
Yeah, that was an oversight. We recently had a primo weekend in Bellingham. We ate well, we slept in comfortable beds, we saw cool things, we wandered around in the winter sunshine, it was a perfect getaway. We are totally going back on our own, over and over and over again.
Now, a disclaimer. Our entire weekend was arranged by Bellingham Whatcom County Tourism. They covered our hotels and provided a stack of museum passes and gift certificates for local restaurants. Just FYI, okay? Okay then.
Hotels
The Village Inn: Location, location, location. This little hotel is right in Fairhaven, you can walk to the restaurants and bookstores (there’s an excellent one) and there’s a trailhead for a leisurely wander along the water just there, too. (More on the trail, below.) The bed was SUPER comfortable and the room was spacious and no, we did not have a suite. We did have a view towards the water — the rooms on the opposite side cost less but still have all the benefits of the waterside rooms. Breakfast is included — a very nice person will make you a waffle or two. I liked this hotel a lot, it’s not a cookie cutter property, the staff is genuine and helpful, there’s free wifi, it’s very nice. Published rate? About 275/night. A bit high for my budget, but I feel great about recommending it. [*Comped stay.]
Hotel Bellwether: In the marina just north of downtown, on the water. The setting is nice, but you’re probably going to get in your car to head back to downtown if you don’t want to eat in the marina restaurants. Also very comfortable, a big jetted tub (ahhh!), breakfast included, free wifi, big rooms — inside the room, there are style similarities with the Village Inn. Published rate? Around 200/night, but I found this property on Expedia for 109/night while we were there. That’s quite a deal, if you can get that, snap it up, you won’t be disappointed. [*Comped stay.]
If money weren’t an option, I’d pick the Village Inn, I’m a sucker for an indy property. But both places are very nice and both meet my very reasonable but hard to find requirements for a good hotel: a comfortable, clean, quiet room.
Another place to stay in Bellingham? The Axton Road B&B, reviewed here.
Restaurants
Skylark’s: There were lots of things on the menu I wanted to eat, I ended up going with a pesto halibut, my sidekick had the surf and turf — salmon and steak. Everything was cooked perfectly and served in generous portions. The place has great atmosphere, a big wooden bar, lots of framed pictures, it’s cozy and a nice date spot. I thought the food was okay. All good quality ingredients and nicely prepared. I didn’t swoon, but I’d certainly be willing to give it another shot. We did have an excellent dessert and because it’s so nice in there, it seems like a great place to go for a drink. Dinner for two? About 60 with tip, dessert, and drinks. [*Partially covered by a gift certificate.]
The Big Fat Fish Co: Based on the apologies we got from the waitstaff, it seemed like there was some kind of kitchen meltdown going, but we both thought things seemed like a busy Saturday night anywhere — a little slow, but far from intolerable, plus, I had a mango mojito to keep me pacified. We started with the ceviche which, while made with very fresh stuff, left us both wishing for something snappier, but the entrees were first rate. J had cedar planked salmon — perfectly cooked, yum, and I had the clam linguine which was excellent, really excellent, and I hated not being able to finish it all. We passed on dessert, we were stuffed. Kids get crayons, is that fair? I like crayons TOO. I’m sure they’d have given some to me had I asked. Dinner for two? About 80 with appetizer, drinks, and tip. [*Partially covered by a gift certificate.]
Colophon Cafe, Fairhaven: Various friends told me to go eat treats here; we made the mistake of going for breakfast. Well, it wasn’t a mistake — they have very good coffee and the light breakfast menu has yummy things on it, but we missed out on the famous baking. I had a croissant sandwich — scrambled eggs, avocado, Swiss cheese and J just had toast, but we were happy with the bottomless coffee and the little framed notes on the table that tell you not to be a wifi hog, man, when it’s busy, share your table, already. We’ll be back. Light breakfast for two with coffee and tip? About 20.
Rocket Donuts: Bacon maple bars and vintage sci-fi posters and a big old replica of Gort in the little dining room, what’s not to like? Coffee and snacks for two, about 10 bucks.
The Bagelry: We ALWAYS go here when we blow through town because the bagels are damn fine. It’s a busy, hippie, kinda crunchy place where you can get a bite, browse through the local free papers and learn about treehugging things to do or just gawk out the window at downtown Bellingham’s transitory wanderers. Turkey and lots of greens on a pumpernickel bagel to share for a snack, about 7 dollars. Yum.
The Whatcom Musuem: Wow, do these folks have a stunning new museum or what? The building is a beautiful modern swoop of concrete and panels that let in lots of soft light (we were there on a lovely sunny afternoon). You may not see what we saw and art, oh, appreciation of art is so subjective, but we rather enjoyed a lot of what we saw. No small feat as the husband is a skeptic and I’m a terrible snob, what with my art school edumacatin’ and all. We saw a collection of photos of loggers and their big equipment — heart breaking and beautiful at the same time, rough people with hard lives and oh, the fallen big trees! We also saw an installation by artist John Grade, very engaging, attractive, interesting stuff. The museum is so new that they’re not finished with the cafe yet, but I’m looking forward to going back to see more work there. Got kids? There’s a very cool interactive kid zone. Admission? 10 for adults, 4.50 for kids. [*Passes provided by tourism.]
The American Museum of Radio and Electricity: I have a lot to say about this place and will do so in another posting. For this list, I’ll keep it very short. It’s nerd heaven. Go. Now. Admission? 5 for adults, 2 for kids. [*Passes provided by tourism.] I bought their brand new book as a souvenir, 34.95, because I wanted to take the place home with me.
Old Town Antique Mall: By accident — isn’t that how all these things happen — I seem to have a small collection of vintage postcards from Hawaii. They surface from the detritus on my desk now and then and make me smile. I have a few from the early 60s that show pictures of kids eating pineapple and feature polar bear stamps — I love that! — and in the stack I picked up in Bellingham there’s one from the early 70s that says “Go to Hawaii NOW!” in curly handwriting on the back. The antique mall in Bellingham is huge, packed with things you didn’t know you wanted or wish you hadn’t given away, you know the drill. You might want to leave your wallet in the car.
Boulevard Park: This strip of park along Bellingham Bay makes for an excellent meander. We watched some very attractive duck like birds do some fishing, cracked up over ladies walking very tiny dogs dressed in poofy jackets (the dogs wore the jackets, not the ladies), gawked at the fishing boats coming and going, and snapped photos in the bright cold air. Ambitious types can walk about three miles from Fairhaven right into downtown Bellingham — had we been staying in Fairhaven again that’s exactly what we’d have done, ditched the car and walked. Public parks and green belt spaces, you rule, and this one is especially attractive.
On Common Ground, Chimacum: Here’s to pie made by floury kitchen lasses with broad upper arms. Here’s to sandwiches that look big enough to feed two, to service that’s both cheerful and laconic at the same time. Here’s to pecan pie bites in their own little foil pans and to molasses ginger cookies that use twice, maybe three times the ginger that other weak, less made with real butter cookies have. There’s little that makes me happier than a quality bakery that serves up truly home made treats with good coffee. Stop on your way into or out of Port Townsend. [~ 8.00 for coffee and snacks for two]
The Public House Grill, Port Townsend: There are lots of places sort of like this one, I had a real sense of deja vu sitting under the high tin ceiling — was it somewhere in Australia I was transported to? Usually the beer is local microbrew, the food a little disappointing. At the Public House it’s yes to the microbrews and no to disappointing food. My grilled ling cod on salad was an impeccably cooked piece of fish (and I’m picky as hell about seafood) on a generous plate of greens. J’s burger and fries got a “Yeah, that was good,” but he’s a guy of few words. It was nice in there, too, twinkly lights and Sam Cook on the PA, not too loud. Lovely. Date worthy, but there were families with kids there too. We’ll go back. [43.64, dinner for two with drinks, tip and tax]
The Coffee Loft and Bake Shop, Port Hadlock:Â It’s rare that I walk into a place and like the art, I’m as picky about that as I am about how my fish is cooked. I liked the crazy irregular photo collages on the walls in this cafe and I liked the big slabs of coffee cake and almond cake. I liked the old guys having their Sunday morning powwow just over there, and I liked eavesdropping on the ladies in the corner, even if they weren’t very cosmopolitan. “Who serves CURRY at an event?! Who eats that stuff? We stopped at the McDonald’s on the way home!” Good baking, good coffee, live entertainment provided by default if your ears are big enough. And oh, righteous brownies. [7.90, coffee and snacks for two]
The Fountain Cafe, Port Townsend: This tiny shoebox of a place serves up possibly the best cioppino (a tomato based seafood stew) I’ve ever eaten. Our generous plates filled up the little cafe table — my dinner was oh so fresh, the tomatoes tasted home grown, there was just a tiny bit of spicy kick with a nice sour edge from the capers… oh, it was good. J had the smoked salmon fettuccine, finished with a little splash of scotch and plenty of salmon, everything was first rate. I was sad to be too full for dessert because dinner was so outstanding, but we walked away from the hazelnut torte. If you’re in Port Townsend, eat here. You may have to wait because really, it’s tiny, but it’s worth the wait — and worth every penny. Yes, there’s a kids menu, too. Yum. [66.99 for dinner, salad, San Pelligrino, for two]
I’m a decent home cook, if I may say so myself, but in order to eat seafood with any kind of sustainability, it’s also good to consider seasonality and going local, too. Salmon and halibut, we’re not seeing a lot of that right now, though thankfully, that will change soon. I miss it.
With local seafood mostly being frozen, I’m going with domestic shrimp instead. I stay away from the Southeast Asian farmed prawns, as much as I love them; shrimp farming practices are destroying the mangroves. Mangroves offer a nice buffer between the ocean and the mainland and say there’s a big tsunami causing quake? You need your mangroves to protect you, as best they can, from having your town eaten by a giant wave.
I’m no expert, but as always, I defer to the invaluable Seafood Watch.When the day comes that I get an iPhone, you can bet that the Seafood Watch app from the Monterey Bay Aquarium will be on it and I will be that insufferable person taking too long at the seafood counter, probably talking too loud, while I say things like, “But these were farmed in INDONESIA. I need DOMESTIC shrimp.” If you give me the stink eye, I will understand. Plus, I will totally deserve it.
There seems to be an increase in asparagus lately, and it’s cheap right now, plus, I like asparagus a lot. Apparently it’s high in Vitamin C, which I suppose is a good thing if you live in a rainy place where everyone has a cold, which they do right now, I hope you feel better soon. Plus, hey, take something for that cough and get some rest. Once you’re feeling better, you can come for dinner, I would like that. In the meantime, the recipe I didn’t really follow is right here: Greek Shrimp and Asparagus Risotto.
Now, eat your fish, shelly or finny, it makes you care about your health.
