4/30: Orange Cascades

“In such an iconoclastic city, even the fine dining is

                Punk Rock.”

Diner rankings for the uninitiated,

                Splash dashed across
Pages, clickable meanings.

                An incisive piece of

Journalism on why we’ve yet to overtake

                Paris when it comes to omelettes.

                When I went on the “date” with the chef

From Michigan who was happy that Seattle was

                Finally Coming Up, I for a moment

Pictured myself in 24 hour sport coats, cutting small portions

                Into tiny ones, with a variety of serrated

Blades, laughing conversations about lesser airports

                of the world, all thick framed glasses and

the server’s white button down rolled up to

                Reveal their Black Flag tattoo and

Hip hop instrumentals swirling over every $200 plate.

               

The dueling concept of what food even means: “Has the art gone out of
Farm to table dining? Three top chefs chat about the dumbing down
Of artisan culture.”

“Five spots for lunch under $10.”

"Three cans of beans for a dollar-- coupon inside."

We went  on another date, and one aborted attempt at late night

                Paths crossing, her in her chef’s uniform,

I think our buses literally passed eachother. When she talked about

                Her plans for clams, I thought about the

Orange Soda in my fridge, and even brought it up. “What, you got it like a

                Joke? So inside. So Seattle.” Sure, I guess.

I was confused. She held her fork like an heiress.

              But on her profile all it said was Porn, Punk, and Pizza.