Results tagged “inthekitchen”

To see Seattle's culinary scene up close, just like the locals do, get thy butt over to the Gray Line tour desk! Aunt Minnie from Moline can spend a summer afternoon watching a real live chef!

For a quarter century, Kent Stowell and Francia Russell, artistic directors of the Pacific Northwest Ballet, stood at the summit of Seattle's cultural elite. Russell founded the company's ballet school and still travels widely as a consultant. Among his many achievements, Stowell choreographed Seattle's holiday favorite Nutcracker before stepping down three years ago. So what's he going to do for an encore? Hold that thought.

(This fall we are combining our love of the football and our dream of learning to cook. On Sunday morning, following a trip to a local farmer’s market/major supermarket chain, we will be preparing a meal from the city of the Seahawks opponent. Then at halftime we will throw our badly burned hands in the air and make hot dogs.)

Rachel Hynes is a former barista and yet still enjoys spending time in espresso places. She reviews them for us.

Since our last Uwajiwhat focused on coconut milk, it seems appropriate to address the other staple in our Thai pantry: curry paste. And the best of the bunch is again Mae Ploy.

Yesterday we had big plans. We were going to make some fresh pasta, maybe bake a cake or five, probably roast a suckling pig and generally outdo ourselves in the kitchen. It was to be a day of great culinary triumphs and we were looking forward to the challenge.

There's no sign outside, no street number, just a Vespa on the sidewalk below a fluttering Italian flag. Welcome to Tavolata, the long-awaited Belltown outpost of Union's Ethan Stowell and business partner Patric Gabre-Kidan. Neither has clogs-at-the-forno experience in Italy, but that didn't stop them from creating an upscale, "modern Italian" restaurant in Belltown.

There's a really old Filipino guy who lives up the street from us that takes our bus to a food bank downtown in the morning. His English sucks, which would be more of a problem if he ever wanted to talk about anything outside of his three favorite topics: the nationality of everyone on the street, genocide and Hitler. He loves talking about Hitler. He once even greeted us at a crowded bus stop in the morning with a heil Hitler hand salute, complete with a heel click and everything. Our attempts to explain how uncool that was were kind of lost in translation, though, and we ended up just ignoring him for weeks. On the way downtown he occupies himself with folding bus schedules into origami cranes and handing them to people, mostly to all the young women who are sitting nearby, which they love, of course, and which kind of pisses us off. Whatever, old guy, they love the cranes. Why don't you show them the heil Hitler?

Just finished our turkey brine, using this brine recipe, minus all the juniper berries and shit because, really, juniper berries?

“All aboard.” We thought we heard those words, and the tell-tale sound of the horn, as we ran down the tracks to get on the Spirit of Washington Dinner Train. Or did we just imagine that as part of the promise of a romantic evening of food and fun while riding the rails?

The party's filling up again as people start trickling back from group bathroom trips, the basement, the alley and other darker recesses. It's loud and crowded and suddenly taking a nosedive into that territory. One of those types of parties. Something's going on in the kitchen. Get in here. Washington opens its buckle, unbuttons its fly and lays it on the table. That's right. 668 inches. Circumference, bitch.

Topolino's Pizza's new Capitol Hill location, on 12th Avenue at E Denny, has only been open for business a week, and Seattlest has already eaten there approximately 72 times. We've never been to their other locations (in Bellevue and Madrona), but then again, those establishments aren't right near our apartment.

Until the mid-17th century, the Royal Navy would give its sailors daily ration of brandy. Then they captured Jamaica and switched to the local hooch, rum, which they diluted with water & lemon juice. The citrus prevented scurvy, kept the Brits healthier than the French and Spanish, whose sailors were still knocking back brandy; Britannia soon ruled the world.

We're scum. We're lazy, TV watching Ameri-trash. We follow mainstream sports and the off-year Olympics, but we haven't supported our local alternative sports entertainment franchise Rat City Roller Girls by attending an event yet. What the hell is wrong with us? Seriously? We've marked every date on both our paper calendar hanging in the kitchen and in our iCalendar and it hasn't helped. It's always the night we have dinner plans or the night we had set aside for crushing female empowerment, athletic ability, the arts and creativity with the hammer of our non-attendance.

Long ago, when Seattlest was growing up, our most eagerly anticipated holiday gift came not from Santa, but from one of our neighbors. It was the size of a baseball and twice as heavy, rolled in nuts, wrapped in festive red cellophane, and meant to be spread on crackers. It was a homemade cheese ball. The fun, however, was not in its consumption, but rather its destruction. Each year, with our mother’s blessing, we held the cheese ball high in the air, still wrapped securely in its shiny packaging, and with a spirited leap and an airborne split, we gleefully sent the thing plunging to the floor.

Seattlest decided that we were going to relive our undergrad experience not long ago. We slept until noon and then sat around in the kitchen waiting for lunch to be served, but apparently Seattlest's fiancee ignored the hair nets and recipies we'd left out and had gone to work. We ate a few slices of the pizza we ordered at 3am but were either too stoned or too wrapped up in video games to eat at the time and crashed on the couch until ten when we started calling around for a kegger. Oh, shit! There's a paper due tomorrow! We hastily wrote ours and then cut and pasted a few others together for friends before spending four hours wandering around the neighborhood looking for a computer lab with a functioning and available printer. At which point we said, "screw it," went home, went to bed and went to work in the morning. Ah, post collegiate life.

Seattlest will always have a soft spot in our heart for the bar at Brasa. We love the way the wood fired oven perfumes the air from the moment you step inside. We love the high, lofty ceilings that contrast with the dark wood and dim lighting. We love sitting at the far end of the bar and watching all the action in the kitchen. But mostly, we love the kick-ass happy hour prices on food.