The Montlake Alehouse used to be Grady’s, which was, above all things, an extremely convenient place for University of Washington Greek system upperclassmen and alums to get hammered en masse after football games. During this woebegone era, the only kids you’d see in Grady’s—not counting frosh with four-day stubble and fake ID—were cordoned off in a small area during tightly restricted dining hours.
From the exterior, the Montlake Alehouse still looks exactly like Grady’s, save for the name change on the awning. But inside, it’s a very different, very schizophrenic world. While the sports-centric programming, multiple tap handles, and menu have remained largely intact, the pool table has been replaced by a toy-strewn “kid pit” that caters to children not even old enough to stand, much less do keg stands. This is the latest thing in Seattle’s increasingly kid-friendly booze ecosystem, and for neighborhood parents like “Fatty,” the formula offers the best of both worlds: Roll toddler into kid pit, park stroller, drink three shots and three pitchers while watching the Mariners with your similarly child-addled pals, stagger home with tyke in tow, repeat. But for ex–frat boys like “Mustard Boy,” the new Montlake Alehouse is a very personal version of happy-hour hell.
In this vein, we invited Mustard Boy and Fatty (not their real names)—both Montlake residents in their mid-30s—to debate the merits of the establishment previously known as Grady’s, and the idea of parent-wooing pubs in general.
Mustard Boy: Sweet shit! What happened to Grady’s?
Fatty: It’s not Grady’s anymore, friend—it’s better than Grady’s. I have a family now, but I still like to get my sip on. And with that kid pit, I don’t have to call a sitter. The pit sits, and I can hang out and get soused with my pals from the neighborhood, many of whom work at Microsoft. It fits my lifestyle perfectly.
Mustard Boy: Dude, I respect your right to have kids and take them out to eat occasionally. In turn, you should respect my right to fire back Irish car bombs and request Kiss on the jukebox without feeling like I’m putting on some sort of R-rated alcoholic sideshow for the youth of America.
Fatty: Maybe that’s a good thing. It’s probably time to chill a bit on the sauce, old man. Remember, it only takes two schooners of Vitamin R to spell cirrhosis.
Mustard Boy: Yeah, but you’re the one toting your kids into a fucking bar four nights a week. Though you always did have a loser MO. You threw in the towel with women when you were, what, 25? Why the sexual sprint to the altar?
Fatty: You’ve seen Camille, bro. I had to lock that prime rib down.
Mustard Boy: Yeah, but don’t you just want chicken sometimes?
Fatty: They’ve got both steak and chicken at the alehouse.
Mustard Boy: The menu’s not the issue. The food’s fine. What you and your Marrying Microsoft Mafia aren’t getting is that you and your kids have rudely taken over Montlake’s last adults-only oasis for people like me. I like to swear when I watch the Sonics even when they’re playing well. Imagine the problem that creates for me when my buddies and I are outnumbered 2-to-1 by 8-year-olds. If I wanted to drink at Chuck E. Cheese, I’d drive to Lynnwood.
Fatty: Well, yeah, you could go somewhere else to drink. There are hundreds of . . .
Mustard Boy: Whoa, bro! Yeah, I know there are hundreds of bars in this town, but there’s only one bar within walking distance of my house, and that’s Grady’s.
Fatty: You mean the Montlake Alehouse.
Mustard Boy: I was trying to suspend reality for a second, bro. But remember, you’re the one with the wife and kid, not me. Therefore, it’s my God-given right to get as drunk as I want without having to answer to anyone. So unless you want me to drink and drive, clear the fuck out.
Fatty: Too late.
Mustard Boy: Yep. There goes the neighborhood.
