Apothecary: Smarty Pants, 6017 Airport Way S., 762-4777, smartypantsseattle.com. GEORGETOWN Time of entry: Saturday, 10:30 a.m. Level of hangover (1–10 scale, with 10 being a paralyzing head-thumper): 8. My companion and I got destroyed watching the Dusty 45s at the Tractor the previous night, a predictably boozy excursion that was preceded by a predictably boozy excursion to the Salmon Bay Eagles, which was preceded by yet another predictably boozy happy hour at Sambar. Keep smilin', keep shinin'—that's what Fridays are for. Level of waitstaff hangover: 6, with a margin of error of two points either way. Georgetownites all seem to be (a) in their 30s, (b) perpetually haggard, and (c) very functional, very heavy drinkers. So there aren't really any sore thumbs. Prescriptions: Smarty Pants is a sports bar. Not just any sports bar, but a sports bar that regularly telecasts motorcycle racing on a gigantic, retractable screen in its dining room. And that's it: no baseball, no basketball, no football—just motorcycle racing. Suffice it to say, they dance to the beat of their own drummer here, with a Southwestern-influenced menu that follows suit. Witness the Tex Hex: a bed of chili topped with scrambled eggs, sour cream, cheese, and jalapeños. Or the Troublemaker Pile-Up: grilled chicken and onions topped with Monterey Jack and bacon and served over scrambled eggs and hash browns. By comparison, the dish I ordered, Eggs in a Basket (eggs fried into the center of toast, with beans and 'browns on the side), was downright traditional. But still, I've yet to see it on a menu other than my mother's when I was 6, and biting into this mashed-up plate of nostalgia transported me back to a place in my life when alcohol wasn't a consideration. Hair of the dog: While this wonderful little establishment is the birthplace of the bacon martini (exactly as hideous and hilarious as it sounds), best to treat your queasy stomach to the old standby: the Bloody Mary. Here, considering all the veggies and seasoning they add to the vodka and tomato juice, it's like a meal unto itself—or at least a helpful, delicious appetizer. Success of the soak: Duh—awesome. This is a restaurant-bar run by drinkers for drinkers. It's a Saturday morning match made in heaven.