The Mustard Seed in downtown Bellevue accepts cash only. But their ATM is broken. The bartender suggests we try the 7-Eleven across the street, where the machine actually dispenses bills. When we return to the tavern five minutes later, our beers are there waiting. An old guy who reeks of pot and booze looks up from his pull tabs and welcomes us back with a huge grin. He's clearly drunk. And he's in good company. There are at least a dozen other patrons drinking heavily and shooting pool, though it's a Wednesday afternoon. The only woman in the bar besides me sits alone in a corner intently working on a crossword puzzle. She's on her third glass of white wine. The Mustard Seed exists for the sole purpose of getting people drunk. It doesn't have a kitchen. The walls are covered in alcohol paraphernalia and posters of half-naked chicks. I wouldn't blink if someone lit up a cigarette inside. It's the type of dive that looks out of place among the multimillion-dollar condos and quaint confectioneries dotting Bellevue's Main Street. It boasts plenty of regulars, however, and it's easy to understand why. I too am in fucking love with the Mustard Seed. I announce this to my companion, who looks annoyed and replies, "That's because it's 2:30 in the afternoon and you're drunk." He's right. The glasses have started to pile up. I barely notice when someone behind me almost knocks me out with a cue stick. I'm more concerned with the fact that I want to stay and drink a while longer. But like the ATM a few feet away, I'm out of cash.