We have nothing against McCormick & Schmick's on First Avenue, one of the closest and most reliable bar-restaurants to SW's downtown digs. Great happy hour, good food, and just a short hike up Spring to the corner of First. But that slope includes an uncharted hazard beyond the cars spinning their wheels and burning their clutches when red turns to green. On a good day, meaning a busy afternoon in the McCormick's kitchen, the hillside is swept with the smell of sizzling steak, the air heavily scented by eau du grease trap with a strong note of charcoal. Breathe deeply, and you are no longer a vegetarian. Each lungful is like a quarter-pound burger cooked bloody rare. Every day, emerging from the day-care center opposite on Spring, the little children on their adorable rope lines—so like huskies pulling sleds in the Iditarod—probably get 150 percent of their annual recommended protein allowance. Across on the north (McCormick's) side of the street, the kitchen exhaust fan spews concentrated beeffluvia in great gray greasy clouds; it's literally become an afternoon weather pattern (right about the time happy hour begins) in the neighborhood I refuse to call West Edge. To then walk up that side of Spring is to be immersed in meat, a plume the EPA might not consider hazardous but would send your average Seattle vegan running to a detox center. It's somewhat disgusting, yes, but it also probably serves as subliminal advertising, making passers-by very hungry. Or very full. If I meet a friend or colleague on the street and they ask me to lunch, I usually say, "No, thanks. I just inhaled a burger."