So, I got married this past weekend. The ceremony was very DIY (mostly DIH, as my bride deserves far more>"/>
So, I got married this past weekend. The ceremony was very DIY (mostly DIH, as my bride deserves far more credit for the bash's success than I). For anyone who's ever lived through this experience, a little post-knot-tying decompression time is a must -- so we spent a couple days and nights chillaxin' in Port (aka Pete) Townsend.
Our wedding was financed on something of a shoestring -- to wit, our beer selection consisted of Rainier, Rainier, and (once the kegs blew) canned Budweiser -- and our "minimoon" (a full-on honeymoon will be enjoyed in October) meal budget was similarly tight. But because it was tight, our visits to The Landfall, Fat Smitty's, and the Chimacum Cafe fit perfectly into the Bottomfeeder rubric.
The northern tip of Port Townsend's historic Water Street is currently under heavy construction, as the city is prepping for the opening of a sparkling new wooden boat center. But those who brave the pile drivers and forklifts will be treated to a gourmet menu at greasy spoon prices at the Landfall. Housed in a yurt-like structure, the Landfall employs but one waitress to work its morning rush. She's an absolute pro, though, and the cafe's thin buttermilk pancakes and eggs sardou (a concoction involving artichokes, kalamata olives, tomatoes, cream cheese, and poached eggs) were Hi-Spot caliber.
Twelve miles from Port Townsend is the tiny town of Chimacum. It is more working class than Pt. Townsend, and the fare at the Chimacum Cafe matches this simpler vibe. Omelets and biscuits and gravy were fine, but far from mouth-watering. But these dishes were cranked out with the speed of Usain Bolt, which, frankly, made them taste better.
The highlight of our culinary journey had to be Fat Smitty's, a roadside burger joint in scenic Discovery Bay, a no-horse town midway between Port Townsend and Sequim. As Kornelis has noted before, it might be the most anti-welfare/treehugger/liberal, pro-military burger joint in Western Washington (my favorite refrigerator sticker: "Once you hug a logger, you'll never go back to trees"). And you know how some restaurants have a few dollar bills stuck to their ceilings? Fat Smitty's is covered with layers Washingtons (as well as foreign currency), all autographed by patrons. Typically, you only get away with such eccentricities if the chow is good, and at Smitty's, it's really good. The restaurant's signature burgers are predictably monstrous and juicy. Meanwhile, the clam chowder, into which the line cook literally shoveled a huge dollop of butter before serving, looked fit for an inmate. But somehow it tasted fantastic. Them Libertarians sure can cook.