Apothecary: Whym Diner, 101 Denny Way, 269-9496. LOWER QUEEN ANNE. The name
Published 7:00 am Friday, October 10, 2008
Apothecary: Whym Diner, 101 Denny Way, 269-9496. LOWER QUEEN ANNE. The name rhymes with time, by the way.Time of entry: 10 on a Sunday.Level of hangover (1–10 scale, with 10 being a paralyzing head-thumper): 5. One of those morning-afters when you wake up without a headache or a bum stomach, but are spaced and seriously cranky. I credit/blame white wine.Level of waitstaff hangover: Nix. Ours seemed almost as spacey as me at first, but she was super-considerate, brought the plates out quickly, and remembered when I switched to decaf.Prescriptions: My teen-punk years were spent in the Midwest, so I felt no sorrow when teen-punk sanctuary Minnie’s shut down. Newly remodeled in bold colors and whymsilicious accents (starburst clocks, round doorways), Whym is now the cleanest 24-hour diner in Seattle right now. There is something cleansing about sitting in a room wrapped in large plate-glass windows, even when the view outside is condos and clouds.The breakfast menu, flush with quotes and quips, has all the breakfast standards and the accepted number of standard gussiments. The two signature items seem to be chorizo, which shows up in many of the breakfast dishes, and “Whym Skillets.” I ordered both in the form of the Mexi-skillet: a ceramic dish layered with cubed breakfast potatoes, chorizo (spiced-up but not spicy), melted jack, scrambled eggs (nicely done, mind you), half a ripe avocado, and pico de gallo. It was 100 percent edible: heavy but not greasy, and with some salt and lots of hot sauce, perfectly serviceable. That and a fruit salad would have served two.My friend got the eggs Benedict, which was 60 percent disgusting. I don’t know if you can tell from the photo, but the hollandaise had broken, so the yellow pool around the eggs was melted butter speckled with bits of cooked egg. While the poached eggs and breakfast potatoes were correct, whoever mixed up that sauce should have tossed out the batch and started afresh. It’s called professional pride.Hair of the dog: Cocktail-looking things passed by en route from bar to table, but if there’s one tradition I will never understand, it’s trying to chase away the shakes with a beverage that’s going to make you woozy and witless. Coffee, fat, and water are the only cures I need. It’s all about bloating away the booze.Success of the soak: Moderate. My Mexi-Skillet did have enough calories to anchor me in reality, but only reduced the cranky by 20 percent. (It took a trip to the gym and a long nap to rid myself of the rest.) That figure might have been higher had I not kept catching sight of this bit of whymsy:
