In 1906, Ballard was its own city and Guinness World Records singled out a strip of Ballard Avenue as having more bars in a four-block area than any other point west of the Mississippi. An integral part of that boozy legend is the spot at 5231. Bars have continuously occupied the space since 1893, and it’s been home to Hattie’s Hat for almost 50 years.
The facade bears the mark of the late 1960s, but Hattie’s is about the guts. Butt on barstool in the lounge (aka Aunt Harriet’s Room), it’s difficult enough to tell the time of day, let alone the year. Every sight line lays plain the drama and merriment committed at this bar over the last century, as if you’re sitting down to someone else’s story. I’ve always felt like an understudy here, never having frequented enough. I tried to remedy that, casting myself as a guest star one weekend.
The scene opens on Friday happy hour, a full bar, and one empty stool. There are no corporate beer signs at the behemoth wood bar, no cocktail menus to be had. Scotches outnumber vodka, as do whiskeys. Lording over it all in the front room, a giant frontier mural hangs beautified by the patina from over 50 years of Camels.
I engaged in passing, unstrained conversation with the patrons at my elbows. After two Red Menaces ($3.50/pint each, $2.50 happy hour) and a fortifying cup of warm, cheesy spinach dip ($4.95, $3.95 happy hour), we had talked basketball, hockey, and comic books. When I received the burger I had ordered to go ($6.95), I didn’t. It was a juicy medium rare and tasted purely of backyard grill, right down to the hunk of onion—and it was made from naturally raised Oregon country beef, no less.
The crowd at Hattie’s isn’t easily described. Manager Diana Lovitt tried: “Mostly mid-30s, blue and white collar, ex–punk rockers, older married couples, families, music and service industry folk, a younger crowd on the weekends. . . . ” In short, everybody.
The draw at Hattie’s Hat has always been the bar. Recent renovations make better use of the rest of the building. They recently tore out most of the original lunch counter. Now crowds spread through the joint into new booths across from the bar, one a nearly enclosed circle that inspires conspiring. They head for the redone back room, drawn in by the new, inexplicable, and strangely appropriate fish tank.
I was hungover when I returned with friends to investigate Saturday brunch in the back dining room. This was an exercise in what I call “method eating.” The lighting is moody and kind. Dark reddish wood booths with lighted name plaques like “Bernice” and freshly painted drab green walls don’t feel new. Some of the thrift-store kitsch filling the walls is downright spooky. And the nurse shark would not stop staring at me—is he OK? It could just have been dehydration, but I felt like I was in a David Cronenberg movie—in a good way.
We sat in “Lona,” drinking spicy Bloody Marys ($5.50), served in pint glasses and heavy on Worcestershire. My Swedish pancakes ($7.50) were eggy, almost crepelike, with a little cinnamon. You’ll need more of the sweet-tart lingonberry preserves; it comes in a cup so small it’s cruel. The country breakfast ($7.95) was delicious; the gravy was pork sweet and peppery, covering serious, velvety soft biscuits, with eggs and plenty of shredded potatoes to soak up the remains—of the plate and my foggy head. Mercifully, too, my coffee and water were filled diligently.
If you want to feel local, go on a Monday, guest bartender night, when bands promote CDs, artists their shows, and local businesses their wares. Bottles of wine (that’s right) are half-price on Monday. We drank a lively Spanish red while demolishing the meat and cheese plate ($9.95), which makes an ample after-work snack. It’s nice to see someone do cheese without it being a big hairy deal, and with portions larger than my pinky toe. I then needed to know why Phil’s sweet potato fries ($4.95) were “super special.” The answer touched on all my four food groups—salty, sweet, bacon, and hot. Think potato skins with blue cheese, pancetta, and hot peppers.
You’ll hear many people go on about the chicken fried chicken ($10.95), and the cutlet is tender, crunchy, and swimming in that luscious country gravy. But anytime I see Guinness next to the word “meat” on a menu, I’m done. The meat loaf ($10.50), with sauce made from reducing Guinness into liquid caloric plutonium, is moist as a meat cupcake and shares the plate with your choice of 13 sides. (I vote for braised greens and garlic mash.)
It was now time for this week’s bartender, a perky real-estate agent, to emcee the fabulous fun for the evening. A pie-eating contest. Then something happened that doesn’t happen much in Seattle bars: random people mixing.
A few trips to Hattie’s and I’m still a walk-on. Regulars might get their beer or breakfast first, and rightfully so. That’s the beauty of a local joint. The barkeeps know all your lines. But after this weekend, I realized everyone here believes themselves to be the star of their own play, and I was more than welcome to start my own. And you can bet I’ll be angling for a recurring role in Aunt Harriet’s Room.
