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From Brewers to Baristas in Seattle
THE draw of a neighborhood bracketed by an Interstate and a Superfund-listed river is obscure. That may be what has kept the developers who rounded the rough edges off of other Seattle neighborhoods like Ballard and Fremont out of Georgetown.
"Georgetown is really the last outpost of any blue-collar, bohemian arts culture in Seattle," said Larry Reid, curator at Fantagraphics Bookstore and Gallery (1201 South Vale Street; 206-658-0110; www.fantagraphics.com).
In 2006 Fantagraphics Books, a comics publisher, opened the store, which has both the nine-volume hardcover "Complete Peanuts" and an extensive adult section, in one of the red-bricked buildings along Airport Way South that date to Georgetown's heyday.
Before being annexed by Seattle in 1910, Georgetown was a wide-open saloon town with its own horse racing track, leading a local preacher to dub it "the cesspool of Seattle." Built up by workers at Boeing and the Rainier Brewing Company, the neighborhood, just south of downtown, faltered in the postwar era. Interstate 5 drove a concrete and rebar stake through its heart.
"Things didn't go forward or backward," said Jack Cordova, 78, who since 1962 has been dispensing medicines from behind the counter at Georgetown Pharmacy (6111 13th Avenue South; 206-763-0288). "They didn't go anywhere."
Meanwhile the city around it was transformed by the dot-com boom, coffee culture and soaring real estate prices. Then in the late 1990s, displaced artists and artisans drawn by cheap rents started moving to Georgetown to open tile works, Vespa repair shops and glass blowing studios.
More recently came the bars, coffee shops and restaurants, places like Smarty Pants (6017 Airport Way South; 206-762-4777; www.smartypantsseattle.com), where welders and Bettie Page-haircut hipsters chase pulled pork sandwiches with pints of Georgetown Brewing Company's Manny's Pale Ale.
Head north or south from Smarty Pants on Airport Way and you'll find similar establishments, like Jules Maes Saloon (5919 Airport Way South; 206-957-7766) or 9lb Hammer (6009 Airport Way South; 206-762-3373; www.ninepoundhammer.com), that exude a Georgetown-specific vibe.
Still, it's not hard to find Seattle natives who've never been to Georgetown, or when trying to drive there find themselves lost in a cat's cradle of railroad tracks, off ramps and scrap yards.
All that could soon change. In January, a developer leveled part of the historic Seattle Brewing and Malting Company, Rainier's predecessor and once the world's sixth-largest beer-making plant. In March, plans were unveiled for a five-story office and retail complex.
Georgetowners originally protested the development but have become more accepting since the design was altered to address their concerns.
Not that they're going to take change lying down, said Erika Cowan, who stocks more than 300 types of beer and 200 wines at Full Throttle Bottles (5909 Airport Way South; 206-763-2079; www.fullthrottlebottles.com).
"This community is really tight," she said as a Motown record spun in her shop's jukebox. "And really scrappy."
Eating and Eavesdropping in the Living Room of Georgetown
It is Sunday morning and I'm perched on a stool inside Smarty Pants, a restaurant/bar located in Georgetown. I'm sipping orange juice and unabashedly eavesdropping as owner/bartender Tim Ptak churns out bloody marys and carries on four conversations at once.
"So guess who got to sign a bunch of man-tits last night?" the woman next to me asks rhetorically.
"I was doing hair in a tent outside last night," Ptak counters. "It was 40 degrees out, windy, and I was supposed to create an up-do. I was like, 'You've got to be kidding...'".
Autographed man-tits and straight men creating runway up-dos on a Saturday night? Why hadn't I ventured into Georgetown before and where the fuck was my Sharpie?
Smarty Pants resembles a biker bar tucked in a desolate part of town dominated by empty, crumbling brick warehouses. I'd expected it to be as deserted as the street outside. Instead, it's hopping with families, church groups from Beacon Hill, tattooed hipsters, and adventurously monikered roller-derby girls, like Dirty Little Secret #007, the John Hancock of man-tits to my right.
Half the customers who stride in are greeted by name. A DJ spins classic soul and funk in the corner, while another Rat City Rollergirl turned waitress, Betty Ford Galaxy #12 ("Because I don't drink. Get it?"), zips by on skates while carrying plates of food the size of well-fed house cats. Suddenly I am very hungry.
I order the corned beef hash with eggs and hash browns ($6.95) and cave in to my craving for a bloody mary ($6), which turns out to be the best decision of the morning. Lime and ice are crushed together, followed by a healthy spoonful of horseradish, spices, vodka, and tomato juice, before the concoction is violently shaken and served. It has the perfect amount of lime juice and horseradish to awaken the tongue and sinuses.
"Hey Tim," a patron hollers to the bar. "Did you get the bumper stickers I left you?"
"Yeah," Ptak answers, "but I think the staff's already raided them. You might want to drop some more by..."
The only thing more delicious than eating out is eavesdropping, because unlike eating, eavesdropping is not something you can do successfully at home alone. I love restaurants where it is impossible not to eavesdrop, where conversations are comfortably carried on over and around you. You cannot resist listening, and eventually joining in.
"What bumper stickers?" I ask.
"The city's trying to put in a new garbage dump in our part of town," Ptak tells me. "So the bumper stickers say, 'Flush twice, it's a long way to Georgetown.'"
"Do you think they'll help?"
"We're banking on the community to not let it happen," he answers, "but we need to get the word out. Georgetown was surveyed for a garbage dump four years ago, and this area's developed a lot since then. We definitely generate money for the city; we don't need 200 garbage trucks driving through here every day."
Smarty Pants has been thriving in Georgetown for the past two and a half years, Ptak says. He runs a welding shop down the street and would often get hungry, but there was no food in the neighborhood. So he decided to open a restaurant.
My corned beef hash arrives, and it is deliciously firm and juicy. I notice that I've missed my bus home, so I order another bloody mary and start quizzing Ptak on his colorful career choices.
"Hair and motorcycles are both sculptural, which is what attracted me," Ptak explains. "I reasoned that the likelihood of making money as an artist was slim to none, so I went with hair. Plus, cute girls get their hair cut." He had no previous restaurant experience.
"This one helped me design the menu," he points to Dirty Little Secret. "I like sandwiches, so we make a lot of sandwiches."
I'm enjoying myself. Ptak has created community at the site of a garbage dump out of simple sandwiches and good conversation. I look at the menu again. The Lil' Brat ($7.25) is calling to me—a grilled Reuben made of field roast, sauerkraut, and sauce on marble rye. A glance at my watch shows that I've missed my bus again. I listen as Ptak describes the 24-hour motorcycle ice race that he's just returned from.
Maybe I'll stick around for a late lunch.
