A Walk Down Memory Lane

After a recent battle between myself and my 1930s gas oven, in which the oven won, I decided to make a trip home to Seattle. With Friday night calling my name, saddled by my four best friends and boyfriend, I was drawn to a much loved and cherished favorite, The Ballard Smoke Shop.  A place I called home for almost two years of my life as a server and the original fisherman's bar in Ballard, Seattle, I try to stop in whenever I get home. The building is a bar on one side and a restaurant on the other. The upstairs is filled with rooms that have been converted from their brothel days to studios and the cigarette machine still covers up the stairs that lead to the basement speakeasy. The bar brings you back to brown leather booths, brass rails and orange tile. The walls are covered in pictures of fishing boats and beloved regulars. The horseshoe bar is surrounded by bar flys who have stools named after them, fisherman, and ballard locals. Its where people go to hide, be scandalous, pull tabs, and have a stiff drink. Darlene has been there for 30 some odd years and is a no bullshit but fun and caring bartender partnered up with Kelah, who is a personal favorite and has a special place in my heart.

The Smoke Shop is how my friends and I always end the night when we decide to haunt historic Ballard Ave. Its where we go for our wretched addiction of applesauce shots, $4 triple pours, and pints of mai tais that will put hair on anyone's chest. Sprawling out over a corner booth and a second table, we plant ourselves to watch the show with the occasional intermission of small world after all moments. Its a place where you can share a shot with your neighbors, get dragged into a picture for the simple fact that you're wearing plaid, and feel the wrath of Darlene's squirt gun if you get too lipy or gropey.

I recommend the institution that has seen Ballard go from town to city but with a piece of advice that should not be taken lightly: Do not, whatever you do, let one of the old timers hear you call it a dive bar. I have watched over the years many a naive soul fall victim to their poor word choice met by the regulars rioting with inebriated pride over how much it is NOT a dive bar. From chairs being the thrown, to glasses flying from the thump of fists pounding the bar, you will quickly find out that previous generations don't take kindly to the word that we "youngins" loosely throw around to describe our favorite watering holes. 

Needless to say it was another well spent booze filled night, spent gossiping and laughing over things that make no sense. My hangover was well deserved and unminded in the morning when we woke up to the havoc wrecked once again by the Smoke Shop's heavy hand.