By Knuckles Runyon
Staff Writer
SEATTLE — It's dark inside even though it's bright outside.
At the counter I sit in a high-backed leather chair. They are called captain’s chairs and this suits me for at the moment I'm on a mission all right: A mission to feed my face.
On this quest, I have help in the form of a man named Chris.
Chris is 45 or he is 55. He is of that age. Like all servers at 13 Coins, Chris is dressed in black. He wears glasses and a tie. If not for the apron around his waist, Chris would look like he could offer sound advice on my financial portfolio (if I had such a thing).
Sure, Chris can get me “Joe’s Special,” a scramble of spinach, chopped sirloin, eggs, onion, and Parmesan. He can do this, even though it’s dinnertime.
Sure, later, after I put away the scramble, Chris can get me a skillet of piping-hot oatmeal, even though that’s not most people’s idea of a side. Or dessert.
At 13 Coins you can order anything at any time (I wish I had used the old Steven Wright line: "So I ordered breakfast during the Renaissance.") Whatever you order, they make your meal in an exposed kitchen, where flames can be seen as often as verbal flares can be heard.
I'm not a restaurant guy. I’m not a fan of spending large sums on a single meal. Sure, the food feels good going down — sometimes (definitely not always; and there's nothing worse than spending good dough on a spread that doesn’t taste good) — but the food is on my lips and then it’s gone and how much did I just spend for fuel for my body after bitching about the cost of fuel for my car?
Yet, almost immediately after I take command of my gastronomical circumstances at the counter, I’m reminded of the importance of one’s environment. Aesthetics are very easy to underrate. In my frugality (some might choose a different word) I forget that being in the right space, for even an hour, can do much for one’s mood. In fact, almost immediately upon entering 13 Coins I find myself in a different headspace. This, maybe more than the food, is worth the price I will pay. Especially at this particular moment on this precise day. (More on that in a minute.)
That's because what strikes about 13 Coins isn’t just the food — though I get good value — but the energy the people bring to the perfectly-lit space. Sitting at the counter I observe interactions between various wait staff, at least one suit (maybe a manager or an owner), and various food preparation professionals. At many restaurants you get the sense that nearly the entire staff consists of people working a side gig. Or they don’t know what else to do. Or they are going through a period of professional transition. In other words, work they do until they can do other work. Not so at 13 Coins. The restaurant’s website says many staff members have worked there 20-plus years. Based on my hourlong experience, this detail doesn't seem to be made up by a marketer. At various points at this pre-dinnertime rush hour on a Monday in July, I witness humor and history and the intimacy of friends.
This is demonstrated most clearly, at least from my personal "conn," in the form of a middle-aged man whose job, best I can tell (they never let me work in a kitchen), is to bridge the gap between the cooks and the servers. This feller is short with wide shoulders; his body shape most closely resembles that of a square. Wearing a thick headband, he calls out orders in either direction — into the kitchen and out at servers careening this way and that. This man creates order out of chaos. Meanwhile, moments of laughter form from disgust or maybe that is grease. In any event, he is seriously snarky and that is what you like about him. This is no time for mollycoddling. Everyone talks to Square Man with a hint of a smile on their face.
At one point Square Man is asked to clarify an order and he volleys his answer. "The one with cherry tomatoes," he says. He doesn't add the word "duh" but that’s implied.
Someone from the kitchen fires back: "They all have cherry tomatoes."
Square Man doesn't know what to do with that one. But he'll get it figured out with a grimace.
As I am the annoying guy who asks people and pets for name origins, I find online that "13 Coins" (apparently, there are three locations in the Pacific Northwest) comes from a Peruvian legend. In the tale, a humble man falls in love with a young woman. The woman’s parents ask, “What can you offer my daughter if you have no money?” The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out only 13 coins. Yet the suitor pledges his undying care, concern, and love for his hoped-for bride. Touched, the woman’s parents bless the union. Thus, 13 Coins symbolizes unwavering devotion.
For me, the name hearkens the old Sinatra tune: "Three Coins in the Fountain." (I had to look that song up; in my head I had recalled the number being 13 rather than three — I was, of course, wrong and how would 13 have worked, exactly, is unclear.) Of course, the version of that song that I am most familiar with is the one offered by Neal Page, on a road somewhere near Wichita, who suggests this as a single-a-long song on a public bus; Del Griffith salvages the moment with a rousing rendition of the theme to the Flintstones.)
You might be scratching your head over that digression. But, frankly, I walked into 13 Coins in a foul mood (yes, more than usual) that Neal Page could have validated. You might say, in fact, I was living out a scene from Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, sans the jovial travel companion. I had that morning missed a connecting flight. I was stranded for a night in a Hilton that was near nothing but an airport that could be a zoo. (SeaTac: the moniker sounds like something that could crawl out onto your body and that you would not like it if it did.) I had no particular place to go and the airline's per diem in the food court was enough for a down payment on a salad. After I dropped my bags in my room, a bellhop sent me down the sidewalk to this place.
As I ate my oatmeal, my mind settled enough to take in the soothing darkness of the place, which was a welcome break from the sensory overwhelm I had experienced on a sun-soaked afternoon. (My missed connecting flight wasn't the half of my travel travails; 48 hours before that I had been booked on a different airline, one that, effective the morning of my scheduled flight, endured a mechanics' strike; my flight was summarily canceled. I wasn't even supposed to be in Seattle, much less for a day and a night. Damn straight, Neal: you're messing with the wrong guy.)
My captain’s chair was positioned beneath square yellow lights dropped from the ceiling. The only sounds I heard were those of human beings doing work they liked. There were no TVs showing replays of ballgames. There was no music to ignore. Over the course of an hour my entire countenance changed. Though it was still early, thanks to the oatmeal (with milk and the right amount of raisins) my belly was filled. I was set for now. I wouldn't need to eat again until morning.
Simple pleasures are the best kind.
I paid Chris. I walked back down the sidewalk. I took the elevator to my room. I wasn’t yet where I wanted to be. But things were turning around. You might say my mission was accomplished.
