Harry Potter, Crepes, and Baklava

Do you want to see why I gain eight hundred pounds every time I go to Seattle? Well, check this out. We had just come out of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2" (most satisfying, by the way. And very tragic, for it marks the end of not only the story but an era. And we who write can only sigh and wish it had been we who had thought of that series. And we who had that talent. And we who had that brain. And we who had that estate in Scotland. And we who had just announced "Pottermore," the site which not only furthers the Harry Potter experience but makes Rowling an even bigger bazillion-aire because it is from there that she will sell her own e-book versions of the stories, and we who . . . well, anything at this point.)

Where was I?

Oh yes. We had just come out of the movie, et voilá! Directly across the way was a smashing little creperie. That is, a tiny establishment whose main menu item is the venerable crepe. The place was an instant throwback to the movie we'd just seen as it looked like it really might be the Gryffindor common room. It was replete with overstuffed leather chairs ranged in front of a heavily carved fireplace, which fronted a heavily paneled highly polished wall. And there were nooks. And nicknacks. And if I had eaten there a few more times on this trip, even a Fat Lady.

Said creperie was remarkable in its generosity and deliciosity. I mean, look at that thing on my plate; it is HUGE. And toothsome. And nummy: filled with black forest ham, onions, mushrooms, spinach, other funky veggies I can't remember, and topped with a smoked mustard sauce. To. Die. For.  Then for dessert I had a hot mixed berry dulce de leche crepe. Then I died.

Now lest you think we are barbarians, we did let one or two hours pass before heading out to dinner. Went this time to a lovely Italian place set in a little country-village shopping venue, and run by a family from Greece. Yep. Sounds funky. But their food is . . . Ohhhmama! I had tenderized chicken in a balsamic reduction, herbed steamed broccoli, and a very fine risotto. Plus some killer bread to dip in herbed oil. Plus the biggest dang bruschetta you have ever seen (Like 6-8 inches long, and delicious)

After the meal–during which it was raining and I got to watch water drip down the window in front of me, making the English country garden outside look like a Monet painting–and also after trying a mussel for the first time in my life, which seriously, ewww. I mean, just, ewww. I mean really, ewww–after all of this, there was still one corner of my stomach that was free of food. So I was prevailed upon (without much effort) to try the baklava.

Now understand, I am not a connoisseur of baklava. I find it too sugary and syrupy, and generally annoying: trying to get a fork through it's layers is rather like trying to get a fork through the phonebook. But this, THIS. Oh, my children. This baklava was homemade, with fresh ground cinnamon on top. Its layers were delicate and transparent. There were no sugar granules to be seen. The walnuts had a perfect crunch. The syrup which flavored the dish was undetectable except in the lovely light sweetness it imparted. And it was all snuggled up to a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream.

In short, the expression on my face below, which exactly matches the one on my face above, aside from being completely repetitive and uncreative, hides within it a joy of epicurean delight unsurpassed by any other cheesy expression ever found upon my silly face.

What can one say but, Seattle? Which, translated from the Native American means, Food Extraordinaire. And also pretty yummy.

One has to say Food Extraordinaire (etc.) Because one must walk up and down hills like this to get to said food. One would die if one's food in Seattle were not extraordinaire:

Loverly. Next time, you should come with me. And there should be more hilly and unusual food, and yet another Harry Potter movie.

It's a date.