Yesterday was one of those days were lunch was a critical tipping point and yet impossible to decide what, exactly, it should be. I wanted Japanese- nice and clean and a soothing cup of miso soup. My husband wanted anything but Japanese. We tossed offers at each other like tennis balls lobbed across a net and then ended up someplace we’d never been just as a way of compromise. The restaurant we choose, almost at random as we passed it doing 40MPH, is the latest addition to a local chain of old-school cafes. You can get a burger or a slice of pie, a milkshake or breakfast at dinnertime. We sat in a booth with a blown-up picture from the 1940’s, of a crowd of people waiting to get on one of Seattle’s ubiquitous ferries, sailors and ladies in hats, everyone waving to the camera. I ordered the “Kentucky Club” sandwich, because… well, that’s the sandwich of my people. I didn’t even know there was a Kentucky Club. And what arrived: toasted white bread, Swiss cheese, slice of tomato, leaf of iceberg, bacon, grilled chicken breast and avocado, made me think that whoever had concocted that name had never actually been to Kentucky. First of all, grilled chicken breast? Really healthy for a region named for a well-known chain of fried chicken places. And secondly and perhaps most egregiously: Avocado. Seriously, I don’t think they even let avocados over the state line.
I think this would do it for my husband- white bread, mayo, unholy green pickles made by his auntie and sliced hot dogs.