The pillowy, mellow Mediterranean thing this place has going on isn't BS. The service is top-notch, and the various hummus, prawns, and... More
Most of us don't have a smiling grandmother in a rocking chair, adept at creating mittens galore from balls of brightly-colored yarn, who can teach us to knit. But two local women are here to help. They own two very different shops operating under two distinct philosophies in neighborhoods separated by Elliott Bay. But they both want to make your journey into the land of stitched scarves, alpaca wool, and felted handbags a worthwhile experience—without or without the grandkids. "Fresh, fabulous fashion" is the motto of Amy Ellsworth's Stitches on Capitol Hill. The window displays are funky and the selection of yarns and fabrics is quirky and small, targeted to the locals. "It's just a way to be creative and individual," Ellsworth says, sporting a blonde bob and a black baby-doll shirt. She opened her doors four years ago after quitting a job working on e-mail marketing campaigns for Amazon.com. An avid knitter and seamstress, she had lived on the Hill for more than a decade, but had always had to traipse out of her neighborhood for sewing supplies. Finally she started her own place. The domestic arts are enjoying a huge comeback among the 20- and 30-something DIY set, who make up most of Ellsworth's customers. There are also a handful of younger boys who come in for supplies to make their own Uglydolls, adorably hideous little stuffed monster toys. There are also some older folks on the Hill happy to have a place nearby with needles and thread. Across the West Seattle Bridge, Virginia Bowen holds court at Yarn Gallery, advising a customer on the best threads for an upcoming project. The two women are hunched over a book of patterns in chairs tucked between racks of yarn. Unlike Stitches, Bowen's store doesn't have fabrics, just supplies for knitters and crocheters. "She's wonderful!" the very satisfied customer declares. Bowen has several years on Ellsworth and sports the same chic bob (in grey). She has a steady trade with the matronly set, but sometimes a group of elementary-school kids takes a beginning class, and there's another geared toward men. And she has her own hip cred. Her Web site feature, "Ask the Yarn Lady," includes answers to questions about gauges and thankless knitting-project recipients. The final one asks: "I keep catching my boyfriend in bed with other men. Do you think he's gay?" "Yes, dear. I think so," she replies. "But we've got a whole group of ladies who you can commiserate with. Stop by any time, or join one of our Thursday night or Saturday morning Project Knitting Classes. Bring wine, or in your case, vodka."—Laura Onstot
I worked at a grocery store for almost 10 years, and when I first started, I was the nicest checker you'd ever seen—chatty and friendly, always willing to go the extra mile. That lasted about a week. After that I became as surly and bitter as every other retail worker out there. That's why I'm always a little struck by the guys at Mr. Gyro's. Every time I walk in, they're smiling, friendly, and incredibly organized. They somehow manage to deal with the constant stream of hungry customers working their way into the tiny Greenwood location without ever seeming overwhelmed. If that doesn't seem like a major feat to you, you've probably never worked retail. If that isn't enough, they're hotter than the gyros they're slinging.—Suzie Rugh
A color-changing, open-ceilinged oblong room, a light buzz of traffic from 15th Avenue, instruction from the Seattle Insight Meditation society—it all makes James Turrell's Skyspace at the Henry the perfect spot to find inner serenity. This gorgeously minimalist space, with wooden benches and walls that lean out from the floor, isn't exactly peaceful—you hear whooshing, grumbling buses and the metallic plink of the crosswalk signal. The air, however, is very good, and the shape of the room itself seems to inspire calm. If you open your eyes, the sky will seem to float, contained in the oval above. (The next session is 10 a.m. Sat., Sept. 13. Reservations required, 616-9894. Admission by donation.)—Adriana Grant
Showbiz rule #1: never show contempt for your audience. Uncle Willie, the trivia announcer at Wallingford's Murphy's Pub, destroys that rule weekly. But I like bitchy, hard-to-please people, so his constant eye-rolling and "don't you backtalk me" attitude are right up my alley. His questions are usually the perfect balance of difficult and answerable, and his dance-off/drink-off tie-breakers show that he's more than happy to oblige the audience's thirst for second-hand embarrassment. And though he seems to be a bit of a music snob, he occasionally gives himself away when "artists" like Mariah Carey and Miley Cyrus show up in the music round. He claims they're only in his iPod to stump the audience, but that's fine with me. Throw me some attitude with crappy pop music piping out of your headphones and I'm your new BFF.—Suzie Rugh
Not long ago, I saw some little band at The Sunset called the Cave Singers. I knew nothing about them except that Derek from Pretty Girls Make Graves was in it. It was, I believe, their second show. Plenty of clubs around town play host to local bands playing their first, second, or third shows. But something about the Sunset feels special, like you've been let in on a secret. With walls the color of pinot noir and an unassuming exterior (it's easy to walk right by and barely notice the place), the Sunset has a deep, intimate vibe, the kind of working-class-rock-'n'-roll joint where everybody knows your name...and if they don't, they'll know it if you go there enough times. Since moving to Seattle, I've seen countless bands play the Sunset, but the ones just getting started are usually the most exciting. The people in the crowd are mostly all band acquaintances, and the club's size affords bands the opportunity to feel as though they'd never left home.—Brian J. Barr
I used to be one of those snot-nosed Seattleites who turned his nose up at suburban multiplexes, preferring the sore-assed "authenticity" of the Guild 45ths of the world instead. Then I caught a matinee at Alderwood 16 in Lynnwood on the way back from a sexy, sexy weekend in La Conner. I left Theater 11—or was it 13?—a changed man. The self-serve popcorn butter ensured that I could drown every last kernel in grease (hint for the true cinematic glutton: Fill a little water cup with butter after the inaugural slather so you don't have to leave your seat midfilm to re-layer), the screen was gigantic and vivid, the sound was stereolicious, and my enormous seat was La-Z-Boy cozy. The only thing missing in the way of creature comfort was a personal fluffer, although I heard that 24-screener under construction on the outskirts of Kent is hip to that amenity.—Mike Seely
You just saw a guy with a briefcase and a girl with dreads and about 15 tattoos walk into a 77-year-old church together. "WTF?" you might be thinking. But if it's Sunday night at 9:30, you should walk in too, because it's time for Compline at St. Mark's on Capitol Hill. Wearing old sweats? So what?—you'll probably be sitting on the floor, and no one cares what you wear here anyway. Just sit back and listen to the church's 18-member choir party like it's the year 509. They sing evening prayers the way monks have done ever since there were monks, and they do it beautifully. You've never felt this calm in your life, I promise you, no matter what your religious preferences. If you're lucky, you'll get the after-hours special—an abbreviated organ concert on the church's gorgeous pipe organ. Usually this is classical too, but rumors abound of Led Zeppelin and Queen slipped alongside Mozart and Bach in the organist's music case. And it's all free of charge.—Emma Breysse
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