When you see this sign... turn, enter, enjoy. Repeat.
I’ve been meaning to write this for a good two weeks now, but I’ve been too busy stuffing my face with delicious sandwiches…now that Potbelly’s (just so we’re all clear, no one, no one calls it “Potbelly”) has come to Seattle. For those who don’t know Potbelly’s…first, my abject apologies. You’ve been missing out on some delicious, hot, crispy, perfectly toasted sandwiches that far exceed anything you’d find at another chain (like Quizno’s, although god knows I loved those pirate hamsters they had back in the day…) for the perfectly respectable price of $4.50-$5.00.
I first had Potbelly’s in Chicago. Then they put one in Ann Arbor. Thank god that happened after I graduated or I’d be packing an extra 20. I love Potbelly’s so much that I constantly would check their website to see if they were franchising (The Sessionista, Franchise Owner Extraordinaire). No luck. Then three or four months ago, Mr. Sesh saw a job posting for sandwich makers at Potbelly’s. Rumours flew. My mouth started salivating. No longer would I have to plan my layovers through Midway. I could get Potbelly’s without leaving my time zone. I could get it for lunch. DAILY. Fastforward to June 7th. With a colorful balloon arch, Potbelly’s opened to the Seattle masses.
Located on 4th and Pike. If you work in Seattle, you need to check it out (I commute there from Interbay on my lunch break without problem, so there’s NO EXCUSE).
First Jimmy John’s. Now Potbelly’s. I’m a Pancheros and a Pret a Manger away from fast food bliss. (side note: while searching for the Pret link I discover that… OMFG. OMFG…Pret is now in AMERICA. AMERICA. So…guess I don’t need to keep going to London. BUT another reason to go back to Chicago [parenthetical within a parenthetical: my favorite part about Mr. Sesh living in Chicago was the inexhaustible supply of amazing, easy access food]).
The Sesh’s Sandwich Choice: “A Wreck” on white, sub provolone, light mayo, mustard, pickles, tomatoes and italian seasoning.
The most amazing 450 calories ever: Sheila’s Dream Bar (they may have dropped the “Sheila” but I’m going to continue to give her props)
With “Favorite Things” pumping from the stereo system (yes, the “raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens” song… Kappa’s mixed CD was going well and then suddenly…this.), Sessionista and Kappa pulled into Yreka, CA at 5:45pm and were ready to pull out by approximately 5:47pm. Sessionista took the first exit into town to check out the Super 8. Content to judge a hotel by its facade, did a slow crawl through the mostly deserted parking lot (all it took was one knocked over, sad looking umbrella by the pool for Sessionista to make her decision) and peeled out to find greener pastures (mistake #1). Avoided hitting a random deer and headed south to see what other motel could handle the Kappa/Sessionista combo. Next stop was “historic” downtown Yreka, where there was such little sign of life, The Sessionista expected to see a tumbleweed jump in front of the 4Runner. Doing a few squares around Historic Downtown Deserted Yreka (again, the Sessionista was driving), Kappa and Sessionista continued their quest for lodging.
A few miles into Yreka, or as The Sessionista calls it “the Everett of Northern California” (it just keeps going and going….) Kappa and the Sessionista found a nice looking Comfort Inn. This would be the last time Sessionista judged a motel by its paint job (mistake #2). Booked a room with a depressing reception clerk (sample exchange: Kappa- “How’s business?” DRC- “Bad.”). Warning bells should have started pealing at this point. Instead, Sessionista slapped down her plastic and began the long haul up to her room (fun fact: no hotels in Yreka have elevators). One half step into what can only be the dingiest, saddest motel corridor in the Northern Hemisphere, and Kappa and Sessionista knew they’d been fooled by the pleasant ocher and tan stucco exterior. Hiding behind that facade was a creaky, stagnant, “one light bulb is all we can afford” mess of an interior. Some suspicious foody mildew scent greeted us as we fumbled our way towards room 206.
Next on the agenda was dinner, but since the DRC had told us there were only “2 places in town I’d eat,” (The Black Bear Diner and, inexplicably, some presumably Mexican joint named Casa Ramos), Sessionista thought a quick stop on Trip Advisor (like all cheap motels, this one had free wi-fi) would help make the decision. Noting they were staying at the worst hotel in town, the Sessionista noticed Black Bear Diner was listed (rather fittingly) as the shittiest restaurant in town. Not one to be fooled twice, the Sessionista dragged Kappa instead to the “best” restaurant in town, Grandma’s (mistake #3).
Grandma’s proved to have the décor of a Hansel and Gretl house and the food of a sub-par Dennys. Kappa ordered the waitress’ “favorite” menu item which literally was three slabs of turkey on a hoagie. Luckily whilst waiting for that gem to arrive, patrons could peruse the smattering of Christian books for sale. Or perhaps choose from the creepy tail-swishing cat thoctkys. Or simply observe the other clientele, like the lovely gentleman with the Confederate flag baseball hat that deemed him a “Rebel!”. To sum it up, the food was bad, the waitress was nice (but probably spitting in the food since Kappa and Sessionista alternately giggled and then went silent every time she arrived), and the hostess had never been asked to split the bill on to two credit cards.
In a last ditch attempt to find some sort of redemption in Yreka (another fun fact: it’s pronounced “why-reek-a”, but The Sessionista prefers “wreck-a”), Kappa pointed the 4Runner past the motel (actually in search of a Starbucks…. what silly, delusional girls…) and found the solution to what could serve as cheap entertainment: Wal-Mart. Subtly pulling out her camera lest something worthy of peopleofwalmart.com appear, Sessionista and Kappa trolled the aisleways, hoping they didn’t find anything they liked or wanted (err…Sessionista did snag a $3 pair of leggings, but she is unemployed and therefore shopping for clothes at Wal-Mart is ok… No. No. Nevermind. Not ok.). Sadly Wal-Mart was quiet at 9pm on a Monday night, so Sessionista and Kappa piled into the car and headed for the exit. Only to be thwarted by….<cue scary music>…cats. Three random cats. Kappa hit the brakes as the cats just glared into the headlights. Sessionista started freaking out and screaming “why the EFF are there effing CATS effing EVERYWHERE on this effing trip?!” while Kappa (rather nonchalantly, considering the bad horror movieness of it all) picked her way through them and headed back to the relatively cat-free motel (don’t worry, Kappa saw another cat in the parking lot the next morning).
Turning in for the night, Sessionista gingerly slipped into what she hoped were clean sheets and rested up for her next adventure, braving the remnants of a Pacific typhoon.
The Sessionista is quite the jet-setter these days (sans jet)! After a 10 day vacation on The Mothership, The Sessionista turned around and headed to Whistler, BC to celebrate Sister Sessionista’s final days of freedom before The Wedding of the Year.
On Friday, Sister Sessionista and her entourage headed to the Great White North to party in what was once the land of hot men (that title has apparently been passed on to some unknown spot and/or The Sessionista has ventured so far from Singledom that she can’t even identify hotness outside of The Sessionista’s Man).
Come Saturday night, Sister Sessionista was properly bedecked in a freakishly demure veil and sparkly “bachelorette” tiara (frantically picked up at Display and Costume for the eff me over price of $20). First on the agenda? Creating a solid food base for the soon-to-be consumed liquor, at Caramba in the Whistler Village.
Caramba lived up to the “all food is shitty in Whistler” phenomenon that The Sessionista has experienced time and again. In some weird cross-border collusion, the waitress brought The Sessionista another effing gin and tonic, a la her high school reunion. Clearly someone out there wants The Sessionista to drink gin. The G&T was replaced 5 minutes later with a T. If there was any V to be found in it, far be it from The Sessionista to know. Digging into stringy, salty pot roast, The Sessionista wondered how bad the 2.5 star restaurant would have been if this is what she was dealt at the 4 star restaurant.
The “stagette” party (when in Canada…) shimmied down to The Savage Beagle (or The Beagle, if you want to sound like you’ve been there before) where they were “on the list.” Except there was no line. And no cover. Making the stagettes feel slightly less important. Sipping another VT (again, light on the V- it was as if the entire Village was against The Sessionista) and watching soccer highlights on the plasma, Sessionista wondered when the craziness level would kick up a notch.
Tired of shitty techno and grown men embarrassing themselves with ugly dancing, the stagettes wandered down to Garfinkel’s where The Sessionista quickly came to the realization she was too effing old and wearing far too many clothes to skip the line and get in, even with her Stagette Sister in tow. What miniature buzz the party had attained at this point was quickly wearing off, so it was on the hoof again, this time to find a place called Wild Bill’s, which promised to be well…wild.
Tantalizing strains of “Billie Jean” wafted out of the club while the stagettes stood in yet another line that appeared to go nowhere, listening to people yell “happy birthday” to Sister Sessionista. Seems a giant white veil and tiara with “bachelorette” written on it is just too much to comprehend in Canada. Luckily Sessionista and Company were thoroughly entertained by the people watching. Apparently all the mirrors in Whistler were broken on Saturday night- the only possible explanation for the sick amount of squeezed-in satin and perplexingly tight-assed, blousy stomached dresses tottering around the village.
Freezing their tatas off, one of the stagettes made her way over to a doorman and asked if the party might be able to skip the line. The stagettes were then escorted to a WHOLE OTHER BAR. Apparently this is where they shunt all the old (i.e. 30), clothing-clad women in Whistler.
Unceremoniously dumped in Tapley’s Pub with a derisive “you can wait over here for 45 minutes, then we’ll let you in,” Sessionista and Company beelined to the bar, where the only hot guy in all of Whistler (the bartender) gave the group a free bottle of pink champagne. Sessionista figured the rosy color alone indicated the bottle cost an astonishing $6. But who was The Sessionista to complain?? This was the best service she’d gotten all night. Finally, someone was giving Sister Sessionista the proper attention she deserved on this, her Last Night of Freedom. The place was packed with phenomenally drunk but seemingly normal people (minus the guy who arrived wearing a giant cardboard box), the music was good and the bartender was hot. Reason enough to stay. An hour later, the doorman from Wild Bill’s arrived, telling us the stagettes could come over. And get in to the club for the bargain price of $18 a person. Apparently Wild Bill’s thinks it’s on the Vegas Strip, cozied up next to Tao.
Forgoing the ridiculous cover, the stagettes continued to drink, Sister Sessionista continued to get grabbed (the veil, not her) and all was going quite lovely until Sister Sessionista and her friend the Blond Biologist were propositioned by a stranger, through a glass window. Innocently drinking and enjoying their last 15 minutes before the bar closed, the Sessionista’s Future Sister in Law suddenly noticed a man standing outside the window by the table, pointing at Sister Sessionista and Blond Biologist, then making “sleep” motions. The offered rate? $150 for the pair. Thank god the exchange rate is one-for-one or they’d have been worth around $50 piece. Holding up wads of cash to the window, the creepy dude continued to try to solicit a woman in a white veil for sex. When that didn’t work, he offered up $150 for The Sessionista. The Sessionista has worn many cute, scandalous outfits over time, joking she looked like a hooker. But apparently jeans and a t-shirt are prostie wear these days. Or this man was too drunk to notice The Sessionista was showing less skin than a 7th Day Adventist.
And you thought The Sessionista was exaggerating...
Being propositioned seemed like a good way to end the night, so the stagettes exited the bar, escaped the john, and wandered back to the condo, with one memorable stagette party under their belts.
Sessionista Says: Whistler 2009 is no Whistler circa 2003. Sigh. But at least The Session can check the “#743: Have someone offer you money for sex” item off her Life’s To-Do List.
The Sessionista took a trip down Ballard way on Saturday, dropping in to the Italian mainstay Volterra for dinner at the entirely un-trendy hour of 6:15pm (the horror!). Dropped the family-friendly Saturn in free street parking, carefully exited the car, taking care not to flash the lady bits to an unsuspecting androgynous salon girl (boy?), who looked suspicious of two obvious Eastsiders entering the ‘Lard. The Sessionista and her BCBG minidress (long-sleeved, short-hemmed, mid-hooker) stomped a mere block to the restaurant, where we were promptly seated (Sessionista, the dress AND The Sessionista’s Man) after a precarious walk across a parquet floor. Drank an OK cherry mojito but coveted My Man’s ridiculous white sangria (he’s comfortable with his manhood) while noshing on a surprisingly filling eggplant/tomato/cheesy starter straight from their new summer menu (that featured a lot of items that were on last summer’s menu…).
Filled with bread and my eggplant/tomato/cheesy starter, I managed a few bites of my tasty but entirely artery-clogging spinach bow tie pasta with pancetta, chicken and summer squash. Surprised to see the chicken looked like it was straight off a roti chicken but dug the herb butter soaked summer squash.
Skipped dessert at the restaurant in favor of $2.50 cone at Baskin n’ Robbins back in Da Quah.
Sessionista Says: Worth a trip or two, even to the ‘Lard.
Seattle Sessions 