Let me tell you about the twilight of Old Seattle.
Over the past 25 years, Downtown Seattle has been slowly undergoing a sneaky gentrification, millionaire construction companies and billionaire tax evaders buying up every available parking lot within spitting distance of Pike Place Market to make the city their personal playground.
Dozens of new condominiums popped up within 10 years, and Jeff Bezos, the once-proud son of Seattle who rose from dot-com obscurity to mega billionaire and sodomizer of the Seattle working class, yanked most of Denny square out from under the bohemian mom-and-pops' joints that stood against the ever-growing tide of late-night tourists, drunk college kids, snotty epicurians and the underground music scene.
And the Hurricane Cafe was both at and in the heart of it all.
The Hurricane was one of Seattle's original greasy spoons, open 24 hours, non-franchised, and unapologetic of its reputation being either a dive bar that served good food in Godzilla-sized portions, or a Denny's wannabe that served alcohol with a 20 egg omelette. The prices were about dollar more than places like Denny's or Shari's, but the portions were twice as big, and while the food was a caloric and cholesterol nightmare, it was always fast, delicious, and in your fat fucking face. Most breakfast dishes came with bottomless hash browns, something every barfly and fraternity boozer thanked God for more than a few times at 2:30 am on a Saturday.
The Restaurant itself was something out of an 80's trucker movie, booths with questionable stains on the walls, stabs on the upholstery that duct tape barely held together, a creepy line of Mr. Potato Heads along an overhead shelf, passing judgement on your meal selections with impassive stares, pinball machines, weird decor, and the occasional time traveler in a dark corner booth, drinking it all in with a mysterious smile.
I always wondered what that bastard knew that I didn't.
The Hurricane had a following, more than that, it had a loyalty. It had PARKING, that golden commodity more valued than diamonds in downtown Seattle.
I ate here many, many a night, and I say that with the pride of someone awaiting a long-overdue heart attack - no regrets. During the day, The Hurricane truly was a tourist spot for lunch, safe for kids and family, a great place to fill up without going broke in downtown, while hemorrhaging your savings at every knick-knack shop in Pike Place Market. Most of the more colorful crowd didn't start oozing in until 9pm, and you could grab an afternoon bite or some take out for the drive home after work in under 10 minutes, no worries.
But when the sun went down...
As the song goes - the freaks come out at night.
Between working all-nighters at whatever graphics and print shop I was currently pretending to work at while siphoning a paycheck from computer illiterate bosses, late-night Kung Fu classes or just roaming the streets with the other Vampires and nightwalkers, The Hurricane was always the spot to end the night on. Denny Park hookers between tricks, some bikers at the bar that looked like they hadn't seen water or soap in a month, an overworked Amazon employee typing furiously on a laptop between shoveling ketchup-soaked fries in his gob, me and some of my hooligans looking for a fight, a pimply-faced kid on a nervous date, trying not to let his girlfriend catch him glancing at the Denny Park hooker's ass.
Once, four of us tried to take on an 18 egg omelette with bottomless hash browns - we suffered a humiliating defeat, our heads hung in shame, farting uncontrollably in a corner booth. "This will be the death of us", said Tokie, the stoner of the group. "YOU'RE the one who demanded the omelette", I replied, trying my damnedest to stifle another rectal announcement, demanding passage through my already tortured sphincter, "next time, leave me to my fucking chicken tenders in peace."
The others simply groaned to themselves, praying for the sweet release of death, wondering which end of us would explode first.
Good times, good times.
Around 2003, places like the Hurricane started disappearing. You didn't notice it at first, Seattle is always evolving, and one place you liked to eat/shop/hang at would be gone, another would pop up to take its place just around the corner.
Except, this time, instead of a cool new club or a hot spot for sneakers...it was a cold, soulless condominium. And then another.
And another.
By 2013, every construction crane in the Pacific Northwest was in downtown Seattle, at once. They were demolishing, paving and building faster than even the locals could keep up with, and driving through downtown itself was worse than a rat navigating an endless maze with no cheese. Never-ending traffic jams, detour after detour, construction crews monopolizing every fast food joint and coffee house for blocks on end, and the acrid smell of "progress" filling your nostrils every time you took a damn breath.
The Hurricane Cafe finally breathed its last in late 2014, and they started tearing it apart in the Spring of 2015. I took this photo from the top of one of the newly constructed condos, at which I was the concierge, and I admit to a few tears being shed watching it happen.
A lot of places like The Hurricane simply disappeared with the coming of the dot com children. Casa You Betcha seemed to vanish overnight, B&O Espresso was gone faster than a bowl of Percocet at a tweaker party, almost nothing of the alternative culture that was Broadway remains.
There's a few relics of Old Seattle still standing; The Crocodile is still around, although even they had to move to another spot. The 13 Coins is still standing strong. Shorty's Pinball in Belltown, The Five Points Cafe', and their sister act, the Sit-N-Spin are still holding it down. Dick's Drive-In, holding fast.
But there's really nothing left of what made Seattle so great in the 90's. The old style has given way to the new, and the great Pacific Northwest melting pot has become a soggy, bland, vegan casserole.
...no fries.
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