Canlis - Seattle

I walk in on crisp linens, a complimentary valet who doesn't need a ticket to remember my car, a breathtaking view, and a meticulous staff. Canlis comes highly recommended, declared to be "a restaurant that SHOULD have a Michelin Star." Michelin doesn't go to Seattle, and before I even sit down, I can see that Michelin is the one who's missing out.

Such attention to detail stretches through the kitchen, some of it shining through this teaser of an Amuse Bouche. A crunchy, earthy buckwheat cigar houses a velvety black bean puree in creme fraiche, sprinkled with a subtle matcha sandstorm.

The menu actually looked too good to do the tasting...Wow, that has never happened before.

A silvery Foie Gras melts atop a perfect slip of grainy cornbread, confirming the correctness of my choice, and the corn-pudding-blackberry-compote literally takes my breath away.

Oysters rest on a shivering bed of ice, only to spring to life under a dash of red wine mignonette.

The Steak Tartare is wagyu, a foolproof, fail-proof cut, symbol of a chef who won't risk his career on anything inferior. This wagyu is like no wagyu I've ever had. Beefy savor swells when surrounded by stone ground mustard, and there is a fresh, raw egg yolk that glues it all together.

From raw to cooked, the Filet Mignon is a logical, seamless transition. The medium-medium-rare is cooked to order, and the meat has aged better than an Asian grandma. The sideshow of juicy morel and chanterelle mushrooms in spinach puree could be a dish of its own.

The Dry-Aged Duck is aged like a steak, and those 28 days enhance the flavor 28 thousand times over. The dark breast weighs heavy and gamey, with a bold bang of cellar smoke. It sinks like a rock, a meteoric flavor-feast. The skin is the best part, crispy and chewy with the texture of a dried pork-skin leather. The duck could easily be a standalone dish, but holy moly, what a mole! The sweet beet mole spreads luxuriously and briefly across the tongue, until unexpectedly, a hot flash of spice dances staccato, a cha-cha that frames the flavors from a slightly different angle.

The pleasure was too much, but alas, there was one more course. In a day and age when restaurant owners eschew the tradition of dessert for flashier apps and mains, the Grand Marnier Soufflé stands fluffy as a cumulus cloud; an eggy, melty delight, sweetened by the drizzle of creme anglaise.

To my dismay, my evening ends. But there is parting gift to soften my sadness. A Smoked S'more Macaron smolders with campfire coals, and an Earl Grey Macaron is a light sip of something sweet.

My car is already waiting when I push back my chair for a reluctant departure. As I drive away, I reflect on my experience at Canlis. I think about how this restaurant so perfectly captures the spirit of Seattle and bottles it into one exquisite meal. Seattle is all about vision, and Canlis is the Chihuly of cuisine. The beauty of one man's vision brought to life, the power of a dream on a plate.

Seattle, you are one fantastic city. Until next time, Canlis... because I will make sure I see you again.

Rachel's Ginger Beer - Seattle

I might be the only Asian in the world who doesn't like ginger, but I think part of growing older is learning to tolerate and eventually appreciate the things you can't like; for example, celery... Walmart and all the crazy people who shop there... and the Olsen twins.

But unlike all of the above, Rachel's makes a cool, refreshing swig of sharp, delightfully bitter carbonation on ice. The Mango-Mate Ginger Beer starts with biting ginger, which mixes with earthy mate, and the bitters neutralize each other as a hint of spicy mango makes its mark. A breath of fresh air without being overwhelming, subtle yet hard-hitting, and probably the best drink I've had in Seattle.

I can proudly say that I went to Seattle without ever visiting a single Starbucks. Sure, I walked by the first, and yeah, I snapped a picture or two, but liquid burnt beans are hardly Seattle's finest drink. Rachel's ginger beer, however, is probably pretty high up.

Serious Pie - Seattle

The EMP Museum is quite impressive. So many movie props and quite the guitar collection, and there's even an exhibit dedicated to the Seattle icon Nirvana.

The EMP Museum is probably one of the most interesting I've ever visited, and pop culture is a natural transition to culinary culture...okay, fine, walking around the museum made me hungry.

Then again, considering all the recs I got for Serious Pie, Tom Douglas himself should probably count as a tourist attraction. I mean, the man is no Space Needle, but the height of his fame is pretty close, and his restaurants have left a legacy that put Seattle on the foodies' map.

I took my visit to Serious Pie very seriously, especially given the scrutiny faced by the Capitol Hill location in light of its shared space with Starbucks. I started where all tourists do, with the Mushroom Pizza, also known as the best thing Tyler Florence ever ate. And wow. WOW. There is a reason famous things are famous and attractions are attractive. This perfect thin-crust pie is piled with woodsy, mossy morels and savory, salivating criminis that are so perfectly roasted, they deserve a display case. Alas, the dreaded truffle oil is there, but for once, I don't hate it, not at all. The cheese dilutes the oil and softens the sting, making way for a hint of real truffle to pop through.

I was only going to order one pizza, but I was so blown away I had to have another. Tradition came next, in the form of an infallible Sweet Fennel Sausage pizza, sweeter still with roasted peppers and strings of provolone that pull and stretch as you take big bites. The toppings are a recipe for sure success, but it's the sauce that steals the show. Tangy yet sweet tomato, rich but subtle, just enough to highlight the toppings and showcase the crust.

I'll admit it was pretty unsettling to look for the roped-off area after walking into a ritzy Starbucks, but there is a legit wood-burning oven right behind the bar, and they served some of the best pizza I've had on the west coast. I think most people are put off by this location, but I wouldn't write this one off.

Sushi Kashiba - Seattle

Avoided all the raw fish while at sea, and for that my stomach thanks me. But I landed with a sushi craving that makes addiction look mild, and Sushi Kashiba is just the kitchen to feed my fancy.

After a whole day of exploring Seattle, my appetite hits The Peak, a point higher than the Space Needle by the time we arrive at Sushi Kashiba. The line for the bar is too long, so I settle for that prix fixe Peak dinner and a table on the patio.

Everything went south from here. I couldn't quite catch the name of my first appetizer no matter many times my server repeated it. It sounded something like O-toshi and tasted just as confusing. Freshwater eel on a date? Ummm... What??? Both are sweet, but the sweet-sweet overpowers the savory-sweet, and the combination is sickening. 

The kitchen's version of Ceviche is an even bigger fail, a plate of what looks like the scraps they cut off the sushi fish, pieces that are no longer fresh enough to serve. Each piece was crudely hacked, and several tasted unnaturally fishy, like tuna in a can. I usually love ceviche, but this one felt so wrong.

I was relieved when the sushi arrived, but disappointment was imminent as my teeth sank into the Flounder. This one is expectedly pure and smooth, but not much of a stand-out.

The Madai, or Sea Bream is softer and sweeter, with a fine, flaky edge that falls a little flat.

Toro spreads it's sticky granules of fat luxuriously across the tongue. The texture and flavor of this piece are infallible, but still, I've had better.

By the fourth piece, I'm realizing that the problem is the rice. The vinegar is barely detectable, and this lackluster Bincho, (Albacore Tuna) needs all the boost it can get.

The Akami brings on the bold sophistication of Lean Tuna, a denser, fleshy, meaty piece that pops... a little.

The Maguro Zuke, or the Marinated Tuna is similarly sophisticated with a salty, hard edge of soy.

The King Salmon slides down, sweet and smooth. It's hard to mess up a good cut of salmon, and this one is A-ok.

The Hamachi is another A-ok. The texture is in soft, blended shreds, comfortably confident.

The Scallop is cool and sweet as it breaks apart with minimal chews. Standard and generic.

The Amebi is as sweet as its name would claim, a solid yet slightly viscous texture that teases the tongue as it lingers, dragging all the flavor down. The deep fried head is the best part, crunchy and brainy, with a taste like a stronger roe.

Aburi Toro. Toro. Tingly, tantalizing, so melty it tastes sexy TORO. A repeat from the first plate but one I'd gladly have over and over, again and again. Except this one is seared. COOKED. WHY??? I want to cry as the solid, a waste of soft, scintillating belly, gives way to the magnificent middle.

Then there are two pieces of roll, squished together like woe, exiled to the corner of the plate. A side tangent, a thoughtless filler, two pieces of rice encasing fish that I can't even taste.

The Uni. Finally, the uni. I saved the best for last. I've waiting so long for it... Only to have it served in a sloppy pile on an inconveniently-shaped spoon, collapsing under the weight of so much wasabi. I had to scrape off most of the green stuff for fear of burning my mouth.

At least the Tamago and Miso Soup took the edge off at the end. The egg is perfect and shrimpy-sweet, and the soup is an emolliating digestif. At least they still know how to cook an egg.

It's been a while since I've had good sushi, so when I heard that Shiro, student of Jiro set up shop in Seattle, I just had to go. So much anticipation, such a set-up. But what? What is this? This lackluster, impersonal plate of higher-end, cranked-off-a-conveyer-belt sushi? I don't know who made my sushi that night, but I sure hope it wasn't Shiro.

Piroshky Piroshky - Seattle

Off the cruise ship and onto the streets of Seattle. Not traditionally a food capital, but definitely rising in the ranks.

The food adventure begins at Pike Place Market because the first thing I want is something that isn't processed, mashed, or made into compote in a corporate, cruise-ship kitchen.

I would kill for a Fresh Rhubarb pie, and I can smell the dough baking from 20 feet away. No bloodshed required, but the line will try your patience at the ever-popular Piroshky Piroshky. The golden, baked-this-morning, hand-pie crusts are a sight for sore cruise-eyes, and this square of fresh rhubarb is to-die-for, with a filling of sweet cream accented by a pulpy tang.

Steam is still rising from the Potato and Cheese as I claw it open. The potato is soft and salty, a baked potato in a half-moon pastry; firm cheddar topped with a fresh breath of dill.

The best-selling Beef and Cheese is a baked bowl of salt n' pepper ground beef sprinkled with more yellow-melt. It's basically a beefaroni-cheeseburger, Russian style.

The Smoked Salmon Pate is oblong with a mid-line suture and a whimsical fishtail that barely holds back the ample belly of finely-chopped salmon flakes. The blend of woodsy smoked salmon with a modest cream cheese paste enriches the smoldering flavor and turns the flaky texture luxurious.

Piroshky Piroshky, small pies small pies, with crusts that leave a lingering impression and fillings that are hard to forget. So what if I didn't see Russia from anyone's Alaskan house; at least I got to taste Russia from Pike Place.