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Beer Store in Fullerton, CA. Update this Beer Menu. Email me when this place gets new beers. Share this beer menu with your friends! Beer Menu Logged 0 Events 0 Work here? Almanac Farm to Barrel Hoppy Sour: Anchor Zymaster Series No. Avery Barrel Aged Series Black Market American Brown Ale 5. Bootlegger's 80th Anniversary Ale 8. Bottle Logic Recursion 1.
Bottle Logic Recursion 4. Bottle Logic Recursion 5. Boulevard Love Child No. Craft Fallen Angel 5. El Segundo Station No. Evan Williams Black Label. Four Sons Nightmare on Gothard St. Green Flash Cellar 3 Series Hangar 24 Barrel Roll No. Hangar 24 Local Fields: HeBrew Bittersweet Lenny's R. Left Coast Del Mar St. Mill Valley Espiritu Oscuro: Paradox Beer Skully Barrel No. Paradox Skully Barrel No. Stillwater Import Series Vol. Stone Enjoy After Surf Scientific Series A Tenaya Creek Calico Brown Ale 5.
The Cloak of St. Valiant Fields Ablaze 6. Own or manage a bar, restaurant, or beer store? Create a Page for My Business.
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Anchor Zymaster Series No. Avery Barrel Aged Series Black Market American Brown Ale 5. Bootlegger's 80th Anniversary Ale 8. Bottle Logic Recursion 1. Bottle Logic Recursion 4. Bottle Logic Recursion 5. Boulevard Love Child No. Craft Fallen Angel 5. El Segundo Station No. Evan Williams Black Label.
Four Sons Nightmare on Gothard St. How did one decide when to remove children from parents? What were the laws? How did a social worker coordinate with courts and police officers? My graduate education had barely touched these subjects, and laws, guidelines and studies about child protection lay years in the future.
What Judge Guinn thought of them I did not know, but in her position, I would have been skeptical. He went to school so drunk he fell out of his chair. The unpaved roads were disorganized, deeply grooved and always muddy or frozen.
My boss drew me a map so I could walk to the Fox address, helpful since street signs barely existed. Ice glinted in shady patches. In this pre-winter season, I wore knee-high boots, stretch pants, a cotton turtleneck and a lined, waterproof jacket, a far cry from the dress and high heels a professional social worker would consider work attire in the Lower After getting lost twice in twenty minutes, I reached the house, a small, unpainted box much like the others scattered along the road.
When I knocked, the door cracked open and a boy peered out. Welfare records reported benefits and food stamps for the mother plus Gabe, 13, and two girls I will call Jewel, 10, and Bess, 7. His short, lean body had not started its adolescent growth spurt. He stepped back and let me enter the front room. Pale light through grimy windows.
No electric lights or oil heat on. Gabe wore a jacket and the two girls watching wide-eyed from a safe distance had traditional long-sleeved, hooded, corduroy dresses trimmed with rick-rack. His smirk told me he was being rude, but I let it pass. Of course he thought I would snoop around. I had read the notes of my long-ago predecessor who had done so, but I wanted to be therapeutic and helpful, not bossy and intrusive.
Still, I followed him to a narrow kitchen. A nearly empty Wonder Bread package lay on the counter. Most women in town, both Native and white, baked their own bread, and. Other homes I had visited were cluttered with boots, parkas and pots hanging on walls; grimy armchairs piled with clothes; wood tables sticky with fish oil, jam, Fry Bread; beds used for storage during the day; tools, fishing poles and animal skins Sandra Kleven jammed anywhere they could fit, air smoke-filled from lanterns.
I saw little of this homey mess in the Fox house. It felt bare and cold. Gabe led me to a bedroom and sat on the rumpled bed. I perched on the opposite end. The girls watched from the doorway.
Was that lie number two? Welfare records indicated she was unemployed. Seven miles from Bethel and accessible only by boat or plane, Kwethluk was a tiny village where. Though the administrators, Mr. Clarence Hinkelman, were too religious for my taste, they acted down to earth and caring with the children.
One where the children live. What else could I do anyway? Bethel had precious few foster homes and no Childrens Shelter. Agencies often sent Native children to white foster families in Anchorage, far from their own language and culture -- a practice I considered appalling.
At least in Kwethluk, the Fox children would be in an Eskimo village close to home. As Gabe questioned me, the girls inched closer. Bess touched my long hair. And yours are brown and beautiful. They were goodlooking, sweet children.
I printed a note asking their mother to meet me there the next afternoon. It pleased me that when I left, they waved as if I were a friend. I had not expected this warmth and suspected it revealed their neediness.
The next afternoon, Gabe opened the door and burst into a smile. Again we sat at opposite ends of the bed. This time Jewel and Bess pressed up against me, warm and small-boned. Those places could be violent, and I was young, blonde, middle-class and not streetwise. I went a third time. Still their mother was not home. When I reported that the mother and I never connected, Judge Guinn slapped her desk. Tonight we arrest her. Police will bring the kids to court in the morning.
Then they go to Kwethluk. In , Bethel had no treatment programs for addictions, and I certainly had no skills in that area. There was one thing I could do, though. When I rushed over to update the kids, Bess opened the door. Inside, I found myself ankle deep in clothes and bedding. The explosion of fabric covered every floor in the house. Where could he be? I crossed the front room, pushing clothes with my boots.
I turned in a slow circle. I will find you. I did not pursue it. This sin of omission would pain me the rest of my life. I prepared the children. Yet they had spent many nights unattended.
I could not stay with them, and the town offered no other options. I said good-bye, thinking I had done the best I could. But I had failed to prepare them for their mother. In the courtroom, I found them in folding chairs, solemn and still. When Judge Guinn entered, officers brought in the mother. Short and stocky in jail clothing, she was glowering. Probably she was starting alcohol withdrawal as well as facing humiliation in court.
Officers guided her into a chair facing the few people in the courtroom. In , the battles to protect the rights of families and Native Americans had barely begun. Parents and children did not have legal representation in such. My investigation had uncovered neglect but not abuse.
As I fumbled through a description of my visits and the notes I left, the mother half rose, hands gripping the chair arms. Now they take you away! The children hung their heads and bit their lips. Their anguish entered me like a chill. Obviously she never saw my notes. Either she never went home or Gabe had been afraid to give them to her. How dare she blame the children for her neglect?
The State Trooper stepped forward and I pushed between him and the kids. This was their first plane ride, after all; I shut up and let them enjoy it. We pointed to tundra that stretched to the end of the world.
On the landing strip, a narrow, short gash in the ground outside town, the Hinklemans greeted us. Hinkelman put an arm around each girl. I wanted to go inside, see their beds and tell the Hinkelmans how the mother berated the children in court. Hinkelman were already entering the building. By the next week, ice sheets were spreading across the surface of the Kuskokwim River, which in time would freeze deep enough to support snowmobiles, trucks and mail planes, though far below the current would still flow.
The National Guard is coming. Did he want me to find him, or fear that I would? Unless someone found him, he would freeze to death. I need to be there. Could I hire a charter plane on my own dime? Also, with the National Guard and State Troopers swarming over Kwethluk, I would have no place to stay if weather trapped. Nor could I risk losing my job in a town with no other social work positions. Gabe expected me, but I saw no way to get to him.
For the next seven days, I heard reports of the searches. State Troopers and National Guardsmen walked the tundra and flew above it, over and over, until blizzards stopped them. Some locals blamed the new gussock social worker for taking Gabe away. They believed he ran away from the Home to avoid punishment.
No wonder they thought that, since many of them had been abused in government boarding schools. River take him far away. He was probably dead before I knew he was missing. I see him approaching the partially frozen river in his boots and scruffy jacket. Does he think his gussock social worker is about to find him? I believe that until the ice broke beneath his feet, he was trying to reunite with his mother.
All winter, villagers reported fish and meat stolen from their caches and that they saw a wild child, part boy, part fox, in the distance. A crisis can drive him back to the non-human phase of his existence. One remains forever paraphrased in my memory: I see the boy far away. A salmon is in his teeth. Hair grows from his long ears. The silence of Waldo Lake numbs my ears. My cheeks are like river rocks in the Cold backdrop of night. These mountains point to stars, and deliver A clear river, which I drink Worn rocks and pine trees, Steeped in my cup like tea.
How important it is, Michael Kleven. I turn towards your sweet back curving to you the way clouds cover low foothills somewhere east of the sharp shore rocks.
Lincoln Kirstein re-hangs self-portraits by Paul Cadmus down a hallway in his Gramercy Park townhouse. Spidered in cracks, we horde our scattering bones After death, refuse to resurrect, only The fingers articulate, grasping rare stones. Purblind and enervating, flesh caught forlorn The flies we are: Out there, morning spills blue into the all but abandoned except for gulls, shaped after crucifixion, skimming elemental brine reed legged plovers mowing the dusky shore; sweet flesh sweet seed collide.
All marvel, all flow. My daughter grew that way, stem-like toward the sky. Because she seemed no wider as she grew up and up, a slender stalk, it took the rising line of skirts and trousers to wake me to the change. Undressing the moose down to the damp white bone. On a table, haunch.
Exclamation point of hoof. It dissolves at the roof of your mouth. I held my breath so hard it hurt. Can change occur so quickly, so unobserved? One moment she hinted at something tender, possible. The next, she blazed into color, wildly herself. Summer Because the chickens know today the eggs are plentiful: Because we are eating eggs this morning, each yolk like sun.
Which has risen and stays aloft behind a kite, balloon, montgolfier: Leather, you know, is also skin: You sway, breezes sway. Because the forest thrush has told the barn swallow to wake before dawn, to tell the chickens what they need to do: The day uncovering itself, a sky so round and blue. I reach for your hand under the duvet, its sleeping weight a pound of feathers.
Watching you leave, I light a candle. In this season, I will forgive anything for the sake of light. Too busy to travel into yourself these days, so full of papershuffle, canning pears, drying corn and squirreled moments while the days are still long.
But not even the languid green forest, even the wide glaciated rocks and their moss meadows, not even the cobbled beach or the rustle of waves can draw you out. Until between yellowed leaves and slate sky something red dangles, suspended by spidersilk: No wonder we notice—red hovers above the sidewalk on a rained-out morning you pay attention, stop the car, hold the children still for just long enough. Equinox, evening, day and night. In sleep, we part company from each other, from ourselves.
Clothed in a single comforter, we fly our dreams like kites, each anchored to the umbilicus of separate inner lives. Although we lie back to back, facing out with unseeing eyes, when we alight, simultaneously, to morning, we turn in, face to face, chest to chest, closing the book of the night; we part, still joined, one volume.
Moving like shoals of salvelinus Across plains of gliding molasses seas. Loon dive as a song of rings: Do you know where a song resides? Where a long and heavy consanguineous cadence nests? Where arctic Moons thaw, churn, and sift Pouring into astral pools Where sun-milk shimmers and cools In mason jars set out For a grandfather and child eating salami sandwiches: In the afternoon heat Pounders of nail and huckleberry hoarders, Framing a small cabin south of the border.
Hanging at the tops of pines like lichen laving An old foam, fertilizing stars. Perhaps wolves swallow the notes whole And report to the moon the tune they already know Or hooves of heavy moose trample songs Into mud of swamp beds.
Maybe songs leech into The floorboards of the cabin The floorboards our grandfather laid and measured Long Doug Fir planks built up to dissipate, Trodden and worn down by sand covered bare feet. In morning after she has taken her white tea In a thermos and left a bowl and spoon in the sink, With make-up sodden cheeks and heels tapping wood floors, She leaves for class, and he emerges from the room like a bat lost in sunlight. His morning erection has faded and his mother has called.
He traces a trodden deer track to a room with a computer To check a digital mail account that does not seem to collect Digital mail from digital people. By the emerald buds pushed out from the laurel tree There is evidence of an early spring but he makes head way in winter, Shoveling the heavy heaps of snow in layers, until he finds the path To the house, hidden like an un-rung bell. If he had existed then, could he have taken scalps From the apex of federal men?
Or taken up rotten treatise? He does not know these things during the day But in a dream he is there in the buffalo grass waiting. One February the wind wove her backbone eight miles long. She tore off, tossed aside, roofs, howling sand flaying nightmare. Eight miles of flex whip-cracked grass, tree limbs, people, prostrate, our heads pointing east. Only the ignorant, children, burst out, danced inside her, laughing as she scorched faces with shark and steel wool.
My son, arms outstretched, leaned crowing into her wormy flour in a meager fist, blackout, razor wire, orchid, hillsides flaming, the glint off glass, off blade, off neglect.
Come eat, I shrieked. He tumbled in, drenched. Rain machine-gunned our window. We had, then, a glass window. Mama, he called out, look, the window bends. Even on such a night, survival prayer and prayer simply please, a child grows sleepy. I wrapped him in a whispered song that could only curve within the rib cage of the broken orchestra bending our sky, of wind bones virgin-bare as a turtle skull tossed up by surf.
Small crabs, scrabbling sideways, claws tapping like white canes, find crevices, and shelter there. Seaweed strewn across the rocks embedded into an organic rot.
No, let the waves sooth over the drift, washing the footprints clean. Eighty-three sand hills standing in a wetland preparing to fly south to the North Platte. Outside the kitchen a catbird hops from limb to limb in a lilac tree eyeing the world with care, its name a wonderful contradiction like the dogfish. The passing freight trains sound their air horns, long and short blasts fading across the river bottom in the still of the early morning night.
Hopes the mother for the son And the son for his mother. Rows of earthenware vases, planters, flower urns baked dun, ochre, pink, stacked on palettes, the handmade exports of recovery. An orange ball shines through layers of haze. In practiced strokes I brush on the slip that fires to a dusty coat. Evening light glows blood red through the muggy city air.
At dusk I look across the blackening sea from where I came. Each finished vase that I take from the kiln has my handprint on its round shoulder, a small greeting that I send you from afar. At night, while waves beat the shore, retreat as crackling foam, I breathe the scent of kelp and salt.
Did you save me as the city fell? Until I find you. Shipping containers filled with decorative clay garden pots cross the ocean to America. Maybe one day you will come and find me. These wounded symmetries of shadow Dive into the indigo forgetting Ancient aching wrist, gouged rib, tidal knot Digits curled toward Bering shore, fluke, no fluke. And does cartilage remember the wide curve of desire Frozen in a receding glacier of truth?
Breach, all weight, all weightless, through this viscous blue. Spread this fan of wings, loose this frozen memory, Break the rules: You drove me places, this I remember. To school on mornings so thick with fog, the world outside our blue Toyota could have looked like anything.
Your two hands were fixed to the wheel as you drove me to ballet, to soccer, to the places I needed to go. The orthodontist, of all placesthe stubborn wire- the torn mouth I remember bleeding into Kleenex as you drove me, your face blurred by a winter fog I could not clear and so I swallowed the blood for you, smiled from the back seat of the Toyota.
After the wreck, the steaming blue Toyota belly up like a burnt beetle, you drove me places in the new white Toyota, and still I smiled at you from the backseat, my rutted cheeks remembering what was once smooth, my tongue asleep in the fog of my swollen mouth, and you- you drove me: Remember, the Rabbi told us. My hope for you is that you always remember. And so, above all else, I tried to commit you to memory. But fog has the power to consume everything we want to remember. Deep into August, its weather, I work as each day assures a greater loneliness, sleeplessness conjures morning long in coming, these waning days of summer still demand attention.
Is there some ritual I should be performing? Beyond tattered, this evening clouds tear, rents reveal a deeper layer twisted into coils of angry blues and grays, wind moving this mass past the bluff, everything in motion grass and fireweed whipping an autumn cream spruce boughs nodding, the way they respond bay below in tidal heave, wide beaches appear from a strand of shore. Natural, unbeakoned, unpredictable, clouds close with the earlier darkness, the last flowers of summer shiver but stand ground, a change of season, a change, a bold step towards him.
I will come to you, traveled through time with the receding glacier. Lean as the crust of the planet, when I touch him I touch earth. Floor around the woodstove colored with peony petals, dry as moth wings, but in his passion he handles me, pins my arms forces his chest down onto me so that I must time breathing, You are a man from a distant age. Weather in the skylight, with its showy rainbows sky spinning a wheel of clouds, sun, rain, hale, sleet. This morning, what clouds are left tuck behind the mountains, like rumpled covers at the bottom of the bed.
I abandon taking this relationship slow, my eyes do not know where to look, bay, rising sun, flames of the fire, pink and white mountains, the man beside, nude sculpture. The full moon sets below the hillside finally the flood of light, that quicksilver cold light passes, a desperation develops in our passion, a knowing of the shortness of life, time left.
Such open hearts, so raw and barely done with their bleeding. The blue skies force so the dome can support unseen flocks of southbound birds, suspend the flight of our dreams, drink the ocean moisture to store away for afternoon rain. Your happiness, the solvent that will unbind my heart from my past. A patch of alder next to the canyon not more than six feet wide, he notices the smell of winter from the glacier across the bay blown over by the southeast breeze.
You above me, bluest skies a frame. Naked gold limbs of cottonwood, falcons pair chase each other in thermals, leaves and moths find home in my hair spread behind me into the trail below the tops of the rosehips and dry stalks of grass. We fall asleep, as lovers, as dreamers, not to have dreams while asleep, but never dreaming of a more perfect place, together, to sleep in our brief time. He plunges into shallows and seizes the quick fish. He bolts it back, glisten of silver along cinder lips.
A cedar twig cracks and he lunges out for the far shore murky with hemlock. He disappears like froth spattered on dark rock. You belly past the goat corral and roosting chickens. You take your time. You take care of the dog. Alert but quiet, nothing wild, you know the drill. You wait for the signal. Seat cushions get hard, snow squeaks under feet and wheels. High tech parkas crackle like shopping bags.
Noon twilight, heavy on the blues, pretty much says it all. It pays to have a past you can use. The hands you chop and tumble in a plastic sack bring you food in camp, good soldier, and praise. Manioc is warm and comfort on your tongue. Fried plantains are sweet, and relief rice fills.
Back meat, thigh meat, even arm and heart, heat your dreams. Your good money bringing the menu and a tanker out back with a 3 inch hose pumping a liter of house red. O the pizza, the pasta, the whole grilled fish, and your one and only strolling in with the gift of fire. Sudden soccer is futbol. You kick the round cane thing the legless goalie throws back.
You play, you laugh, you sleep. You scream in dreams you dream of. If school should come, marks on the board are beyond you.
Ball is sometimes boy, and leaf is life. When rice is rock, dirt is dog dead in dirt. Half throttle for break away power gets you rolling. The ball of the world, for example, rolling under the sun, and the furniture of wind pushed into the corners, rivers running, and all the flyers plus swans coming in with the grace of snow to mate, nest, and feed.
We look over one shoulder and then the other seeing only the merest angle of his brow, cheek, and jaw lit by the screens, knowing him mostly by blood, memory working out our full frontal son. The wonders of wide angle dimly reveal balcony seats to each side and the glow of a woman in a bare back gown checking her smart phone, itself a lesser source of light.
The stage below repeats and repeats one bright beauty after another on the screens. Like a NASA shuttle launch, the mystery moves for man at the controls, man in the dark. Scene dissolving into scene, light line along hip line, the gold glow of a rolling shoulder, sheath spangle and flash, the arms reaching into focus, he loves being the guy in control, guy in the dark. Cloudshadows deepen the colors, and a low, rich bell vibrates the road between heart and eye.
His merry eyes glazed over, he watches street, garden and house with a level stare belied by the curved archaic smile beneath a mustache that flows seamlessly into streaming, snowy hair. October 23rd is Creation Day converted from the Julian a calendar no longer used. In the seventeenth century a Bishop named Ussher literally read the Bible literally counted the begats literally restricted time to Creation Day B. He did not say which time zone because there had been no time and no place before 9: The year B.
After nodding hello, there is silence. I fuss with the overhead, recline, read. My seatmate sits upright. She gazes out the window. I pull foil off baked chicken.
She breaks a hard roll. Not a casualty of war. Not the Viet Cong. She puts down the bread, turns to face me. Collapsed at his desk in late afternoon. A year from retirement. He was a fisherman. He was looking forward. He never liked winter. Oh, I know, she says. We snap off lights, share the armrest. Her arm against mine, the cold blue-gray light of a winter night. Her skin warms into mine, her breathing slows. August 14, Portland Dear Nellie, I have a bad pen; excuse the haste.
On the way to the Klondike, waiting is my occupation. Rumors scratch the days and chew the minutes. When we leave depends on when she gets her freight aboard. Her freight is us and our outfits. We are ready to board, yet the weight of our gear holds us up. All day we lift and load: Each man I see has the same scowl, the same set jaw. Each man folds his arms, and looks down.
One has new boots. One shifts his weight and looks away. One has brought a good hat. One wears wool britches without patches. One cracks his knuckles and stares at the water. We shake hands and nod, firm, stone-eyed.
We lean over the rail and spit. I know few names, most nicknames, some hometowns. There was rough passage Wednesday afternoon. Some were sick, slumped against the rail, but I was all right, so was John and the dog. On the trail you will be the grime that clings to your clothes.
At home, I am the quilt suspended, the half second before it falls to the mattress, ripple of patches and labor, floating above the sagging, empty bed. Tell Tommie and Elmer to be good boys. Good-bye, Dear Wife, Joe. Dear Joe, This morning I snapped out the quilt over the mattress, and for a second it stayed suspended, borne only by my fingertips and air. Near the Alaska boundary, the fog is so thick we will have to lay here all night. The ship pitched so much this morning that the breakfast table sat empty of patrons.
Men clung to the rails. I wavered with them. The mules, stowed below, are in a good place. I hear they may not survive the trail. Barebacked and tethered, they wait without knowing they wait. When this ship stops rocking, men will fold against the rail, weighted with concern: Even our imaginations are heavy. We will reach Dyea about Saturday. Ready or unready, our walk will begin there. Remember me to the boys. Dear Joe, This morning the fog rolls off the bay and mutes the early light in the window.
Instead with your letter creased in my lap, I consider your boys. When he ducks his head toward his bowl at breakfast, your eyes peer out from under the blunt cut of his hair. We reached Wrangell at six this morning. Now stopped here for fresh water, we rise and breathe as if we belong to this boat. The food was great! We got there bone marrow great portion , Pork belly and the cauliflower! Everything was really good and the manager brought us a complimentary round of champagne for our date night.
Such a special touch! Seating was a breeze with a dinner reservation. The wait service was phenomenal, informative, and quick. We were not on a time crunch, so food was brought out in an orderly fashion. Ordered one appetizer, and entree. Spent about 1hr and half total. We came here on a Thursday evening to celebrate a birthday, having had a good experience here before. We chose Quinn's because the atmosphere is relaxed and cozy, and the menu is interesting.
TL;DR - Service was really good, well designed drinks, but someone wasn't paying attention to details in the kitchen. Our waitress was really great about explaining the food and when we asked what her favorites were she had great informed opinions. The specialty drinks were very good.
All 3 were very good! The plan was to get a few small plates so we could try a variety of things. We ordered the bone marrow, delicata squash salad, pork belly with grits, and Scotch egg. Except for the pork belly had a little something prevented it from being really good. The squash in the salad was barely warm and still hard, the bone marrow seemed like it wasn't roasted long enough to get a deep flavor and the topping while nice made the dish too sweet. The flavors of the Scotch egg were great, but unfortunately the egg was cold.
In addition they offered to re-make the squash salad, but it never came out the waitress very kindly removed it from our bill. I could have forgiven these things more easily if it has been a busy Friday or Saturday night, but not so much on a Thursday when all tables aren't filled and no one is waiting.
We had a team dinner and an overall great experience. Food was tasty and well prepared. Service was excellent and the single kitchen mistake was fixed quickly with the item comped without asking.
I'll be back again. By the time dinner service started, we were brought those menus to order any additional items we wanted.
Great service and atmosphere, we were just a bit disappointed with the marrow dish, but everything else we ordered was excellent! The restaurant was closed you should not have booked I wasted my gas!
I hadn't been to Quinn's Pub in some time and the menu had changed since that time. The waiter explained how the chef uses every part of the animal, so that there is very little gone to waste. I was in the mood for a burger, and the recent animal that had been brought in was a pig, but I was oh-so-tempted to change my order to pork.
The burger is top notch though, one of my favorites in Seattle, it's reaaaalllly good! The fries are also excellent. My girlfriend had the mussels and also loved them, they were cooked in a white wine sauce and there were plenty of them for her. Went with my grandson for his 27th birthday He said the burger was outstanding and my fish and chips was good too. I've been coming to Quinn's for many years now for dinner as well as happy hour and I've always really enjoyed it.
I've brought parents and other visitors from out of town, and this was the go-to place I'd bring picky eaters since it can accommodate a range of palettes, from standard meet-and-potato end of the spectrum to more creative predilections. Today was an exception. The food came out extremely slowly. The steak entree I had was lukewarm at best, and, even the bread that was brought was stale and flavorless. No questions were asked when I barely touched my steak about what might have gone wrong. The service was generally apathetic and aloof.
My partner's fish and chips and my side of mushrooms were good, hence a three star overall rating. I will come back to Quinn's since this disappointing experience does not outweigh literally tens of visits over the years, but I will have to give it some time. Everyone was so pleasant and made our evening great. Foie gras was amazing as well as all of the small plates we ordered.
Charcuterie board was top notch. Will come back to Seattle from Texas and hit it up again. Had my parents in town and they loved it! Great spot on the hill! Floor to ceiling windows also make for some great people watching! Definitely try a few dishes! The food was awesome with some interesting and unexpected items on the menu.
Had a great time, though it was way too noisy for me given that I was there on a date and wanted to converse. This is one of my favorite spots on Cap Hill, its consistent, laid back, and delicious. It was almost inedible due to there being very little actual meat and it being almost entirely fat. I'm assuming this is not the restaurants fault as they don't control nature, but a keen eyed Chef would have probably not sent this particular cut to the table.
Unless of course that is how this cut is supposed to be served, in which case a warning from the server would be expected.
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