Stopping by Martin's on a Sunny Afternoon

It’s a beautiful sunny, if cold, day in Seattle. I was on the way to the bank but wanted to make reservations at a neighborhood restaurant for Valentine’s Day.

And so it was that I stopped by the sad little Martin’s Off Madison. Martin’s, for those not up on Capitol Hill’s ever-changing food and beverage industry, is the latest incarnation of a building that has housed a series of gay bars, changing ownership several times in the last decade. The newest approach is to convert the bulk of it into a modestly upscale restaurant whose muted decor is so cutting edge that it was out of date by the time the remodel was completed. Three-quarters of the area that once housed a fireplace and pool tables is now a dining room whose centerpiece is a gas-jet flame rising up in a glass tube resembling a warp core reactor from a low-budget Federation starship. Midway up along the large east wall is a small moat hidden by plants but whose submerged spotlights cast a watery effect on the wall above. These touches of extravagance are rescued from excess by the open, airy size of the room and the simplicity of the remaining furnishings. All the elements are there: air, fire, water, and on a good day, the earthy clientele.

The remaining portion of the original bar is a bar still, small and separated from the dining room by a windowed wall, its exposed ceiling fixtures and dim lighting telling a story of renovation interruptus.

Which brings me to sad part.

Sad because when I dropped by, the entire restaurant was entirely empty except for the tiny bar, inexplicably chock full of men. Of course, it was 2:30 in the afternoon and you wouldn’t expect anyone to be in a restaurant at that time of day. (Personally, I think the owners might be able to extend those afternoon hours if they made it more of a coffee house atmosphere, offering pastries and free wi-fi between the normal meal times.) Was the dining room closed? Maybe. After all, some restaurants close the dining room between meals. But there were no signs to that effect and you have to pass through the dining room to get to the bar, so I doubt it.

I had to enter the bar area to speak to the bartender (the only help visible). I didn’t really look at the customers — hell the place is so small that even a glance could be misconstrued as cruising — but my peripheral vision detected manly men with facial hair. Maybe construction work is going on in the neighborhood? If so, isn’t it a little early to knock off? Or maybe it was a hardcore alky bunch like you’d expect to see in a bar at that time of day.

I dunno. I don’t want to judge. It was just the juxtaposition that was so strange: A big, welcoming room with tables, chairs, and a fire and lots of windows letting in February sunlight that is so rare in Seattle. But where were the customers? Huddled in the dark corner, walled off with a glass partition as if they weren’t good enough for the main dining room. Are bar stools really that comfortable? It was the exact opposite of behavior you see on a bus or in a movie theatre, in which people spread out, find their own unoccupied place to squat until space limitations force them to huddle closer together in the less desirable sections.

I can’t help seeing the whole thing as a metaphor. For so many things, really: The way the gay community has historically holed up in the darkest, cheapest part of a town instead of spreading out into the larger community, taking advantage of all the neighborhoods. Or the way many of us — for example unemployed people like me — stick to our own limited professions because they are familiar rather than risking moving out into the big empty world we’re not used to. Or the way cockroaches ... — just kidding. Not gonna go there.

Just my impressions.

Which you didn’t ask for.

Anyway...