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How do you know Pioneer Square is in its revival era? Its newest hotel, Populus Seattle, is actually cool. In addition to the obvious guest rooms, it also adds a museum-meets-conservatory space to the neighborhood. And it’s certainly not just for people passing through.  The entrance of the newcomer, which opened in May, presents a contrast to bustling King Street or the frenzied ferry terminal just beyond its towering glass doors. Inside is a ghost forest scene of nurse logs and suspended moss-laden branches calling back to Pioneer Square’s marshy, boggy past. It’s calm and grounding and quintessentially Pacific Northwest. Populus includes more than 50 original commissioned artworks. With 120 rooms, the new hotel is part of the Railspur project renovating one of Pioneer Square’s classic old warehouses. Out-of-towners will find an upscale hotel, but it has draws for locals, too. In transforming the building from plumbing fixture warehouse to high-end hotel, Populus lead designer Carlos Herrera says he let nearby nature be the guide, “looking at the natural elements that are very abundant in Seattle and extracting colors and textures from that,” he says. Literal nature is palpable throughout, with 465 potted plants on the property from local landscape architects Camden Gardens. Populus boasts about its carbon positive laurels. Salt Harvest continues the botanical theme with plants overhead. There is even a solarium of hanging plants above the restaurant Salt Harvest, and the sheer amount of plants is almost distracting. They compete for attention with lighting in the shape of constellations viewable in Pacific Northwest skies and even the plates themselves, hand-thrown and painted by local artisans. Salt Harvest celebrates summer with a strawberry cucumber salad. “We don’t want to complicate things. We just want to enhance whatever comes through the back door,” executive chef Conny Andersson says of the Salt Harvest concept. From the nine-seat chef’s counter, diners can watch Neah Bay wild salmon fire over open flame or focus on a light strawberry, cucumber, and heirloom tomato salad topped with dollops of whipped feta and delicate flower petals. But the real attraction, especially for locals, is what’s on top. One question for Seattle: Why don’t we have more rooftop bars?  Since opening, sixth floor bar Firn has capitalized on summer skies to show off  skyline—and, yes, Space Needle—views. The menu is trendy: It boasts clarified milk punches, and brightly colored drinks that catch the eye even when served to another table, causing you to stop a server and ask, “What is that?” As for the rest of the hotel, including the café, it all feels richly sleek: jewel-toned furniture, exposed beams and brick, and large windows with equally huge paintings. Many of the industrial touches and relics are still visible, like the beams made into tables and chairs. Herrera says the goal was that the space “feels like it belongs, or like it has been in Pioneer Square for a while.” A 120-room hotel can feel like the least relevant part of a big development; Railspur also has shops, offices, and two planned restaurants from Renee Erickson (though those come with a lot of questions). But Populus feels worth a look. It’s design that gives a stylish, dare we say cool air to a neighborhood that’s always reinventing itself.

Populus Seattle gives the Railspur development a killer rooftop bar.

The following is adapted from the author's new book, Crush: My Year as an Apprentice Winemaker. It’s fall and we’re infested. Clouds of fruit flies fill the air. They buzz around my wife Lisa and me at dinner. They chew the chilies hanging in our kitchen, raining a fine red powder on the floor. They roost on the cupboards. They fornicate on the refrigerator. They threaten to overpopulate our house and our Seattle neighborhood as well. “You have them, too,” says a neighbor. “They’re bad this year!” “Yes,” I say, nodding, as if it’s an act of God. But it’s no accident that our house and neighborhood are infested. A ton of Washington state’s finest cabernet grapes sits in our basement, fermenting into what I hope will be a stellar new vintage. Like most oenophiles, I’d long fantasized about making my own wine—the romance, the poetry, the passion of it! Now that I’ve been doing it for a while, another thing also comes to mind—the fruit flies! My relationship with the insects is a complicated one. Their appearance coincides with the harvest, one of my favorite times of the year. Sometime around the middle of October, I never know exactly when, I get the call, “The grapes are in.” I drop what I’m doing, load plastic garbage cans into the truck, and drive to the sunny eastern side of the state where the best vineyards are located—Sagemoor, Klipsun, Ciel du Cheval—the names are beautiful to me. As the members of my Les Copains wine co-op (really we’re a group of friends who love to make wine) arrive at our house to begin crushing grapes, the first reconnaissance patrols of fruit flies appear. They buzz around me excitedly, making their distinctive right-angle flight patterns, intoxicated by the smell of the juice. Author Nicholas O'Connell (pictured without his fruit fly friends). At first, the flies add to the festive atmosphere of the crush. We dump container after container of grapes into a machine called a stemmer crusher, which does exactly what its name implies: stems and crushes grapes. We sample the sweet, sticky grape juice as well as previous vintages to see how they compare. Crush is a time to catch up with everyone and drink wine together. By the end of the night, we’re comparing our vin du garage to Château Lafite-Rothschild. Our hubris knows no bounds. After crushing the grapes into the large plastic tote, I add potassium metabisulfite to the must to stun the wild yeast on the grapes. Some winemakers omit this step, allowing the wild yeast to ferment the wine, but as amateurs we have a less controlled environment and use cultured yeast for a more predictable fermentation. Next, I dump packets of cultured yeast into a pitcher of grape juice and leave it overnight. The next morning, yeast foams over the top of the pitcher. Fermentation! Taking the pitcher down to the garage, I dump it over the mass of fermenting grapes, which is called the must. The grapes are fat, shiny, with a rich sweet smell. Using a food grade white plastic shovel, I mix the yeast into the grapes, agitate the glistening mass, and get sticky juice all over my hands. The temperature in the garage is around 70, boosted by a small space heater. This helps the fermentation take off. Later that evening, I return to the garage. The fruit flies circle excitedly, but there seems to be no change in the must. I dip the shovel into the grapes, moving the heavy, sticky mass, hoping to energize the yeast. Have I done something wrong? The next morning, more fruit flies fill the garage. "Hi fellas!" I say, grabbing the shovel. The flies buzz companionably, intoxicated by the smell of yeast and fermenting wine. At this point, the fruit flies are a nuisance, not a danger to the wine. But as the fermentation slows, the odds increase that the acetobacter bacteria, which they carry on their dirty little feet, could turn the must into acetic acid, or vinegar, a dire prospect since these grapes cost nearly $2 a pound, not including the hours of labor that went into crushing them. It still rankles that the bacteria once ruined a barrel of our delicious 1995 Cabernet. It would be fine if there were just a few of them, but an ever-larger cloud boils up to greet me. The parents become grandparents, great-grandparents, great-great grandparents. It’s hard to breathe without inhaling several generations. The next morning, a scum of brownish bubbles appears on top of the grapes. The thermometer reads 80 degrees, a promising sign. The yeast is eating the sugar in the grapes, turning it to alcohol and CO2. Churning the grapes with the shovel, I inhale the heady perfume of CO2, yeast and grape juice. Fruit flies circle around me, intoxicated by the smells. I’m pleased with the progress of the fermentation and hope that no problems occur. If the fermentation doesn’t take off, or gets stuck, the wine can be ruined. This is one of the reasons we used cultured yeast. Still, fermentations with cultured yeast can get stuck. I’d like to see more vigor in the fermentation. The next day, the thermometer reads 83 degrees. The grape skins rise above the juice, floating in a layer over the liquid, creating a cap. Yes! The fermentation is picking up. I use the shovel to punch down the cap, making sure that the skins have plenty of contact with the juice, ensuring the wine with have plenty of color and tannins. Over the next few days, the temperature rises to the low-90s. The cap continues to rise. I hear a low seething sound as the yeast gobbles the sugar. The fruit flies can’t contain their excitement. Clouds of them fill the garage, buzzing around me as I break the cap. Things between us become strained. It would be fine if there were just a few of them, but an ever-larger cloud boils up to greet me. The parents become grandparents, great-grandparents, great-great grandparents. It’s hard to breathe without inhaling several generations. The next day, the must reaches 95 degrees. I’m hoping it doesn’t go any higher. If the fermentation is too hot, it can yield “cooked” flavors in the wine, making it taste burnt or like caramel. Breaking the cap, I stir the liquid, hoping for the best. I turn off the heater to lower the temperature. The following morning, the temperature falls to the low 90s. The cap begins to sink. Fermentation slows. The temperature drops. I continue to stir the must, monitoring its progress. The fruit flies buzz happily all around the house. Lisa, a biology major, likes fruit flies, too, but has her limits. Clouds of flies swarm us at dinner, begrudging us every bite. “They’re all over the place,” she says. “I saw them getting into the toothpaste.” A week or so later, when fermentation subsides, we press the wine and transfer it into barrels. We submit the wine to rigorous “quality control analysis,” meaning we taste it as we press it and speculate on its prospects, which improve the more we imbibe. The fruit flies dance around us as the dark purple liquid sloshes into the barrels. The spilled wine whips them into a frenzy. They land in it and paddle around, getting gloriously drunk on the last of the vintage. The next morning, reality sets in. The grapes are gone. Chili powder appears on the floor. I set out traps. Almost immediately, they’re filled. The buzzing reaches a crescendo. Finally, I snap. I get out the Shop-Vac. The cupboards and walls are bristling with flies. As I pass the hose over them, they struggle to hang on, but are quickly sucked into the maw of the machine. I am relentless, taking no prisoners, making pass after pass over the flies. After several days of this, peace reigns in the house. A few days later, sipping our 1998 Cabernet-Merlot blend, which won a first place at the local county fair, I can afford to get philosophical about the flies. Sure, they’re pests, but a small price to pay for having a home winery. I relax my vigilance, take my hand from over my glass, and a moment later look up to see several flies drowned in the liquid, reminding me again that, like it or not, making wine and fruit flies are intertwined. Lisa does not take things so philosophically. When several collect in her glass, she says, “From now on, do the fermentation at Tom’s house!” “Okay,” I say, glad she didn’t mention how the barrels and winemaking supplies prevented her from parking in the garage. “Next year we’ll do the fermentation at Tom’s house.”

If you want to make wine, fruit flies are part of the deal.

Hungry for news? Welcome to our Friday Feed, where we run through all the local food and restaurant news this week—and maybe help you figure out where to eat this weekend. Steaked Out Signs are up in the window in the Pioneer Square former location of Copal (and before that, Bar Sajor) announcing that it will soon be Gordo Steak. No info yet on when or what exactly to expect, just that it’s coming from the veteran steak-master behind Asadero Prime, David Orozco. Bagel Boom by the Bay The enthusiasm for University Village’s Hey Bagel has seemed unstoppable, but perhaps another well-liked bagel shop moving in nearby will shorten the lines. Backyard Bagel, which has a location in Fremont and sells at the Ballard Farmers Market, announced this week it will be taking over the recently closed General Porpoise location on Union Bay Place, just behind U Village. She Sells Salads and Sandwiches on the Seashore A new option for Alki eats opened up this week, with the folks behind Pegasus Pizza turning the former Locust Cider location into Seaside Grille, as reported by West Seattle Blog. The bad news of this week includes Heather Dowai and Jesus Dumois of Chamorikén getting injured in a car accident. Recovering Recovered! Oh, BTW, here’s what you missed last week.

Two local restaurant families recover from misfortune.

The world is a movie theater in the great summer tradition of outdoor films. Pack a picnic basket and blanket to catch a classic film—and by classic, we do mean of the Goonies variety. We’ll update this list periodically as more showings are announced. BECU Movies at Marymoor Park Movies at Marymoor is old-fashioned picnic-style fun, and enters its 21st season this year. Tickets are $10 (plus a service fee), and kids 5 and under are free. Food trucks on site. Dogs welcome. July 2 — The GooniesJuly 9 — Lilo & StitchJuly 16 — Legally BlondeJuly 24 — The Wild RobotJuly 31 — Guardians of the GalaxyAug 6 — UpAug 14 — Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black PearlAug 20 — Wicked Summer Movies in Kirkland Juanita Beach Park and Heritage Park both host a series of free outdoor movies. Double features mean you can make a (free!) night of it.July 12, Juanita Beach Park — Despicable Me (6pm), Wonka (8pm)July 19, Juanita Beach Park — Migration (6pm),  Madame Web (8pm)July 26, Juanita Beach Park — Kung Fu Panda (6pm),  The Marvels (8pm) Aug 2, Heritage Park — If (6pm), The Fall Guy (8pm)Aug 9, Heritage Park — Finding Dory (6pm), Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire (8pm) Movies at the Mural Unless otherwise noted, these free outdoor screenings kick off at 9pm and are preceded by a short film from students at Cornish College of the Arts. The Armory will be open alongside a fleet of food trucks on the Seattle Center grounds.July 25 — RatatouilleAug 1 — The Princess BrideAug 8 — E.T. the Extra-TerrestrialAug 15 — Say AnythingAug 22 — Wicked Center City Cinema For this film series at various Seattle parks, pre-movie activities start at 6:30pm and movies start at dusk. Look out for food trucks at some locations.  Ballard Commons Park July 30 — Top GunAugust 6 — Galaxy QuestAugust 13 — Coco Cal Anderson Park June 27 — Wicked (sing-along version)July 11 — Mamma Mia! Here We Go AgainJuly 18 — ShrekJuly 25 — Rocky Horror Picture Show Cascade Playground June 29 — Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb Denny Park July 16 — The Karate KidJuly 23 — E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial Freeway Park June 18 — Pee-wee's Big AdventureJune 25 — Wayne's WorldAug 8 — AnacondaAug 15 — Raiders of the Lost ArkAug 22 — Harry Potter and the Chamber of SecretsAug 29 — Clash of the TitansOct 31 — Beetlejuice and Beetlejuice Beetlejuice Hing Hay Park Aug 2— The GooniesAug 9 — She Marches in ChinatownAug 16 — WickedAug 22 — Lilo & Stitch Lake Union Park Aug 1 — Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl  Bellevue Summer Outdoor Movies Downtown and Crossroads Parks transform into movie theaters with 40-foot screens and free admission for this kid-forward series. Pre-movie entertainment, including live music, begins at 7pm.  Downtown Park July 15 — Moana 2July 22 — Pokémon: Detective PikachuJuly 29 — How the Grinch Stole Christmas (2000) August 5 — CarsAugust 12 — MiracleAugust 19 — Monsters University  Crossroads Park July 31 — Cool RunningsAugust 7 — An American Tail August 14 — WickedAugust 21 — The Wild Robot If you notice an event that should be considered for this list, email details to [email protected]. 

Hope you wanted to see Wicked this year.

The racks on which Ekone smokes its scallops tattoo them with crisscross patterns of rich bronze, not unlike the shade of a perfectly toasted marshmallow. Only they need no chocolate or graham crackers; they need nothing at all. Notoriously temperamental, scallops seem to actively resist any efforts to thread the needle between translucently raw and rubbery overcooking. Yet, Ekone’s packaged smoked scallops come out impressively and consistently tender. Each plump, buttery scallop sings with the hypercondensed flavor of hours soaking in brine and shvitzing in the smokehouse. They are beauty, they are grace, they are one of the best seafood products in a state full of such treasures. But where the heck are they? Taylor Shellfish Farms, of which Ekone is a subsidiary, carries them on its website, but they’re hard to find without specifically seeking them out, and require pricey refrigerated shipping. A few local seafood stores carry them, but even Taylor’s own Melrose Market location doesn’t. For these scallops and those who love them, this is concerning. Companies cut favorite flavors and products all the time. Hell, Trader Joe’s seems to do it as much for sport as anything else. But Taylor Shellfish Farms has a list of reasons as long as a geoduck’s shaft to cut production of these sweet snacks. “If you don’t start with the best, you’re not gonna end up with anything good.” Taylor, in general, focuses on the aquaculture shellfish it grows itself, but it buys the wild-caught Alaska weathervane scallops from a supplier. The perishable hot-smoked scallops come in a pouch, even though Ekone specializes in tinned seafood, mostly shelf-stable canned products—its slogan is “From tide to tin.” Despite all this, Wes Taylor, director of business development for both companies, loves them as much as anyone. “We call them ‘sea-candy’ around here,” he says. “They’re freaking delicious.” It starts with the scallops themselves—hand-harvested, hand-shucked, and flash-frozen at sea. “If we bought shitty scallops farmed in China, we wouldn’t end up [at] the same place,” says Taylor, who’s fifth generation in the family business. “If you don’t start with the best, you’re not gonna end up with anything good.” Since the scallops arrive near-perfect, Ekone’s role is to preserve that quality, which means no tins. The high heat required for canning would ruin that ideal texture. (Tinned scallops exist, but much smaller ones, the size of a fingernail, and often packed in oil to try to revive the texture.) Even just to smoke the scallops for long enough that they absorb the flavor, Ekone devised a special brine to keep them from drying out. Taylor keeps mum on much of the proprietary process that makes the scallops taste so good. But he does spill a bit of tea far more important than what’s in the brine or how long they’re smoked: The scallops are here to stay. Following a recent packaging redesign, Ekone is actively working to sell them in more places. 

During West Seattle’s massive annual garage sale—a single-day spectacular in early May, when more than 500 yards, front paths, and driveways open for business en masse—the neighborhood looks oddly vulnerable. Like all its homes have spilled their guts onto their front yards. Or like they’re wearing their hearts on their sleeves. West Seattle isn’t the only neighborhood with this kind of ad hoc vintage market. Capitol Hill hosts a community-wide garage sale, concentrated in Cal Anderson Park, every summer; plenty of others, from Mount Baker to Maple Leaf, follow suit. But West Seattle’s is uniquely massive, sprawling more than six miles from the northernmost tip of Alki Beach to the border of Burien. "Come on, guys!" Tallulah McAllister—who has lived in West Seattle for all 15 of her years—urges passersby not to pass up a less-visible alleyway sale. It's one of about two dozen sales featuring a lemonade stand. It’s a special occasion for the nostalgic among us: That outgrown tee or outdated video game console may no longer serve you, but you sure hope it goes to a loving home. The relationship between garage sale sellers and garage sale shoppers, who often feel equally hopeful about the day’s possibilities, breeds camaraderie—from bonding over a cool-looking jacket to passing on a passion to the next generation. Scaled up and spread across a neighborhood so close-knit it still calls itself an island, it’s not unusual to witness a little secondhand magic at the West Seattle event. In the Cards  Mel Elpusan handed out packs of Pokémon cards as party favors at his son Ethan’s fifth birthday. Ethan, now 15, still remembers feeling jealous when a fellow preschooler landed a Rainbow Charizard, and he’s been hooked ever since. The father-son duo created and sold 300 mystery packs for the West Seattle Garage Sale this year: “It’s fun watching the kids open and be happy with the hits they get,” Mel says. Everyone’s childhood favorites become “vintage” eventually. Gretchen Wilkerson collected Pokémon cards as a kid and recently returned to the hobby with her partner. Combing through the Elpusans’ card binders “brings back the nostalgic feeling of it,” Wilkerson says. Brothers Beau and Kirk frequent garage sales with their mom, Stephanie Benson. Benson says that Beau enjoys memorizing the constellation of traits associated with each Pokémon—which region they hail from, which “type” they fall into. “I just do it for the fun of being together,” Benson says. One Woman’s Treasure The average garage sale acts as a purge of accidentally amassed items. But Rebecca Carlson, who runs a popular Etsy shop called Rebecca’s Relics, estimates she bought 90 percent of her curated display of vintage goods with the explicit goal of selling them. “I’ve always been a garage sale–goer my whole life,” Carlson says. True enthusiasts often wind up selling their collections—just so they can keep searching. “I’ve got a tetanus shot already,” one shopper, surrounded by rusted antiques, reassures a friend. Buy What You Like While some vendors open the doors to their homes and hawk whatever falls out‚ others hyper-specialize—like the anonymous man in the P-I apron, who primarily collects toys made between 1920 and 1935. However, he is also responsible for the pilgrim cardboard cutouts, which stood at an Auburn grocery store back in the 1950s. His advice? “Buy what you like.” Brant Goode, pictured alongside the pilgrims, took that advice. Until his Zelle app cut him off from completing too many transactions. Record Deals Kenyon Hall, home of the mighty Wurlitzer theatre organ, “means a lot of different things to a lot of different people,” per operations director Murphy Janssen. It’s kind of like a School of Rock sequel, where your favorite local musicians band together to save a social club. For kids, it’s a place to learn the drums. For elders, it’s a place to reminisce. For garage sale–goers, it’s a place to nab vintage vinyl from the best of the best. Clown Around Preservationist John Bennett, best known for his work on iconic vintage buildings, also restores old jukeboxes and slot machines—and heartily embraces the humor in the everyday artifacts garage sales have to offer. “Once junk is in your blood, you just gotta keep buying it,” he says. Karens, Kevins, and Nasty Neighbors be damned. Donnie Hilstad met Mike Shauhgnessy (below) and other vintage enthusiasts “standing in line at estate sales.” They have since formed into close-knit group of friends. Hilstad sells records just for fun—though he used to make a killing on eBay. Gadget Guy  If you can’t find Mike Shaughnessy, look for the alligator hat. If you can’t see the alligator hat, just yell out “Gadget Guy.” Growing up, he frequented garage sales with his grandpa, who bought antique radios just so Shaughnessy could take them apart. Then, he made a career out of restoring radios—including one that went for $20,000. “Museum don’t need it that bad,” he jokes.  Lacey Comstock, wearing a vintage Bumbershoot tee (not for sale), fields questions from a busy sidewalk full of buyers. All-Nighter “I wasn’t expecting to find something like this today,” says 27-year-old Megan Long, who has long been fascinated with vintage video games like the Intellivision II she procured from seller Johnny Samra—despite being born nearly two decades after the first version came out. Down the way, Samra reminisces about staying up all night playing that selfsame Intellivision II with his brother, circa Christmas 1982. “I’ve been collecting all my life,” Samra says. “It’s fun when you’re young, to buy it all. Now, I gotta get rid of it all.” And the cycle begins anew.