On this sunny, 55-degree Tuesday in March it feels like the whole of Seattle is on vacation. There are moms with strollers and hot dog vendors and gaggles of teenagers crowded along the city’s waterfront. I hear seagulls in the distance, that faint soundtrack of voices and birds and cars inching past looking for parking — but I don’t see them. I keep walking, past the aquarium, some souvenir shops, and finally a candy store, before arriving at last at Pier 54. The gulls, I discover, have found the best place on the waterfront to converge: the seafood bar outside Ivar’s Acres of Clams.
A statue of Ivar’s founder Ivar Haglund feeding french fries to hungry gulls sits outside the restaurant. Decades ago, a neighboring business posted signs demanding people stop feeding the birds, which were becoming entitled and cantankerous thanks to tourists’ well-intentioned offerings. But Haglund posted a sign of his own near the outdoor seating area for the fish bar: “Seagulls welcome! Seagull lovers welcome to feed seagulls in need.” A variation of the sign is still there today (along with an admonition not to feed any pigeons or birds that come into the covered eating area).
The last time I was here, back when my mom still lived in Seattle, everything was dark and empty. But now, thanks to the beginnings of a $688 million project to make the waterfront more pedestrian- and tourist-friendly, the area is barely recognizable. The city is demolishing the old Alaskan Way Viaduct, an elevated freeway that separated the water from downtown Seattle and cast a literal shadow over the once-bustling area. Parking lots are being replaced by more green space, bike paths, and an easy way to get from Pike Place Market to the waterfront’s other classic attractions like the aquarium, Ferris wheel, and countless T-shirt shops.
The old and new sit together in an uneasy stalemate. People stand on the sidewalk, phones outstretched, recording the Viaduct’s demolition across the street. I stand there with them, watching machines crumble concrete like they’re taking bites out of the infrastructure. It’s rare that you see a city decide what it wants to be, and Seattle wants its residents to feel as though they have all the advantages of a megalopolis like New York without trapping them between hot slabs of concrete walkways and buildings. The tourism board even tried to coin a term for it — “Metronatural” — referring to “a blending of clear skies and expansive water with a fast-paced city life.” Residents mocked the slogan but people kept moving there anyway. Today Seattle is a tech city, a place where the water feels like little more than a photo opportunity. The canneries and fishing-supply companies that once leased spaces on these piers live on only in restaurants serving seafood by the water.
There’s a crowd underneath the large “Ivar’s Fish Bar” neon sign when I walk up to order. The menus are written in faux-chalkboard style, and someone has stenciled the word “SEAFOOD” onto the small tiles beneath the counter. I’m hungry and excited to revisit Ivar’s for the first time since childhood. Yet I can’t help but worry that this bowl of chowder might not be as good as I remember; things are sometimes better when you leave them in the past.
Ivar’s Acres of Clams has been here in one form or another since the late 1930s. It was the first of what’s become a statewide chain, complete with 21 seafood bars and two other sit-down restaurants throughout Washington. Over the last 80-some years, Ivar’s has earned its status as a Pacific Northwest institution but Acres, with its high prices ($25 for a salmon Caesar salad or $68 for a lobster tail surf and turf) feels like a place for tourists. Those in the know order food from the walk-up counter just next to the restaurant and eat at one of the many tables nearby (covered and uncovered, so no one has to worry about soggy food from the frequent Pacific Northwest rains).
People come to Ivar’s fish bar because they serve all the stuff you want to eat at the waterfront: chowders, seafood cocktails, and fish and chips. Ivar’s fish and chips are light and crispy, and the batter doesn’t separate from the cod fillets like so many subpar versions; one could almost imagine these cod swimming through the ocean with the crunchy breading for skin. (...)
The waterfront Ivar’s seafood bar is short-staffed today, and the employees ask people to step forward and order first the fried food, then everything else. It’s a confusing system but it works out in the end. I order something called “clam nectar,” imagining it served like an oyster shooter. The guys behind the counter shout out my order, “Three-piece cod and chips! Cup of chowder!” then fall into a whisper to add, “and a clam nectar too.”
In the 1970s, Haglund advertised the clam nectar by announcing that men needed permission from their wives to order more than three cups. Clam nectar, it turns out, was an uncontrollable aphrodisiac. Are clams, which don’t have sex to reproduce, just two shells containing a lifetime of frustrated libido?
The nectar comes in a paper cup, the kind of thing one usually has with coffee or a scalding tea. The nectar, which is essentially clam broth, spices, and butter, is light and rich, full of umami but without the heavy mouthfeel of a fatty pork broth. It’s delicious. I try it multiple times after multiple fishy palate-cleansers like chowder and chips, to be sure it was the nectar I was tasting.
by Tove Danovich, Eater | Read more:
Image: Lauren Segal
A statue of Ivar’s founder Ivar Haglund feeding french fries to hungry gulls sits outside the restaurant. Decades ago, a neighboring business posted signs demanding people stop feeding the birds, which were becoming entitled and cantankerous thanks to tourists’ well-intentioned offerings. But Haglund posted a sign of his own near the outdoor seating area for the fish bar: “Seagulls welcome! Seagull lovers welcome to feed seagulls in need.” A variation of the sign is still there today (along with an admonition not to feed any pigeons or birds that come into the covered eating area).The last time I was here, back when my mom still lived in Seattle, everything was dark and empty. But now, thanks to the beginnings of a $688 million project to make the waterfront more pedestrian- and tourist-friendly, the area is barely recognizable. The city is demolishing the old Alaskan Way Viaduct, an elevated freeway that separated the water from downtown Seattle and cast a literal shadow over the once-bustling area. Parking lots are being replaced by more green space, bike paths, and an easy way to get from Pike Place Market to the waterfront’s other classic attractions like the aquarium, Ferris wheel, and countless T-shirt shops.
The old and new sit together in an uneasy stalemate. People stand on the sidewalk, phones outstretched, recording the Viaduct’s demolition across the street. I stand there with them, watching machines crumble concrete like they’re taking bites out of the infrastructure. It’s rare that you see a city decide what it wants to be, and Seattle wants its residents to feel as though they have all the advantages of a megalopolis like New York without trapping them between hot slabs of concrete walkways and buildings. The tourism board even tried to coin a term for it — “Metronatural” — referring to “a blending of clear skies and expansive water with a fast-paced city life.” Residents mocked the slogan but people kept moving there anyway. Today Seattle is a tech city, a place where the water feels like little more than a photo opportunity. The canneries and fishing-supply companies that once leased spaces on these piers live on only in restaurants serving seafood by the water.
There’s a crowd underneath the large “Ivar’s Fish Bar” neon sign when I walk up to order. The menus are written in faux-chalkboard style, and someone has stenciled the word “SEAFOOD” onto the small tiles beneath the counter. I’m hungry and excited to revisit Ivar’s for the first time since childhood. Yet I can’t help but worry that this bowl of chowder might not be as good as I remember; things are sometimes better when you leave them in the past.
Ivar’s Acres of Clams has been here in one form or another since the late 1930s. It was the first of what’s become a statewide chain, complete with 21 seafood bars and two other sit-down restaurants throughout Washington. Over the last 80-some years, Ivar’s has earned its status as a Pacific Northwest institution but Acres, with its high prices ($25 for a salmon Caesar salad or $68 for a lobster tail surf and turf) feels like a place for tourists. Those in the know order food from the walk-up counter just next to the restaurant and eat at one of the many tables nearby (covered and uncovered, so no one has to worry about soggy food from the frequent Pacific Northwest rains).
People come to Ivar’s fish bar because they serve all the stuff you want to eat at the waterfront: chowders, seafood cocktails, and fish and chips. Ivar’s fish and chips are light and crispy, and the batter doesn’t separate from the cod fillets like so many subpar versions; one could almost imagine these cod swimming through the ocean with the crunchy breading for skin. (...)
The waterfront Ivar’s seafood bar is short-staffed today, and the employees ask people to step forward and order first the fried food, then everything else. It’s a confusing system but it works out in the end. I order something called “clam nectar,” imagining it served like an oyster shooter. The guys behind the counter shout out my order, “Three-piece cod and chips! Cup of chowder!” then fall into a whisper to add, “and a clam nectar too.”
In the 1970s, Haglund advertised the clam nectar by announcing that men needed permission from their wives to order more than three cups. Clam nectar, it turns out, was an uncontrollable aphrodisiac. Are clams, which don’t have sex to reproduce, just two shells containing a lifetime of frustrated libido?
The nectar comes in a paper cup, the kind of thing one usually has with coffee or a scalding tea. The nectar, which is essentially clam broth, spices, and butter, is light and rich, full of umami but without the heavy mouthfeel of a fatty pork broth. It’s delicious. I try it multiple times after multiple fishy palate-cleansers like chowder and chips, to be sure it was the nectar I was tasting.
Advertising clam nectar as an aphrodisiac was the kind of stunt Haglund pulled all the time. In 1947, a railroad tank car of corn syrup ruptured, sending a sticky-sweet slide out onto the waterfront. Haglund put on a pair of hip boots, ordered up a large stack of pancakes from his kitchen, and waded into the streets. When the newspapers came, they found him surrounded by syrup, spooning it onto his breakfast. A photo of him was passed through the newswires and found its way into papers around the world. A couple days before the Viaduct opened, Haglund hired a brass band to play outside Acres of Clams and invited everyone to help him give thanks to the city for building “acres of covered parking” outside his restaurant.
Haglund also often accidentally stepped into local politics. In 1976, he purchased the Smith Tower, Seattle’s first skyscraper, and flew a custom 16-foot windsock shaped like a salmon on top of it. When the city tried to have him take it down for a code violation, he protested in the form of bad poetry. Supporters (and even city officials) made their arguments in verse. When it was Haglund’s turn to talk, he urged the city not to make their decision too quickly “in light of all this free publicity.” The board approved the salmon.
Haglund also often accidentally stepped into local politics. In 1976, he purchased the Smith Tower, Seattle’s first skyscraper, and flew a custom 16-foot windsock shaped like a salmon on top of it. When the city tried to have him take it down for a code violation, he protested in the form of bad poetry. Supporters (and even city officials) made their arguments in verse. When it was Haglund’s turn to talk, he urged the city not to make their decision too quickly “in light of all this free publicity.” The board approved the salmon.
by Tove Danovich, Eater | Read more:
Image: Lauren Segal
