Date of its opening. Ambiguous. 1895 maybe. Called the "Old Home" then, turned into "Malmen's" sometime later. Fred Oldfield might know. In 1955 he painted an epic mural on the wall above the waiters station. Only some know what it depicts...all rumors and hearsay, mystery. One theory: A woman signaling to another woman with a horn that the husband of the wife in the cabin outside the painting under the perfect mountains is about to roll up in his horse and carriage and discover some infidelity. Sin and salvation. It might not be about that at all... something lost in time for the most part, we're left to fill in the blanks. Make up new versions of the story over good liquor, good food and a sense of the afterlife.
Ghosts. You can see them. Haunting the spaces between the liquor bottles and the mirror reflecting soft yellow light onto the dark wood. The mirror itself framed by an almost Pentecostal back bar... crenellated pillars and leaves curled upwards and around. Heard that it had come around the horn from France. Found out that it was made by Brunswick and came from Chicago instead in 1904. But you pick which version you like. There will still be wraiths of smoke winding around the arms of the faithful in the Cathedral of Drink. It will still be a place of worship.
The faithful come forth: Overheard Pat doing business with his plain talking lawyer, and asked him if he knew much about the history of the place. Divine meeting: He used to come here 40 years ago and decided to see if it was still what it used to be. He had worked at the Ballard hardware in the early '60s and would come here with his boss to eat the boiled cod with white potatoes. He never ate the lutefisk. Smelled something awful he said. He spent the next 38 years as a longshoreman. Had married and retired. An entire life that did not in any way subdue his fascination with this place. Almost a proud tone in his voice as he explained the gauntlet of bars that ran down Ballard Avenue all the way to First and Pike and the sport of trying to hit all 60 or so of them. He was sure no one had ever made it. He knew the story though. And that was enough. Raised a toast to the ones that tried and threw a coin in the collection plate.
When you can't tie the past to the present with memories, places such as this have a way of doing it for you. There will always be legends. Old tales. Photographs. Fallen heroes. Mae... placed her cigarette butts in a radial pattern in the ashtray like an offering to a dark god. Her place at the bar immortalized with a plaque that states "That's good baby, that's good" and reading it she can be heard, the brittle voice rough from cheap smokes and a full life, as if she were sitting next to you, scathing you with a sarcasm that could only come from a place of genuine grace. Or Dave Conant, blues man, preacher man, thin white king of careful words and perfect notes. So much a part of this place, his candle lit daily in memory of one of its true believers. Blue smoke curls up from it. You will give thanks. You will praise the glory of the blues. Ask anyone that knew him. Blue smoke twists and never lets you forget.
To sit in this place is to creep up in spirit a little, become someone else. So many have sat in there before... you mingle with a century of second chances and drunken confessions. Sit and fold up into the space of your time, be devoured by others and give yourself willingly to the gospel of Hattie's.
And the young will refresh the ranks of the penitent. Bought by Ron Wilkowski, Kyla Fairchild and Dan Cowen somewhere around eight years ago from one Gary Enger with a vision of restoring a great old place. With them came energy, and new blood. New times that require new ways to remember. New ways of keeping the faith. Roofs were patched. The wood of the confessionals cleaned and polished. Basements refurbished to accommodate the needs of the kitchen. Booths re-upholstered and iron stools replaced. Frankincense was burned to clear the restless spirits and free them from the darkness. All to make the new believers feel welcome in the Holy House.
To be sure, they come forth in droves. Ballard Avenue becomes a haven for musicians, artists, night lifers, and the drink brings them together. They mingle with the old guard, learn the necessary rituals from them and begin their own. This is the time of awakening for them and Hattie's serves as the gate to the up and coming. It must not waver from these heights. Someone must act as shepherd. Someone to bridge the gap between what has occurred and what is to be. A high priest to enact the ceremonies and remind us of the mysteries...
Larry Barret, general manager, reads to us from the scriptures of the past: of the lull in the fishing industry in the early 1880's with the demise of the king crab. Of the families and young fisherman that would come to drink, play pull-tabs, gain access to the mysteries of the Hat. Of rumors of knife fights, bullet holes underneath paneling, strange encounters with white bearded men drinking vodka and proclaiming the worth of the seas and its dangers, speaking in tongues, dancing as if possessed at the head of the bar fighting tooth and yellowed nail to stay and avoid banishment.
And the transition. The bartenders who have come in to replace the ones who carried the banner before. Amy, Drew, Diarmuid, Brian, Christie, Cody have all placed their trust in the trinity Drink, Food, Smoke.
Some have been there for years, others are new to the church but all have stories to write in the general Ecclesiastes. And as in Solomon 1:12: The Confession of King Solomon, "The writer is a man who has sinned in giving way to selfishness and sensuality, who has paid the penalty of that sin in satiety and weariness of life, but who has through all this been under the discipline of a divine education, and has learned from it the lesson which God meant to teach him."
They are the candle lighters, the pourers of the sacrificial wine. The teachers of the new times. And as it must come, the customers who spend time here, the mix of the rich, the poor, the hip, the old, the hungry, the thirsty will all read from these new tomes. And they will visit and pay homage to the ones before them, as long as there are those willing to tell the stories again and again to those who listen.
Mike Dumovich is a writer and musician living in Seattle.
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