Lunch? You just said the magic word. I’m always in the mood for lunch. And since I was walking along the downtown waterfront on a day when the sun had finally made an appearance after almost a week in hiding, it seemed only right that I hit Ivar’s Acres of Clams. A Seattle institution. A well-known reputation for good seafood. I’d never tried it before. Ivar’s it was.

It was about 2:30—in restaurant land, that down time after the lunch rush and before the dinner start-up—so it wasn’t very crowded. I got a table by the window, which is what you should definitely do since you have a great view of passenger ferries coming and going from Pier 54, sea gulls surveying their domain from atop dock pilings, and a vista that looks out over Elliott Bay to Duwamish Head and West Seattle. And Ivar’s gets the decor just right. The theme is unabashedly nautical: paneled walls, hardwood tables, polished brass accents, framed prints of maritime scenes. I had just settled into my chair when “Rock Lobster” by the B-52s suddenly started playing (a phantom radio?). I considered that an auspicious omen. In other words, I was ready to love Ivar’s.  


But unfortunately, for me the food didn’t live up to the promise of the setting. I ordered fish and chips, which the menu touted as “an Ivar’s classic since 1938.” Well, I’ve had proper fish and chips in England—in a nondescript hotel pub outside London, to be exact. And they were great—flaky, moist codfish, crisply battered, with a pile of thick-cut fries and the requisite mushy peas (something green to counteract the carbs and fat so you can convince yourself that what you’re eating is at least halfway healthy).

Ivar’s version didn’t make me sit up and take notice. The fish was okay, but nothing special. The fries were reasonably crispy but waaay oversalted. And there were no mushy peas. It wasn’t a particularly bountiful plate, and not worth the $13.95 tab (which didn’t include a beverage).

I also had a bit of a beef with the service. Greet me with a brusque “Whaddya havin’” but keep the bread basket replenished and you’re my friend for life. Regale me with an overly solicitous “And how has your Thursday been so far?”, then disappear when my iced tea glass needs a refill (particularly since the too-salty fries were making me thirsty), and I’m less inclined to leave a generous tip. And I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this server, although unfailingly pleasant, was angling for a generous tip.

I won’t fault Ivar’s based on just one visit, but the next time I’m hankering for a seafood lunch I might try Elliott’s Oyster House at Pier 56 instead.

Normally I avoid obvious tourist traps like the plague, but Ye Olde Curiosity Shop was right next door—another place I’d not been to, so I decided to take a peek inside. You can’t miss the colorful totems flanking the entrance.

And boy was this place a tourist trap. It makes grandma’s attic look like a spread in Architectural Digest. Every square inch of space—shelves, walls, ceiling—was crammed with stuff. It’s tchotchke city. I couldn’t even find the shrunken heads that are supposed to be one of the main draws. Ye Olde Curiosity Shop bills itself as a museum, but it’s impossible to tell what constitutes an exhibit and what’s for sale. And really, this is just a big souvenir shop. Some of the merch is nice, some of it is tacky. Eskimo salt and pepper shakers? Snow globes? Fish candy? Fart powder? They’ve got it.

My favorite things were the display cases on one wall. I dig butterflies and insects, and there were a great variety of specimens under glass—iridescent blue morphos, an Atlas moth, 10-inch walking sticks, even a couple of dried lizards (weird; I had never seen that). The frames were arranged in multiple rows, and the effect was sort of like viewing paintings hanging in a 19th-century salon—that also sells hot gum and Space Needle tilt pens. Now how many other tourist traps can make that claim? Ivar’s Acres of Clams and Ye Olde Curiosity Shop are side by side on Alaskan Way at Pier 54.