I’m All Lost In, #90: A speakeasy on Olive Way; repurposing obstruction into construction; a secret ice cream shop.

I’m All Lost In…

the 3 things I’m obsessing about THIS week

#90

Of course, I’m obsessing over the fact that the president of the United States blithely used a cancerous anti-Jewish slur at his Des Moines, Iowa rally this week as he celebrated his depraved signature legislation; the bill kicks 11 million people off Medicaid while adding billions of dollars to Trump’s gestapo deportation crusade. Channeling his KKK worldview, Trump told the MAGA faithful that they wouldn’t have to worry about “Shylocks” anymore. In addition to spouting such an incendiary spittle of hatred, Trump is being duplicitous. It’s sociopathic and obnoxious to portray pro-oligarchy legislation (that will cost the poorest Americans $1,600 a year, save the wealthiest Americans $12,000 a year, hand out tax breaks to big business, and attack social programs such as SNAP aid for food) as if it’s a populist affront against those supposedly evil Jews. Sigh, the convoluted rhetoric fronting Trump’s classic Republican agenda (anti-poor, pro-big business, and hyper militarized) made this a July 4 of despair.

I toasted the limping holiday at one of my favorite hangouts on the Drag where I talked to a Korean fellow who said he regretted his decision to swap his Korean citizenship for U.S. citizenship; he no longer felt safe or welcome in America, he told me as we cheers-ed over vodka sodas and lime.

Earlier in the day, I indulged another personal “of course.” I watched Aryna Sabalenka’s third-round Wimbledon match against surging London hope Emma Raducanu. It was a thriller; Saby eventually won the two-hour match 7-6(8-6), 6-4 after being behind 2-4 in the first set and 1-4 (!) in the second as she defied Week 1’s big story line: Upstarts ousting top seeds. Saby is the only Top-5 seed left as we head into Wimbledon Week 2, affirming my contention (and the data) that she’s the most consistent player on the 2025 tour.

Onto this week official items, including two recommendations:

1) A Speakeasy on Olive Way
They had me at warm hand towels.

I’ve walked past this place a million times: the nondescript, storefront on Olive Way’s otherwise electric commercial strip at the western edge of Capitol Hill. I’d assumed from the anonymous facade and drawn curtains that it was a defunct business.

The Doctor’s Office, 7/3/25

It’s actually a popular local speakeasy called the Doctor’s Office, a refined yet unpretentious slip of a room (“Maximum Occupancy 17”) that serves lovingly prepared cocktails such as their crisp Suntory whisky Toki highball poured over a rectangular obelisk of ice.

Hard wood flooring and latticed panels frame this cozy room with its slight set of corner tables and cushioned bench seating nestled tightly up against a handful of spots at the bar, which runs along the entire facing wall.

The Doctor’s Office prescribes a Valium setting, an oasis of romance and peace percolating right under the nose of the cavorting throngs outside. The close quarters prompt a pacific intimacy where each tipsy pair can laugh and flirt, exchange life stories, and make pinky swear oaths unbeknownst to the smattering of other pairs doing the same as they sit mere feet away.

This past Thursday night, on the cusp of a three-day weekend, the male/female duo running the place was friendly and attentive while understanding the assignment: Bartending with gentle and unobtrusive aplomb.

They started things off by presenting the aforementioned warmed hand towels with complimentary glasses of champagne.

In contrast to the clandestine, Saigon ‘63 Graham Greene aesthetic of the cocktail lounge, the magically capacious bathroom is bright and playful. I note the loo, which features a bidet, because it distills the common denominator at play here: It’s as if a thoughtful Airbnb host attends to this charmed Seattle nightspot.

The Doctor’s Office is open to walk-ins, but I’d recommend making reservations.

2) A Hack for Housing

Single family zone protectionists are so put upon by any smidgen of additional housing in their neighborhoods, especially rental housing, that they’ll even fight mild density like mother-in-law apartments; I’ve been reporting on this parochial resistance for decades.

So, I wish Erica and I had gotten this latest installment in which housing naysayers get their comeuppance; three cheers to Seattle’s NYT stringer for following the issue so closely.

And more so, three cheers to Seattle developers for devising an elegant hack to a monkey-wrenching amendment that had undermined some 2019 pro-housing legislation. The original yes-in-my backyard city council bill dared to increase the number of mother-in-law units allowed in traditional single family zones from one to two. Conservative neighborhood groups pushed for a change requiring that one of the two units had to be attached to the main house, a ploy to limit the opportunity for more development. Housing advocates, however, turned the rule into an architectural prompt for creating new “three-pack” housing compounds where multifamily developments are strung together by skybridges.

The NYT reports on how ingenious developers repurposed the NIMBY obstruction into housing construction:

In that political environment, allowing for two detached A.D.U.s would have been a step too far, said Nicolas Welch, a senior planner at the City Office of Planning and Community Development. Enter the skybridge. Some housing experts call them umbilical cords.

Under the building code, any enclosed structure wider than five feet can qualify as an attachment — “leaving room for interpretation,” Mr. Welch said.

“You write something down and it gets used in some creative ways that weren’t anticipated,” he added.

The 3-pack is a product of that flexibility. Developers have formed these A.D.U. compounds as three-unit condo associations, charging a nominal homeowner association fee (often $10 or less) to cover the filings.

3) An Ice Cream Secret
”July 4 is the ice cream holiday.”

This bit of summer wisdom relayed to me in the checkout line at the convenience store persuaded me to seek out an ice cream shoppe ice cream cone.

To avoid the long summer lines at the popular ice cream places in my neighborhood such as Molly Moon’s, Salt & Straw, or Frankie & Jo’s, there’s a small wonder tucked away in the urbanist cluster at 11th Avenue’s Chophouse Row: Sweet Alchemy.

Partnering with local organic farms to champion eco-conscious treat making, the shop comes with laudable spiels about “producing small batch, organic, and locally sourced ice cream… [to] craft our Sweet Cream base daily from organic ingredients…”

That’s cool. But more relevant is that on two recent visits to this small, casual specialty shop—which feels more like a farmer’s market stall than an actual storefront—I’ve scored some malty delicious vegan flavors scooped into sugary, non-vegan waffle cones.

On my July 4 visit, I got a delightful scoop of mocha.