The Second Best Sandwich in the Country

Another moment in Seattle: The day before we leave for Seattle, B calls out from the living room that there is this sandwich we’ve got to try while we’re there. It is on one of those Travel/Food Network shows, and Paseo’s Cuban Roast is in the number two slot of some ever popular top whatever list. We are a bit giddy to fulfill a silly goal: to travel to some place to eat what we saw on TV.

Saturday, May 15, turns out to be the day. Paseo’s has a couple locations, and we decide we’ll go to Fremont, a cool, artsy in the let’s-build-a-giant-troll-under-the-bridge-sort-of-way suburb. We know we’ve found the place not only by the blue dot on the Google map, but by the meandering line up the sidewalk. There is no sign. The place is clad in aluminum, has glass front doors and is about 10 feet wide. Okay, maybe 15. We take our place, jaw a bit with some other folks who are here on the same quest and play on our iPhones - the device that makes waiting completely painless. A sign informs us that due to the rising cost of corn a side of it will be extra instead of coming with the sandwich. B deducts that they put it with the sandwich for a reason so he orders two Cuban Roasts with corn. Once his name is called and a heavy bag of roast pork sandwiches is in hand, we head off to a park I located on the phone while we waited.

There are maybe six places to sit in tiny Paseo’s, and unless you enjoy wild-eyed, pork-leering people streaming past as you eat, I highly recommend taking your lunch to nearby Green Lake Park.

We park the rental, locate a spot at the edge of a tree’s shadow overlooking the pretty glacially-formed lake and open the bag. This sandwich is big like a sub on the tastiest crusty-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside bread. We both sit straddling the large white squares of meat-packing paper in which our sandwiches rest. The pork is tender and plain. This is not a saucy sandwich, but the juice makes it a drippy, sit-down meal. On top of the pork are super-thick onions. You know when you have a giant onion ring and the whole thing comes sliding out of the crust all in one piece? About 10 of those succulent monsters glisten on each sandwich. Finally, there’s a surprisingly light layer of mayonnaise dotted generously with sliced jalapeños. This pork-and-onion-loving, mayo-despising, might-shy-from-jalapeños gal absolutely loves it. We deem the Paseo Cuban Roast worthy of the wait in line to get it. Heck, it’s worthy of the flight.

We are in a happy stupor afterward, watching people bike, stroll, run and roll by on the paved loop. We do a lot of fun things this week in Seattle, but this is one of my favorite moments, laying back on raincoats for blankets in the grass, bellies full of yum and hearts full of happy as we lay side-by-side.

Since I know you are not content with that ending, still yearning to learn about America’s number one sandwich, I give you this.

Bruce and Brandon Six Feet From the Living

Another moment in Seattle: Bruce and Brandon Lee lay below our feet. It’s completely surreal. Way back in the day B and I loved martial arts and actually met in a class; we still enjoy watching Kung Fu movies as much as ever. Bruce’s stone looks just like I’ve seen in pictures, but we are surprised to find Brandon right next to him. Brandon’s stone is designed with a space sliced down its middle; I touch it and imagine when it rains that it pours out each side making two little fountains. I remember later that I didn’t touch Bruce’s stone. I have lived three years longer than this man, but he lived so much more intensely.



We took pause reading the too-true inscription on Brandon’s stone: “Because we don’t know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens a certain number of times. And a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that’s so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seem limitless.” - For Brandon and Eliza, Ever Joined in True Love’s Beauty

Top Pot

Intro: I’ve been meaning to put up a nice post about our May vacation in Seattle. Instead, I am going to write tiny posts of excellent moments B and I had over those glorious, rain-free seven days*.


I type Top Pot Doughnuts into my phone just to see if we’re close, and find we’re within a mile of one. It’s our last day in Seattle, and we’re spending it consulting our mishmash list of possible things to see and do. We’ve just left Bruce and Brandon Lee’s graves, and I tell B, “We’re just minutes away from Top Pot. Shall we go?” He says, “Sure," and makes the turn.

We’ve had no dinner and decide a doughnut will hold us over. This is vacation-think and wouldn’t happen in real life. Maybe it is partially inspired by the too true life-is-short sentiment on Brandon Lee’s grave.** We park on the side of street and stroll down to yet another establishment with an awesome neon sign. The Seattle area has a high-concentration of fantastic neon signs, but that is a post for another day.

In true vacationer style, we tell the fellow behind the counter that we’ve come here just to try these doughnuts and learn that we are standing in the original Top Pot without even trying. The Pink Feather Boa is not to be found in the glass case - which we’ve seen promoted in magazines - but coconut and frosting would not be my first choice anyway. I am ecstatic to see a glaze-free cruller and then ask Pleasant Counter Guy what his favorite is. At his mention, I look down and spot it: the fattest Bavarian cream donut I have every been in the presence of. I order one of each and a glazed blueberry for the next morning - fuel for our 6:00 a.m. flight home.***

It turns out Top Pot’s hand-forged cruller is just a fry cake with ridges - not the airy, eggy donut that I love. Undeterred, I cast the remains of it back into it’s cute little sack and bring out the Bavarian. O. M. G. At roughly 3” high, this is the thickest Bavarian cream donut I’ve ever held, and is there just a dollop of ooey goodness inside? No, it is a filled from edge to edge: yummy, puddin’ deliciousness in every bite with a light, sweet-but-not-too-sweet dough all around covered in delicious chocolate fudge - not that crusty, glazey ick you get at most chain donut stores. From the window counter seat, I sit looking at a strange van that has seen better days and probably many adventures. I lick my fingers and wonder if it belongs to Pleasant Counter Guy as I finish the best doughnut I have ever had.

*Also known as summer in Seattle.

**I’ll share this in another post, I promise.

***The later flight was hundreds more, and I squished my face in disgust as I chose the 6:00 a.m. return knowing that would mean a 3:30 a.m. wake time.

Tri-ing is Fun!

Last Saturday my alarm was set for 4:30 a.m., and I stand by that being the most extreme part of doing a mini-triathlon. 4:30 a.m! Saturday! Way nuttier than any amount of human-powered travel.

When I heard my city was having a race-filled weekend, I was intrigued. When I learned the swimming was replaced with kayaking, I was hitting send on my application.* This was February I think. I hit send knowing full well it could be snowing on April 24. I also made a deal with myself to call it money well wasted to be safe and warm inside instead of risking a dunk in the icy Genesee.

April 24th brought a frigid morning that would warm to the sixties. I couldn’t wait to start running! The 3.1 mile route was absolutely gorgeous on footpaths along the Genesee River near the U of R campus as we crisscrossed over the water on arched pedestrian bridges. I run hills mostly never, but these little bridges offered short little oh-hello-theres to my calves. 28 minutes (and change) later I was on my bike into 20 miles of countryside. This is the event I am least trained for, it’s my third bike ride of the year and the farthest I’ve been on my bike...ever. But to me, this is the spirit of events like this - to see if I can. I don’t visit the course when I do races. Not for half marathons, not for full marathons, not for the one duathlon I did and not for 5Ks. I glance at map for location, usually make sure the course is flat** and just decide I can do it.

Me and a friend of my husband’s*** wish each other well as we head out, him mentioning there are some nice hills on the one road. Hills? Oh, I did not prepare for this, but I am having fun. Glasses and helmet donned, I throw a leg over my mountain bike**** and away I go. I ride like the witch from Wizard of Oz (cue song.) Much less fit looking people with snacks hanging out of their pockets are passing me. The bottom line - mountain bike tires are slooooooooow on the road plus I am not an excellent cyclist, though a road bike would have helped immensely. I suck so much in this section of the race that I don’t get back to the staging area for one hour and thirty-eight minutes. Gah! It was an absolutely gorgeous ride with everything in bloom and entertaining as well as I was being passed by a guy grumbling, “I am never doing this again.” I told him, “Wait until you finish.” That is a fine, fine flavor to have a taste of.

With the bike stowed back on the rack and pulling my long-sleeve Under Armor top off over my head as I run (feels like giving birth to yourself), I complete the 100 yard dash to my kayak. It appears to be the only boat left. I am undeterred. I am thrilled to have finished the biking and be on to my favorite event. The awesome folks who I rented my race boat from put my paddle together and boat in the water as I pull on my new short-sleeve neoprene top and pants. It’s not snowing, but it is guaranteed that the Genesee is freezing. I race downstream and hit my rhythm. Yes, this is the best part. I start actually eyeing people downstream to pick off and power past. This is the first time I’ve been in a kayak this year, but my summer racing makes it feel like yesterday. Thoughts like, 'Sure you can bike better, but you can’t paddle for...' go through my mind as I pass another racer. Hey, it’s motivating and it’s true. I suck at biking, but I don’t suck at this. One guy exclaims to his girl, “Look, she’s got a motor on that boat!” Yes, this part is really fun. I cruise to finish the three miles in 38 minutes.



But it’s not over yet.

Two men warn me that they are going to pull me out of my boat and lift me like they do this every day. One grabs my paddle, they deposit me on my feet and tell me to run for the finish. With my bright yellow PFD flapping, I cross the line about 200 yards away, arms up and exuberant as if I have just won. I always do this; it’s spontaneous and I have won something: the right to stop. This is the most dangerous part because I want and need to keep walking. They make me stop to take off my ankle chip. Has anyone every grabbed your inner thigh just above the knee and squeezed? Have they ever done both at the same time? Holy crap, I can hardly walk and my dear husband asks me where my paddle is. So he can get it. Because he is kind. And I couldn’t care less if it has gone down river and over the falls. This is saying something because I love my paddle. I am anxiously searching out a banana where containers of carrots and cookies sit. Carrots?! I walk aimlessly, mumbling a bit incoherently until mercifully those muscles relax instantly and in unison about three minutes later. And that was the most intense part of the race, but getting up at 4:30 a.m. was still the worst of it.

When the race began at 7:30 a.m., I had three goals:
1. Finish
2. Finish in 3 hours or less
3. Do not got for a swim

I sat in the grass eating my free veggie burger, salt-n-vinegar chips and water, happy to have accomplished all three. I can’t wait to tri again.



*I can and love to swim, but how long I can do it remains to be seen. Actual training would be required here to feel confident in an open water swim. It’s not out of the question one day.

**Uh, usually,...but not this time.

***He has been spinning all winter and this will be a cake walk for him.

****I’m really comfortable on my mountain bike and spring roads are pretty much like off-road - that was my logic in leaving Old Red, my 23-year-old Schwinn with rabbit-ear gear shifting, home.

Oh Happy Day

It is beautiful today albeit a bit cool. The sky is cloudless. My daffodils are nodding their approval as the wind pushes past.

Have you ever wondered what the weather was like the day your mom was born? Did my gram grab her winter coat or need no coat at all? Maybe there wasn’t time to even think about a coat! It is odd to know so little about the day the person who would be your own mom arrived on the planet. I hope it was as lovely as today. Happy birthday, Mom!