Goodbye, Frites!
It’s a sad, sad day, Seattle–David Schmader says that Frites, next to the Neumos box office, is closed. It’s not April Fool’s Day, so I have to conclude that it is true.
The reasons for the closing are complicated and, if not buried, at least lightly coated in mystery, something about the sale of Neumos and some employee/owner drama. But now where are we going to go to soak up all of that alcohol after a show, or to have a conversation and a snack if the opening band blows? Standing around juggling a cone of frites and a dipping sauce, especially in the winter, was a great way to kill time between sets.
And hey, how about that Neumos sale–does anyone know anything about that?
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
I repeat. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
This is a sad, sad, sad day.
no, no, no, say it’s all a horrible nightmare!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Just yesterday I was just expounding on the virtues of Frites to a visitor, I was planning to take him this weekend! How unfortunate.
On the other hand, I would like to point out that Cafe Presse has excellent frites, even though they have only three options of dipping sauce (the aioli is highly recommended).
My brother was the cook responsible for the opening and survival of Frites. He is a terrific, salt-of-the-earth type of guy who likes mayonaise and playing guitar. But he got involved with some treacherous personalities who did business through winks and handshakes rather than signing on dotted lines like honest folk do. Well, much like Boxer the horse in Orwell’s “Animal Farm”, Corey was being used, but thought that his greatest efforts could be doubled and in turn, the business would thrive, and that everyone would benefit from his labor.
Just over a week ago, my brother’s business partner decided to make my only brother into glue. That makes a brother angry. It made us BOTH angry.
So we quit and grew moustaches.
Feel free to grow a moustache in support or write us at:
FritesBelgianFries@gmail.com
We miss you all.
A cook is not being “used” if he gets paid to work in a kitchen. That’s called a JOB.