How Not to Celebrate Bloomsday: Big Time Brewery, Deluxe Nachos

June 16, 2004: The hundredth anniversary of the day Mr. Leopold Bloom fictionally walked around Dublin, thinking about his unfaithful wife, occasionally crossing paths with young Stephen Dedalus, all the while carrying a bar of lemon soap in his pocket. Every year since god-knows-when, James Joyce aficionados have enthusiastically celebrated this day with re-enactments, public readings of Ulysses, or just trips to the bar for pints of Guinness. For the big 100, my father and I thought we ought to at least do that last one, since we both had to work, and we really aren’t quite nerdy enough for dressing up as Leo and Molly, or Buck Mulligan and Mrs. Grogan, so Dad suggested we meet up at the Big Time Brewery at 5pm, the hour of the Cyclops episode. Unfortunately, he hadn’t done his homework, and it turns out the Big Time, far from being an Irish-style pub, is in fact an independent microbrewery, exclusively serving its own ales, porters, and lagers. We had the option of going uphill a block, to Finn MacCool’s, the local “Irish” pub (note the quote marks), but we simply could not face trying to read Ulysses amongst rowdy frat boys and other genera of doofuses. So we made do with our ersatz Harp’s and our ersatz Guinness, and since there were no kidneys or mutton joints or plums, and the whole Bloomsday celebration was ruined anyway, we ordered nachos.

I can endorse the Big Time’s beers, if you’re visiting Seattle and want to sample the local brews, as many tourists are wont to do. The porter is nice and malty without being too sweet, the ale properly dry and hoppy. But, friends, do not order nachos here. First: the chips were stale and too salty. Second: the cheese, that suspicious colby/jack blend one finds cheap at supermarkets, was insufficiently melted, and rather rubbery. Third: way too many jalapenos. Fourth and finally: the salsa was of a particular type that I have only encountered here in Seattle. I cannot identify it for certain, but it had the overly cilantro-y, stewed tomato-y, hippie-grub reek akin to the San Juan or Essential Foods brands that infect the local health food co-ops. It is the sort of salsa one might find in a Deadhead mess hall caravan, alongside whole wheat seitan pita pockets and hemp-carob spelt bars. It is so far removed from Mexican culinary discourse as to be frankly insulting, even to this Northern, pasty gringa reviewer.

If you find yourself in the University District of Seattle, WA, and are in need of a hot, tasty plate of nachos, do yourself a favor and pass by the Big Time. Wander, instead, toward the HUB, or just keep moving.

This review is dedicated to Monique, who has the cultural experience and vocabulary to have done a better job than I have in describing just how awful these nachos were.