Bar food takes a turn toward the islands at Chamorikén.
At 10 pm on a Friday night, most of the people at Capitol Hill’s the Wash seem high enough for the entire bar to take flight, floating into the night sky on the good ship Lolli-pot. I feel every year of my age when I begin raving about the salad that came on the side of my fried shrimp plate. The pickled onions taste like candy, not in a cloying, sugary way, but as a fantastical amplification of the onion’s own distinct sweetness; the scallions and cilantro tuck into the tangle of chopped lettuce. A guy I
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