Some weeks ago, out the window of a bus on Eastlake, I noticed a place called 14 Carrot Cafe, and jotted it into my notebook because I love carrot cake. When I got home, Google told me it’s a diner that makes carrot cake-pancakes, and I knew I’d be there soon.
It was only a week later when I made the mid-level long bus ride from home. The ride, though, included a morality test, which I failed.
A man was taking his young son someplace, and the kid wouldn’t stay seated, so the man yelled at the boy, “Sit down!”, “Sit down!”, and the inevitable “I told you to sit down!” The kid, though, kept walking around while the bus rolled, but all this was happening a few seats behind mine, so I could only hear it, couldn’t see it.
In addition to yelling at the boy, his dad was also conversing with a woman on the bus, flirting with her. Between sly comments, he told the woman that he was taking the boy to daycare “for my sanity,” and described him — three times — as “my adopted son.”
This grated on me, fast. Two of my brothers and one of my sisters were adopted, but it’s a verb, not an adjective. The adoption happened, but it’s not a one-word description of any child a parent allegedly loves. This man said “my adopted son” like he’s accustomed to saying it, and what’s that do to a kid, when he hears it all his life?
That’s what I should’ve shouted at the man, but instead I only thought about shouting it, and then he rang the bell and got off the bus — dragging the boy on a leash. A frickin’ leash, for a child.
Last chance, Doug, you could get off the bus too, and follow them, and berate that man on the sidewalk as he walks his “adopted son” like a dog…
But I didn’t. I wanted carrot cake, not a confrontation, and the diner was only ten or so blocks away. And fuckall, it still pisses me off days later as I’m writing this. Doesn’t piss me off at that man. It pisses me off at me.
♦ ♦ ♦
When I walked into 14 Carrot Cafe, a pleasant waitress greeted me with a “Good morning” that didn’t feel fake. “Make yourself comfortable, sit anywhere,” she said, with several breakfasts on her arm as she whirled away to deliver them to another table.
The restaurant is woody and warm, looks like it’s been there for decades, with a few dozen tables and ample kitsch on the bright yellow walls. It’s slightly split-level, with seats in the back one step above seats in the front, and I figured the elevation might give me a better view of the restaurant and the sidewalk outside, so I hopped up that step, and took a table at the ledge overlooking the lower level.
The same waitress was at my table surprisingly soon, asked if I wanted coffee, and left a menu which I studied for not very long, until she returned with the coffee in a large ceramic cup.
I’d come for carrot cake-pancakes, but suddenly had doubts. The combination would be easy to get wrong, and if I didn’t like the carrot cake, I wouldn’t like the pancakes, and vice versa. Instead I ordered what’s called the Lake Union Scramble.
While it cooked, I read a book from my backpack, but also eavesdropped on a father and son at the table just below the ledge, six feet to my right and a foot or so below me.
The kid was about six, same age as the boy on the bus, but without the leash. His father was attentive and in tune with his son, and it was obvious that they’d been to breakfast here before, perhaps often. The boy talked about school and ships and a TV show, and the father listened and asked and answered questions.
What got me was, the boy’s dad was right there at the table. He wasn’t thinking of something else he had to do later on. Wasn’t reading a book or scrolling a screen.
My dad was like that boy’s dad, but only at special events. He’d take the family to the zoo or the circus, and be all-dad all the way, listening and interacting and loving his six kids. But that was uncommon. Usually my dad was preoccupied with problems from the office, or reading his newspaper or sci-fi novels, and us kids were obstacles that got in the way.
Watching this dad at the restaurant was like seeing my dad on those rare family days, only I had the odd impression that this dad was like this all the time.
And then my breakfast arrived, and it was mostly excellent. The scramble is an eggs & sausage & ham & bacon & cheddar concoction, fluffy and flavorful and there was more of it that you’d expect. Maybe three eggs instead of two?
The toast was fancy bread, not Wonder™, and came with a glass bowl of strawberry jam, possibly homemade, but excellent even if it was from a factory.
The potatoes were a disappointment, very bland, shredded but undercooked and unseasoned.
The coffee, though, was what Dale Cooper would’ve called damned fine.
It was almost enough breakfast to fill me, but not quite, and anyway, I’d come for the carrot cake, so I asked the waitress for two slices to go.
As I walked toward the exit, passing the father and son’s table, I said “Hey,” because I wanted them to hear what I was going to say next. “You’re a good dad,” I said.
“Well, thanks,” the good dad said. “It’s easy when you’ve got a good kid.” And he reached across the table and tussled the boy’s hair.
He’d easily, instantly deflected a compliment aimed at him, and made it a compliment for his son. It’s 2025, and that guy is the father from Little House on the Prairie, only he’s for real, not fiction.
I thought about that father and son all the way home, eating my carrot cake on the bus. And it was quite good, but not good enough to name an entire restaurant after it. The carrot cake certainly had the right sweetness and flavor, but it was slightly dense and dry, and my strong suspicion is that it was made the day before I came.
14 Carrot Cafe
2305 Eastlake Ave E, Seattle (Lake Union)
Food & drink: good
Dessert: good
Price: reasonable
Service: very good
Transit: #70
Verdict: YES.
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