Off to see a movie, I bused in from West Seattle to Chinatown, to catch a #7 that would take me to the theater. My plans included lunch before the show, but I hadn’t decided where.
That’s one of the great things about living in the big city — there are a hundred interesting mom & pop eateries along Rainier Ave, where the #7 runs, and I figured I’d see someplace interesting out the window of the bus, and hop off and eat.
Being not a novice on transit, I allowed a crazy amount of time. It’s a 20-minute ride from Chinatown to the theater, so I gave myself an hour and a half. Even if the service was slow, there couldn’t possibly not be enough time for lunch and reading a few chapters of Sinclair Lewis’s It Can’t Happen Here, before a leisurely ride to the cinema for the 5:00 show.
Well, it happened here.
The #7 runs every twelve minutes on Sundays, but in Chinatown, I stood waiting at the bus stop for half an hour. Then, tired of standing, I sat on a sticky bench for another ten minutes, before two #7s arrived, back-to-back. They both stopped, and I got onto the second one, because when buses come in bunches, the second bus usually, eventually, passes the first bus.
Because I’d come so early, there would still be enough time for lunch, only with less reading from the book.
On the bus, though, someone rang the bell and stepped off at the next stop, and after they’d left, the bus’s doors closed, then whooshed open again. Closed, then open. Closed, then open. It’s a hydraulics issue, something that happened twice on other buses I’ve riden. Once, the driver was able to fix it, but the other time it was everybody off, and wait for the next bus. My driver yesterday was a woman, young and petite and my apologies for the sexism, but there’s no way she’d be able to get the doors to stay closed.
She walked to the bus’s side door and kicked it twice, then fiddled with the “break this glass” emergency exit controls (without breaking the glass — turns out she had a key). Then she walked back to the front, and pushed whatever button is supposed to close the doors, and the doors closed, then whooshed open again. Closed, then open. Closed, then open.
She sighed and so did I, but then she came back and worked on those emergency controls again, this time without kicking the door. Then she walked back to the front, pushed the button that closes the doors, and … the doors closed. And stayed closed. Hooray for the kick-ass woman driver!
During that drama, though, another #7 bus had gone past us. I checked the time, and with only about 40 minutes until the movie starts, we were still 20 minutes from the theater. There’s be no lunch, unless it was fast-food.
Oh, but wait. There’s a McDonald’s ahead. I hate ’em, sure, but it could be comfort food, and it would be quick…
Oh, but wait. McD has kiosks now, instead of people you can say “Big Mac” to. Each of the last three times I’ve tried eating at McDonald’s the kiosk wouldn’t work for me, so stopping there would only waste time. There’d be no food.
Oh, but wait. Philly’s Cheesesteak Shop is at the next light. That’s a mom & pop place I’d been meaning to try, and they’d have actual employees, and it’s in an old fast-food building so it’s probably fast. I rang the bell, stepped off the bus, walked half a block to Philly’s and… they’re closed on Sundays.
All this was a frustration, but not a crisis. I’d had breakfast seven hours earlier, and wouldn’t keel over from malnutrition. Maybe I’d get a ‘hunger headache’ during the movie, though. That’s what my brain does to me when my belly’s too empty for too long.
The next #7 was only a few minutes’ wait, and I arrived at the Beacon Cinema with ten minutes to spare. Bought a popcorn, which comes with free refills, and got my first refill before the movie had even started. Also bought a box of Reese’s, which I’d thought would be Cups but instead was Pieces. Together, the popcorn and Pieces were the price of a lunch, and enough calories to put the hunger on hold.
♦ ♦ ♦
The movie was Mon Oncle (1958), and it was the opposite of my ride to the theater. It’s a marvelous French comedy, short on dialogue but chock-full of chuckles and clever sight gags.
Director Jacques Tati plays Monsieur Hulot, a man of hat and pipe and not much sense but plenty of heart. The best comic bits come from the house where Hulot’s sister lives with her highfalutin’ husband and their young son. Everything about the house is a whirlwind of geometric shapes, plus there’s a push-button fountain and laser-beam garage door opener. The neighbors are ditzy and pretentious, and when there’s a dinner party with Monsieur Hulot and all the ditzy neighbors at this almost-cartoon house, it comes with all the giggles you could ask for.
Other than Tati’s first movie with this character, Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday, I can’t think of another flick so successfully easygoing — it wanders amiably through all of France, in no hurry to make you laugh, but it does, over and over again.
Verdict: BIG YES. The movie was so funny I forgot I was hungry, but on the way out I noticed an Ezell’s Famous Chicken in the strip mall across the street.
♦ ♦ ♦
Ezell’s is a local chain that all the locals love, except me. I’ve eaten there only once, at a different location, and it was the most bizarrely flavorless food I’d ever eaten. It looked great, but tasted exactly like a symptom of COVID, where you can’t taste anything at all.
And yet, everyone keeps telling me Ezell’s is marvelous, so I’d been meaning to give ’em a second chance. And there it was, so I crossed the street, and ordered a package deal — four pieces of dark meat, with two rolls.
Had a bad suspicion, though, because even waiting in the lobby while they prepped my order, all I could smell was the Domino’s Pizza next door.
I will tell you, Ezell’s rolls were divine — hot, fresh, buttery without me adding butter, and as light and airy as the movie I’d just seen. The chicken was hot, too, and again utterly devoid of flavor. It was like eating hot, greasy, nothing. I sprinkled salt on every bite, which made it edible if not palatable.
To my surprise, my fourth and final piece of chicken tasted like something. But not chicken. It tasted only of spices. I’d ordered ‘original recipe’, but they’d accidentally given me one drumstick that was ‘spicy style’.
It was OKish for spicy, but I prefer the taste of chicken, not cayenne pepper or jalapenos or nitroglycerin or whatever. At least I didn’t have to salt that last drumstick, and I amused myself by imagining what Monsour Hulot might’ve done.
Now I’ve had two chicken dinners at Ezell’s Famous, and still haven’t tasted any chicken. There won’t be a third visit.
Ezell’s Famous Chicken
4436 Rainier Ave S, Rainier Valley
Food: bland.
Price: OK.
Service: bland.
Transit: #7, #50.
Verdict: BIG NO.
4/7/2025
itsdougholland.com
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