Seattle once had an amusement park and boardwalk on the westside, called Luna Park. It’s been gone for 120 years, but there’s a restaurant by the same name, heavy on homage to the original, plus ample kitsch. Satan is the restaurant’s mascot and logo, which makes an atheist feel welcomed.
Walking in, I was greeted with a friendly smile from a jumbo waitress, pretty, blonde, with a mosaic of arty tattoos covering most of her visible flesh. She said I could sit anywhere, so I settled into a stool at the long counter and gave the place a long lookaround.
It needs that long lookaround. It’s an old building, maybe older than me, mildly art deco, with old-time flourishes everywhere. The floor is tiled in black-and-white checkerboard from Andy of Mayberry, with decades of scuffs. Soulful rock plays from invisible speakers, at a volume pleasant but not intrusive. There’s a jukebox, too, though nobody played it while I was there, and it probably doesn’t work — it would clash with the rock on the sound system. My authentically old counter seat wobbled a bit, and I thought about switching to a different stool, but didn’t.
The coffee came quick, hot, and good but not great, with refills offered and accepted every ten minutes or so. “Start with a cinnamon roll,” the menu suggested, and I’d never argue with that.
My pop always recommended, and so do I, that if a restaurant names a menu item after itself, that’s what you should order. It’s what they’re proudest of, right? So I ordered the Luna Park Breakfast: “Two eggs, hash browns, and choice of breakfast meat, served with buttermilk pancakes.”
The roll came in about five minutes. I’m a cinnamon roll connoisseur, so my standards might be above the standard, but for $7-frickin’-99 I was expecting something larger and better. It’s an OK roll, the size of a small man’s fist, fresh, warm, and topped with a dab of butter and powdered sugar, but scant or no icing. Kinda dry, not sweet enough or enough enough, and I wouldn’t order it again.
Alone at the restaurant, nobody to talk with, I’d brought a book. Cracked it open to where I’d left off at another restaurant several days earlier, but despite having a stool right by the front window, probably more sunlight than most seats in the restaurant, it was too dark for easy reading.
I am not, however, inclined to blame the restaurant. The lighting didn’t seem dim for any purpose other than reading, and outside was overcast. The grayest skies you’ve ever seen are in Seattle on a cloudy day.
Unable to read, I stashed the book in my backpack again, and went back to absorbing the atmosphere. It’s dominated by old-timey ads, all over the walls and even on the ceiling. “99¢ double cheeseburger every day,” a colorful auld lang sign lies, though it might’ve been true when it was first hammered to the wall. Battered old ads for Double Cola and Orange Crush and DeSota ice cream. Ten old-school owly alarm clocks lined up on a high shelf, all disagreeing about what time it was. A faded Batman and Batmobile had once offered rides for a nickel, but are now simply parked in the dining area.
On the wall above the Batmobile, there’s a small collection of Washington license plates, one of which is framed in an ad for Jim Houston Ford — hey, I worked at that car dealership, decades ago. They’ve been out of business since the 1980s, and it made me notice that all the other license plate were from different West Seattle auto dealerships, all no longer in business. There were also prominent ads for nearby restaurants long gone, like Andy’s Diner and Zippy’s Burgers. Gotta admire Luna Park’s attention to local detail.
Breakfast came, with as promised, eggs, ‘taters, the sausage I’d ordered (patty, not link, thanks), and two buttermilk pancakes. The eggs were perfect, fluffy, almost airy. The hash browns were shredded, unseasoned, and undercooked, same as every diner in America. The sausage was excellent, a tad spicier than usual but not too spicy. The hotcakes were quite good, and the accompanying maple syrup was either real or the finest fake I’ve ever had. Odd for a place to use real maple syrup and not brag about it, so I’m still not sure.
Minor problem: hard, cold butter in manufactured pats, wrapped in tin foil, impossible to unwrap and use without getting butter all over your fingers.
A larger problem: the smallness of everything. There was one (1) piece of sausage, and the hotcakes were minimalist, perhaps three inches across. Mass quantity of potatoes, though — about 2½ times the amount of hash browns you’d usually see on your plate at a restaurant.
The Luna Park Breakfast was a borderline disappointment, priced at about the going rate elsewhere, but with less of the good stuff and more of the cheapest and dullest thing on the plate, the undercooked potatoes. The meal was half potatoes, but it was fairly filling.
I’d come first thing when they opened at 8AM on a Saturday, and soon the restaurant was busy, with more people constantly streaming in. Impressively, it never felt crowded even when it was, and I’m sensitive to that. It also never became noticeably loud. Something intangible kept the place feeling friendly and personal, even when they were getting mobbed.
The vibe of Luna Park was better than the food, and so was was the waitress. Despite being wildly busy, she was always nearby and attentive. I even started to like the wobbly seat.
Will I return to Luna Park? Probably, but not for breakfast, and I won’t again set my alarm to ride two buses from home early and beat the rush.
The restaurant is on a direct busline from downtown, though, and I could see myself stopping at Luna Park after an errand to the heart of the city. I’d sit on that same wobbly stool, and I’ve heard that they serve fine burgers, fries, and especially shakes.
Luna Park Cafe
2918 Southwest Avalon Way (West Seattle)
Food & drink: OK
Price: Ehhhhh.
Service: Good.
Transit: #21, #773, RapidRide #C
Verdict: YES, just a whisker past MAYBE.
5/1/2025
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