There’s no way I’m not eating at a place called Pigfish Café. It’s located in what the Chamber of Commerce calls “Olde Burien,” but anyone else would call it Burien. That’s a quiet suburb a few miles south of southwest Seattle.
Outside, the restaurant is yellow like the sun, but inside it’s a bit dark, and nearly railroad-car narrow. It might seat two dozen, with three stools at a ledge looking out the front window, two booths at the back, and two small tables across from the counter and kitchen, near the front. It’s a tight fit for a fat man, and about one footstep after I’d walked in, I was at the counter.
“Good morning,” said the 30-ish woman who’d apparently been waiting for me. “Would you like a menu?”
“Nope, I studied the menu in the window, and I know what I want.”
“Cool, but the daily specials are on the wall behind you.”
Oooh, a daily special might mean more food for less money, so I twirled and studied the wall, reconsidering my fish taco plans. About a dozen options were on the specials wall, but nah, the fish tacos ($17) were what I’d come for. However, I’d walked six blocks instead of taking the bus to get there, which earned an order of onion rings ($8) off the wall. I paid and tipped in advance, and took the most distant booth, which in a place so tiny isn’t distant at all.
The décor is pleasant but nothing much — a multi-state collection of old license plates on the wall opposite me, a few small flourishes on the other wall, and a section dedicated to crayoned pictures of fish, taped up.
Alvin & the Chipmunks were in the air, singing “Jingle Bells,” because it was a few days before Xmas. When that finished, it was Nat King Cole’s “Chestnuts,” Andy Williams’ “O Holy Night,” etc, and cripes I hate Christmas, but at least the volume was low.
The table in my booth was thick, dark, wooden, substantial. The seat, comfy. Directly behind me, stairs led down to the basement, for employees only. I’d come at exactly the opening moment, 11AM, and I was the first and only customer until about halfway through my meal.
Out came the book I’m reading, but I only made it through a few pages before lunch was delivered. On a yellow-splashed metal plate, three fish tacos, each about three fingers in size, and on the other side of the plate, a simple salad — only lettuce, perhaps some slightly spiced oil, and several thin slices of red onion. Two small plastic tubs of dressing are provided, but I tried neither. The salad needs no dressing.
I hadn’t asked and hadn’t been sure, but the fish tacos are soft, wrapped in tortillas, not hard tacos. That’s appreciated, cuz hard taco shells always find my missing teeth and painfully jab into my gums.
At first bite, the fish tacos are — oh my God, what’s beyond exquisite? The ingredients appear to be only lightly battered cod, finely shredded lettuce, and a smattering of tartar, but the flavor is immeasurable, luscious, an absolutely rock’n’roll dance. Srsly, I grew up in Seattle, and know fried and breaded fish, but this fish is from some magical pond on the sparkling shores of heaven. I’ve simply never had a better fish dish. And they don’t scrimp on size, either.
The onion rings are sizzling hot, perfectly fried, crunchy on the outside, moist and oniony on the inside, and they’re all large. Presumably the smaller cuts of onion get chopped into the restaurant’s homemade tartar sauce? Rings are served with a smallish bowl of sauce that looks like Thousand Island, but I generally prefer onion rings un-dipped. After a few bites, though, I tried the dip, and it’s not Thousand Island, it’s Fire Island. Or as least, Spark Island — spices, and heat, and my remaining rings were dipped until the dip was gone, and then I tongued the last of the sauce from the bowl.
As for service, well, nobody came ’round to ask “Is everything OK?” but that’s not necessary in a place so small. The waitress had told me as she brought my food, to simply holler or wave if I needed anything, and the entire restaurant isn’t much bigger than my bedroom, so she was never out of sight.
As a man of minimal means, price matters to me, and with tip this lunch was over thirty bucks, which approaches painful. But if I’d skipped the onion rings, it would’ve tallied less than 25, which is reasonable, and the fish tacos & salad would make a satisfying meal for anyone, even big fat me. When I come back, though, I’m not skipping the onion rings.
Pigfish Café
921 SW 152nd St, Burien
Food & drink: excellent.
Price: good.
Service: good.
Transit: #631, RapidRide #H.
Verdict: BIG YES.
12/23/2025
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