Ivar's Acres Of Clams

Salty delicious benches

Food

Service

Atmosphere

We had abused every rule that Seattle lived by -- burning the stay limit at the coffee shops, abusing the tourists, terrifying the shoppers. The only chance now, I felt, was the possibility that we'd gone to such excess that nobody in the position to bring the hammer down on us could possibility believe it. 

 The wharf is where you go when you've
messed up once too often in conspicuous Seattle
- and when you're not even welcome
in the cut-rate dim sum places. Ivar's Acres of Clams  seemed like
a fairly safe haven from our storms. No hassles, no talk. Just a place to rest
and regroup. I wasn't even hungry. There was nothing in the atmosphere of
the Acres of Clams to put me on my guard.
Everyone seems glazed in the same salty montage, making it impossible to distinguish tourists from the locals, and oboes from guitars. I eat delicious fries and fish, tossing fries to the locals, one footed pigeons and seagulls. A few mysterious eaters adorn the tables and benches, but they too are a haze. 
And if you’re lucky, you might even see Ivar….there he goes now. One of God's own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die.