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Double date restaurants Bellevue

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But the times are a-changin.

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Chef and owner Nathan Lockwood came from the private dining club the Ruins, where he developed an eye for rococo decadence—one formidable angel gazes down from the rafters—and a gift for making diners feel like treasured guests. Service is notably stunning.

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Off a weekly changing menu, slices of muscovy duck might come fanned over red cabbage with crumbled amaretti and caramel-roasted turnip; scallops may be dusted with fennel pollen alongside grilled radicchio and fennel.

And what once was a semicustomizable three- four- or five-course meal has fully evolved into a bona fide prix-fixe tasting menu. Do save room for dessert, which may be a boozy affogato of mascarpone gelato and amaro. Ten years ago, a mere 20 or so diners would assemble inside a snug, squat Fremont bungalow to eat a parade of dishes from the mind of a chef.

But in AprilRonspies and his co-owner and wife, Shannon Van Horn, decamped for a room full of windows and tasteful blond woodwork on Stone Way. Everything hits, one deftly presented plate after another: a chilled bowl of peppery pea vine soup with a dollop of creme fraiche, an asparagus terrine so green that Kermit himself might offer a fist bump of solidarity.

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Lucky Beacon Hill, that its pizzeria so embodies the soul of the neighborhood restaurant. The place bubbles, from the sheer crush of devotees inside its tidy, clean-lined quarters to its wood-fired pizza crusts—crispy and flavorful like Neapolitan with a little more tooth to the chew. These pies are the province of master pizzaiolo Jerry Corso, who delivers a short list of regional Italian antipasti, seasonal sal, and terrific Italian desserts—along with cocktails, wines, and beers—to round out the main event. Out of a winsome whitewashed farmhouse setting in Bellevue come plates of inspired Asian fusion so buoyant they ricochet across the palate like pinballs: dishes like smoked date shoulder with soy-pickled green garlic, charred spring onions, and paper-thin daikon radishes in a black bean vinaigrette, or morsels of grilled pork shoulder with seasonal kimchi—served as larges or smalls to enable full dinners or affordable grazing.

The food is restaurants and satisfying, the welcome genuine, the bar scene lively credit thoughtful cocktailsand the enchanting hidden courtyard a sun-dappled must on the romance tour. Double only restaurant in the city to legitimately rate as mythic has been perched out over the vertiginous eastern edge of Queen Anne Hill since That makes it about as classic as it gets around here—right down to the midcentury split-level architecture, the dress code fancy attire encouragedthe noblest mixed drinks in town, fathoms-deep wine list, perfectionist standard of service where the valets remember your car without aid of a claim ticketand the whole breathtaking sweep of Lake Union twinkling just beyond the windows.

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Because the third generation of Canlis family restaurateurs insists on culinary relevance, the food is every bit as grand: Both the warhorses yes, the Canlis salad is still on the menu and the more experimental, rigorously Northwest multicourse dinners are genuinely impeccable.

Service has been updated as well, to a most intelligent and nimble brand of affability. A couple of rustic Italian ristoranti delight the crowds of Wallingford and Bellevue with fresh, constantly rotating antipasti, contorni, housemade pastas, and mains—some rarely seen, like tortellini in brodo, and a stunning casoncelli with pancetta and amaretto crumbles—and some classic crowd-pleasers.

Bellevue’s cooler than you think. here are some excellent restaurants and bars to confirm that.

Earthy studies in farmhouse minimalism with plank tables and wrought-iron chandeliers, the places are constantly slammed; while the no-reservations-for-parties-of-fewer-than-six rule is out, the affable neighborhood ambience, the reasonable price tags, and the hard liquor remain. All dim and brick lined, the place unites brainy cocktails with sly small plates: maybe grilled peaches with celery leaf and fennel and a smear of blue cheese puree, maybe a duck hot dog with salsa verde, maybe a serving of french fries done up in chicken fat.

An intimate seat room on the top of Queen Anne Hill is both romantic and robust—in energetic vibe and in muscular food, thanks to young Maximillian Petty, a classically trained overachiever. His wit is all over the menu—Crispy Pig Head Candybar anyone?

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As failings go, that can look an awful lot like success. Out of the rafters he carved a casual lofted upstairs bar, offering charcuterie and crudo, along with plenty of pleasantly bitter cocktails. One of the most cosmopolitan lunch and dinner stops in Seattle, its packed bar and plummy fixtures and soaring sight lines making it feel like a great party in a gloriously unaffordable home.

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Look for careful execution on short, well-chosen menus of both French classics terrific fish dishes, seared foie gras and accessible everyman food, like the killer buck rib-eye burger, at prices below what you might expect amid this much style. Chef and co-owner J. Proville grew up mostly in France and knows its subtleties, in dishes like a fathomless bouillabaisse with Northwest shellfish under a pastry crust or a tartine of house-smoked bacon with greens on charred brioche.

Northwest seafood is his thing; natural wines a close second. Cocktails are not to be missed. Grilled beef la lot, drunken chicken, and clay pot catfish sustain breathless followings.

As does weekend dim sum brunch. As does the Seattle rooftop, glorious in summer.

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The happy hour destination north of the Cut is this farmhouse-rustic bistro on a corner in Ravenna, where small-plate favorites like cambozola fondue with pears and fontina mac and cheese have fan clubs. Careful owners train a close eye on details, and, though execution can vary, goodwill is constant.

The place is smaller than its popularity, so prepare to wait.

But the little place with the charming ferry view has a Seattleite soul, lighting with particular fondness on Northwest seafood. Other dishes ply the regions between solid and pleasing, with the occasional foray into truly admirable—like the lush creme brulee for dessert.

Go to the frenetic corner of Pine and Melrose. Step inside the bustling wedge of a restaurant. Enter Brooklyn.

The veal is a house specialty and a guilty pleasure; the steak, known among cognoscenti, is a triumph, as in the tiramisu. When diners decreed it a happy hour destination, RN74 leaned in with a lineup of snacks and booze that feel like an even better deal given the supremely luxe room. But mostly Seven Beef is a steak house, starring around 13 cuts a night, competently prepared and served in simple pools of demiglace.

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If this feels oddly hybridized, these sorts of disconnects live at the heart of this spendy yet youthfully freewheeling house, where side orders of things like beet sal and brandades and sweet potatoes cooked in woodsmoke vary madly but a happy vibe prevails from buzzing bar to flaming grill, all the way up to the timber rafters. They play records! The restaurant is small, after all, and possessed of whatever intangible it takes to invest in something with a sense of place.

Sipping a lush cocktail at the marble bar amid this welkin of starry votives is just what you want to do in your neighborhood pub, nibbling off a menu featuring a mix of pizza, charcuterie, pub cheese, a few entrees, and a few desserts, like a buttermilk-sweet biscuit with creme fraiche.

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What it lacks in consistency it makes up for in excellence when Single Shot is on its game, making it a crapshoot—but one that the ambience makes worthwhile. Allow time to find parking, though moving to the neighborhood may be faster. His caramelized cauliflower bedsheet ravioli is just one of the reasons diners have so much fun here. Art of the Table's artfully plated dishes.

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Image: Amber Fouts. Image: Olivia Brent. L'Oursin's bouillabaisse under a pastry crust. Filed under.

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