when anthony bourdain was asked about which food he obsessed, he recalled a time when he was given the choice of forsaking pork or acknowledging mortality and decrepitude with a lifetime of heart medication. we all know which side of the argument he came down on, so how appropriate for seattle’s newest gastropub to be named after the chinook word for piggy. happy hour was about to end in ten minutes as i ran downhill four blocks in four-inch heels to the depths of harbor steps. i burst through the doors with mere minutes to spare and quickly proceeded to order two of everything on the happy hour menu, from spiced olives and marcona almonds to housemade sausage with spaetzle to the special cocktail of the day, the moscow mule. as my cocktail thursday guests trickled in (ever the fashionably late), a veritable small plates feast awaited them. like the stills of a time-lapse camera, the food slowly disappeared, but the night was young and we ordered a round of bartenders choice. the waitress returned with a martinez, a truth-telling serum of gin, antica, fernet, and maraschino. this ancestor of the martini had me glowing within mere sips, and might have been the turning point for my own growing obsession with gin.