Sojourn in Spokane: Skippers’

Sometimes places take on emotional meaning far beyond their original purpose. For me, such a place is that former West Coast institution Skippers’ Seafood and Chowder House, in particular their Monroe street location.

It isn’t the most impressive architecture, but Skippers has excellent fish, shrimp, and chowder and a handy All You Can Eat scheme for particularly long and tiring days. It was common on Friday nights when my mom worked late for my Dad and I to stake out a table at Skippers’, order some food, and then read; he his book and I mine. One of the perks of being a book lover is that reading with another book lover is a very companionable experience, even if you never actually talk to each other (except of course when my father enacted his dreaded “shrimp tax” on my all-you-can-eat shrimp). Indeed if I could relive any one memory I have of my father, it would probably be sharing seafood and books in a cozy booth on a cold winter evening.

There were a lot of “firsts” that occurred at Skippers. My first non-Tolkien fantasy novels (R.A. Salvatore’s Dark Elf Trilogy). My first Harry Turtledove novel (Guns of the South). My first reading of Moby-Dick, probably the best novel ever to grace the English language (and believe me, reading it in a low-lit seafood restaurant on a cold night gives it the perfect atmosphere). My first retreats from the confusing and often painful world of adolescent relationships. And, of course, the first restaurant I visited alone after my father passed away.

With all those memories packed into one restaurant, you can imagine how upset I was to hear of the demise of the Skippers’ chain this year and the presumed closing of their restaurants. Those of you who played Wraith: The Oblivion during the previous incarnation of the World of Darkness will well understand the concept of the “fetter”: a physical location or object of emotional significance that binds a spirit to the world of the living. If my father’s wraith had a character sheet with the Storyteller System’s trademark dots, Skippers’ would be listed prominently among his fetters.

Thankfully, in driving by the restaurant hoping to get some forlorn-looking pictures for the blog, I discovered that Great Dagon had heard my prayer and brought forth his fishy bounty anew. Like the Roman Empire, Skippers’ was not so much destroyed as broken down into component local franchises: squabbling feudal remnants of a once mighty Imperium of Fish. The Monroe Skippers is under the control of one of these franchises, and they’re working to get back on their feet and restore some of the former glory. It’s like a sort of Seafood Byzantium, preserving the chowders of a happier time while the world around descends into night.

So, after all that, I suppose I ought to say something about the actual dining experience. Fortunately, Herman Melville foresaw the Skippers’ business model back in 1842 when he wrote Moby-Dick, although he called it the “Try Pots” and put it on the wrong coast:

But when that smoking chowder came in, the mystery was delightfully explained. Oh! sweet friends, hearken to me. It was made of small juicy clams, scarcely bigger than hazel nuts, mixed with pounded ship’s biscuits, and salted pork cut up into little flakes! The whole enriched with butter, and plentifully seasoned with pepper and salt. Our appetites being sharpened by the frosty voyage, and in particular Queequeg seeing his favorite fishing food before him, and the chowder being surpassingly excellent, we despatched it with great expedition: when leaning back a moment and bethinking me of Mrs. Hussey’s clam and cod announcement, I thought I would try a little experiment. Stepping up to the kitchen door, I uttered the word “cod” with great emphasis, and resumed my seat. In a few moments the savoury steam came forward again, but with a different flavor, and in good time a fine cod chowder was placed before us.

We resumed business; and while plying our spoons in the bowl, thinks I to myself, I wonder now if this here has any effect on the head? What’s that stultifying saying about chowder-headed people? “But look, Queequeg, ain’t that a live eel in your bowl? Where’s your harpoon?”

Fishiest of all fishy places was the Try Pots, which well deserved the name; for the pots there were always boiling chowders.” 

-Moby-Dick, Chapter 15: “Chowder”