I’ve had an ongoing dialogue with the boys from Basic Juice and The Caveman lately about wine-ola. You know, how to maintain that line between content and advertisements, not letting the free stuff turn you into a whore, yadda, yadda, yadda….

I don’t really give this much thought because I’m too rigid on the topic for it to matter. I have banner ads like everyone else, I guess. It’s one of those unwritten rules. And everyone loves Google. But how do you think most newspaper features done get wrote? Proposals submitted, free dinners and products proffered, that’s how. So if I’ve paid for something myself, I’ll glow as much as I want. But I’ve been getting a lot more free shit lately. And I figure, if they send it of their own volition, they better not expect anything. Right? I learned my quid pro quo lesson hella hard and hella young, from some pretty big shoulders. Let’s just say the morals to some stories will stick with you forever. The moral to that one: courtside seats are never worth it. So invite me to lunch or send me jams and jellies at your peril.

That being said, sometimes you get invited to an event somewhere you already know is damn well fabulous. So you make sure to show–on time, on point, and belly empty. Such was the case Monday night when I was treated to the most tasty of meals at Crave in the Capital Hill neighborhood (1621 12th Ave) in Seattle. I already adore this place, but I am mainly a brunch customer–for no reason at all other than their brunch fucking rocks. And I pontificate freely in light of how much of my own money I have spent at this establishment. The entire menu is refreshingly different, yet familiar. Omlettes may hide duck confit; pancakes are baby Dutch; Croques Madames headline, and Pomegranate Mimosas cost $3.50. Do I need to justify myself any further? It’s the only breakfast where I actually eat courses because I refuse to settle on just one dish. Dinner holds a similar feel–how do you decide when each dish has something that snags your eye? Something…a little different.

Robin Leventhal is the chef/owner of the 29 seat eatery, and I can’t believe this was the first time that I’d met her. Not surprising, she has the same easy way about her as most of the service staff. Right away you get that she wants to make sure you’re fed and happy and comfortable. A chef that listens to the inner grandmother! One of the more rare, but most desired by me, qualities a chef can have–it requires a certain amount of “humble.” Robin says that she wants to challenge the palate a little bit. “But my desire and vision was about accessability and being a neighborhood spot…trying to reach people, not creating this put you off, pretentious environment,” she says. From your lips to the CIA’s ears, Robin.

We started with blue cheese walnut short bread and pear chutney, homemade, meat-topped flatbread, and mussels in a fresh coconut milk chili-lime broth(one of my favorite liquids) with mango salsa. All sung with a zesty Blanco Nieva Verdejo that smelled like lemongrass and white pepper. Must pace myself.

My salad of impossibly fresh watercress was fantastic and dressed with carmalized onions, Manchengo, and cardomom spiced almonds–not the typical sweet/sour balsamic, more of a salty sour big refresher before the entree. It seemed like half of the table ordered the duck confit with bread pudding and fig compote. Can’t say as I blame them. But I went Flintstones and got the lamb shank with braised Escarole and a sultana-studded polenta cake with a crispy, just right outside. The lamb was braised with Mexican chocolate and ancho chilis. Not an attempt at fancified molé, just a suggestion of molé. Because that’s all that sweet little shank needed–and nothing more. And that’s how Robin rolls. Everyone, no matter their choice of critter, gave thumbs up to the Pio Cesare Barbera–it had a bold red cherry flavor that knew when to shut up and let the food talk and an acidity and texture made for the table. A bolder Scala Dei Priorat also made for good dining–lush and a bit more structured and not as mui macho as most of that region’s wines. (Both hover around $15.)

Dessert, again, was all about the little touches, Grand Marnier in the pot de creme, little bits of candy ginger in the apple cobbler. But a chocolate and banana terrine was my favorite. Which is strange: I hate anything banana, except bananas. This dessert was four or five slices of a chilled, just short of fudge, bittersweet chocolate and pure virgin banana, propped up against a big scoop of coconut gelato. It was one of my favorite things of the night, for the sheer fact that everything about it screamed “you will not like me.” But I did, because it was all about the little differences–just like everything else at Crave.

In short, my miopic, greedy pursuit of the perfect breakfast has denied me, heretofore, some kick ass dinners. I intend to make up for lost time. Food cryogenics and kitchy comfort food are soooo out. Chef home cookin’ is in.