Seattle Nightlife Report: The Hideout

We're only grabbing one more drink on Saturday night but you know where to go. Rub your fingertips on mine before grabbing my palm, teasing me from the corner of Boren and Madison down the unsuspecting First Hill sidewalk towards a couple smokers outside an almost-hidden door. You hold it open for me and your smirking brown eyes flit towards flickering candles under the tables and the beloved bar’s world of bustling locals, gently flowing vibes, and curated art covering the walls expands to let us in. I pretend for a second I’ve never been here before because my delight always makes you smile. Yeah man, I love the Hideout.

The iconic bar just had its 20th anniversary. Founded in 2005 by two buddies who wanted a dark, glamorous, iconic space all their friends would want to hang out at, the Hideout became a First Hill favorite for art lovers looking to purchase new painting from the gallery to add to their collection, goth music lovers hoping to dance to Wax Witch's tunes with RepoMan's Roses at Night Moves, and sound-artists-poets gathering for the Unpoetry afterparty.

After so many years, you never know who you'll run into when you gaze up at the horses sharing an ice cream cone, red rotary phone HEADRUSH, woman relaxing in a Nirvana T-shirt -- we have so many communal memories, each distinct but blurring together in the huge old fashioned ice box next to the bottled beers. Everyone who walks in looks like each other, reminds us of people we used to know. A hardworking barback. Your friend with clear-frame glasses and black hair. That guy who tucks his shirt into high rise jeans with a button fly.

My favorite drink (the Bourbon-based Blue Jeans & A Rosary) isn’t on the menu any more. The perennially out of order Hood Witch machine has finally been replaced by a new contraption called The Oracle from Seattle-based Okay Vending, which seems to only spit out matter-of-fact answers; “Meh” lives on the mantle in my apartment entry to remind me that everything is usually just alright, and that’s great. Things change! People change, the art on the walls change. Dear ones I've hung out with at the Hideout moved away, or we grew apart, or a miscommunication simmered for months too long. It’s gonna be okay, baby.

I went to the Hideout for the stroke of midnight on Mother’s Day this year. Holidays are difficult for many people and it's nice to have a place to go. There was a spot for me on a barstool to read a short story on my phone by one of my favorite fiction writers: "My Mother Breathing Light" by Stephanie Vaughn where a daughter takes her mother battling cancer on a walk. Reminded me of a man I met sitting in the same stool last winter just before closing. He and his sister took turns flying in from Alaska to visit his mom during her treatment around the corner at Virginia Mason Medical Center. I thought about my own mom, a breast cancer survivor who died in 2005 in an accidental overdose. Maybe I was too drunk but it was okay for me to cry in public here. " 'It's all right,' I say to my mother, holding her close in the fog. 'Everything will be all right.' "

I went to the Hideout on a typical Friday night. A group of couples dressed in 1920s costumes (flapper dresses and shirts with the top button left undone) overwhelmed a new bartender who looked at the cocktail recipes while performing for them. I waited patiently, content to watch him work. Exhausted, he turned to me and asked, “What do you want?” Knowing how annoying it would be, I asked him for a Negroni. He took a fifteen minute break then came back to make it for me, introduced himself, and served it on the house. We shook hands and I was happy to know him even briefly. I headed to the window seat’s cushions to spend time gazing at the gold candelabra chandeliers to read john compton's poetry. I recognized the distinct way he described a scalpel slicing ache out of his sternum, the grief and pain we all feel. Since then, he's become one of my closest pals.

I went to to the Hideout in the afternoon when a dear friend got off work. It was one of our first dates and he’d never been there before. Conveniently meeting just a few blocks from my apartment, we entered from the sping afternoon into the before the Happy Hour rush, no one there but us and the bartender. We bonded over our love of literature and Washington State, sharing recommendations and pictures of places we'd like to go together and since then, we did: Last month we drove through the Northern Cascades to the Pend Orielle River and down to Spokane. Before we knew each other so well, I decided to try a new cocktail. The Butterfly Cowboy is my new favorite.

But now you’ve brought me back to the Hideout and we get to make a new memory together. It starts with just one more, big guy, then we'll see. We grab two bottles of Victoria and a couple stools in the back hallway under the framed pictures of everyone who’s loved this place before, before we go back by the open door and look at the dumpsters and the Hotel Sorrento under the moon.

Tonight I won’t order the Andy Warhol Cosmopolitan to sip on while the bartender snaps a Polaroid but know I'll always remember you. I gently guide you to the back corner where we hold hands, close our eyes, load quarters into The Oracle and ask what’s going to happen next. The paper slides out: “Unclear. Try Again.”

Joe Nasta is a foodie and poet vibing in Seattle. He has whispered four books of poetry into the world: I want you to feel ugly, too (2021); agony: love pomes (2022); blur/screenshot memories of platonic lust (2023); and salt-water poems (2024). He is the author of Halve It (2025), a collection of short stories available wherever books are sold. Ze is an associate editor for Elizabeth Ellen's Hobart. He's lived on First Hill, Seattle on and off since 2016.