Ask any O.G. Seattleite or one of the last flannel-clad local mainstays nursing an espresso under the inevitable blanket of grey covering Seattle for nine months of the year and you’ll hear the same thing, “Remember when Seattle was cool?” 

Seattle, a sleepy, always rainy city, was once saturated with blue collar bars filled with fishermen and dockworkers chain-smoking at the counter while an old lady with a shotgun threw brawling drunks into the street. This was the Seattle with which I’m most familiar—the early 90s. It was the era of Seattle I loved most, and still think fondly of today. The grunge kids were still kids. The beer was cheap, the drinks were stiff, and the city still belonged, for the most part, to itself. There were only hints of Microsoft rising on the east side and Jeff Bezos was still scheming his way through Wall Street, his dreams of destroying local booksellers and facilitating “challenging” working conditions in warehouses around the world merely infantile. You couldn’t walk into a bar or cafe without seeing a musician or artist refining their craft. Love was in the air.

Fast forward to the Seattle of today, and it’s tough to find the remnants of those grittier hey days, the World’s Fair, fishermen and dockworkers, yadda yadda. But if you’re like me and you long for those days, a bar that takes you back to the stiff drinks and a dark, cozy escape from the grey, somewhere you’ll chat with a stranger, get to know the bartender and also surprisingly find yourself noshing on modest yet deliciously prepared French bistro cuisine—all seemingly in the absence of tech bros—you might find yourself in North Seattle’s Greenwood neighborhood at a spot called Gainsbourg. 

As you probably guessed, the name is a throwback to the late Serge Gainsbourg, a boozy, French, cheeky little fellow not unlike the man himself. Gainsbourg reminds me at once of old, divey Seattle and at the same time, wandering through dimly lit streets squeezed between fromagerie and brasserie, where Parisians and their expat counterparts—writers, artists and philosophers—gathered, drank, and somewhere between seeing a green fairy and passing out in a ditch, created some of the most influential ideas and art the world had ever seen. 

Step past the strip mall storefronts of Greenwood, through an office-door entrance that gives nothing away, and you’re in another world—something like a Parisian dive bar that, at least at one time would have been filled with smoke and saucy patrons discussing something about existence while Brigitte Bardot moaned in the background. You’d hear the clink of glasses, and the murmur of conversation would be padded with the scent of butter, garlic, and past-midnight decisions. Gainsbourg is that bar, and the best part is, in a world of contrived, wanna-be-authentic establishments saturating the city, it isn’t trying to impress you. It doesn’t have to.

Behind the bar, my friend and bartender Duncan moves like a man who’s been making Manhattans since France unveiled the Statue of Liberty, consequently the same year the cocktail made its way into The Modern Bartender’s Guide, and my favorite drink to order here. Ask nicely, and Duncan will make you one so stiff you’ll forget about the city and its tech bro culture and you’ll be transported with Gainsbourg as the medium, back to another time, in some ways, a simpler time. And tonight, like most nights I spend here, the best time. 

The tin roof decor is the perfect sounding board for layers of conversations that build against the backdrop of a daily happy hour, padded by grease and butter from perfectly cooked steak frites and, wait, is that escargot? Yes, escargot served up proper with crusty bread and without any French snootiness—albeit with a touch of North end grit you’ll find with the chefs here, as the seats fill up by 5pm, where most of the bangers including the highly sought-after lamb burger are on the happy hour menu. Eat and drink and smile at the bartenders—even as a stranger in the joint, you might find yourself striking up a conversation with a local or a couple visiting from another part of Seattle—clearly people in the know. 

I’m drinking wine, and then that fortified Manhattan and, why not, a beer before I have to get my hands on the frites and aioli, a magical combo that would bring any wounded soldier returning from the front lines of heavy drinking back to life. But don’t sleep on the charcuterie board, more of that buttery, snailerific escargot, or any of the specials—there’s more magic in that menu to be discovered. 

Gainsbourg is more than a diamond in the rough. It’s a fucking gem in a city challenged by urban sprawl and creatives leaving in droves from high-priced rents and the slow decay of its roots in blue collar work and arts culture. Gainsbourg isn’t nostalgia. It’s proof that some things survive. Order the burger with frites, drink too much wine, have a cocktail or 5, talk to a stranger. Seattle isn’t dead. And it’s still cool. You just have to know where to look.

For more about Gainsbourg Lounge and directions, visit https://gainsbourglounge.com.