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It is little surprise that the Little Red Hen returned first; it is a twanging anomaly in the neighborhood, a country bar in an indie city, a squat and aging building across the street from a new mixed-use compound that contains, among other things, a day spa, a Pure Barre studio, a PCC, and a farm-to-table restaurant. At the Hen, the special scrawled on a board is a pound of rib-eye for $19.99—with either fries or salad. Previously its dance floor hosted boot-shod line dances nightly, the city’s oldest honky tonk. Tonight the floor is dancerless, a vacant space given over to a few tables—me at one, the ponytailed guy and the woman with him at another. Nearby a sheet of paper stuck to a post declares: “No Dancing.” Around the room sit other customers, mostly lone men scattered about. A few groups in booths. A couple more guys in back, watching baseball on TV. The place smells less like a deep fryer than I’d expect, more like cleaning products.

Gary simmonsIshmael butlerStefan milneDamien juradoMuseum of flightHonky tonkersSeattle ciderRicky gene powellLittle redOwln thistleMarshall law bandBlack tonesEngine roomHenry art galleryTractor tavernLittle red hen