Duck Island Ale House sits on Aurora Avenue between the 24-hour greasy spoon Beth’s Café and a lawnmower shop. A sign references the area’s notorious reputation by warning, “Prostitution and drug watch area. License numbers are being recorded.” Regardless, Duck Island is one of the most familial bars I’ve been to in Seattle. There are no hookers or blow present on a sunny Friday afternoon, just a friendly bartender, a couple of old guys, a waiter whose shift next door hasn’t started, and myself. Band of Horses is playing quietly on the jukebox and we’re all chatting like old friends. The bartender tells us she’s moving in with her boyfriend in a couple weeks. She’s worried he won’t take down the oil painting of Luke Skywalker hung above the fireplace. The waiter—who it turns out lives in my apartment complex—laments that he needs to work out more and wants to develop the much-desired “V to the P.” (It takes the rest of us a good minute to figure out what the fuck he’s even talking about.) Think washboard abs that point symmetrically down to a man’s johnson. Unfortunately for him, he’s not going to get that type of body sitting in Duck Island. The bar has 20 beers on tap and serves breakfast all day, courtesy of Beth’s. They run the food over from next door when it’s ready, so your ass never has to leave the barstool. Perhaps not coincidentally, the only six-pack in sight is the empty cardboard container that’s now a condiment holder.