It was only, like, two years ago that Smarty Pants was located in a desolate part of town. I remember my first visit there: Airport Way was deserted, the warehouse across the street was crumbling, and driving to the neighborhood felt like a choose-your-own-adventure book of train tracks and warehouses. Not so anymore, friends: Not only is Georgetown as hopping as Ballard these days, it feels as easy to reach as Fremont, and that once-crumbling warehouse (the Rainier Cold Storage building) has been reduced to rubble…all for better or worse. The sun now shines brightly on Smarty Pants, the restaurant started by Georgetown resident and motorcycle enthusiast Tim Ptak because he was, well, hungry (see, kids, Georgetown used to be a barren industrial wasteland). We hit the outdoor patio on a recent Saturday morning and found the place pretty well full of the usual hipsters and roller-derby girls that make up a large portion of G-town. I’ve never been much for Bloody Mary mornings, but a beer before breakfast isn’t bad (as long as you can pencil in an early afternoon nap), so I had a Manny’s. The trucks roared down Airport Way, and the bespectacled hipsters gabbed about the bands they and/or their friends were in. An employee wiped the dust off of the motorbike sculpture behind us. As she did, a surly patron bellowed: “Hey, when you’re done there, you can clean off mine out front!” He thrust his chin at the motorcycle he’d just parked out front. She just laughed and said: “Yeah, right.” The New York Times may already have Georgetown’s number, but it’s nice to know Georgetown has held onto its scrappy communal vibe. At least so far.