Four cafes for Sunday morning in Seattle, if you’re the only one awake and you want to go someplace to write for an hour or two:

1. Lighthouse: Because you feel like you know everybody here, even though you actually don’t know anybody. You can be incredible productive, I’ve learned, being unfamiliar within familiarity.

2. Volunteer Park Café: Granola with dried cherries and flax, lavender honey and fresh pineapple and blueberries with yogurt. In the winter. On a particular morning, I arrived just after 8 and was the first customer of the morning. The three guys running the counter were warm and smiley, singing Simon and Garfunkel, which really only works on Sunday mornings.

3. Flying Apron: This place used to be Café Bouche, a crepe joint that hired an unfunny Russian magician who would wander the tables on Saturday nights. He’d do this card trick, somehow making a Queen of Hearts vanish. You’d look up and see all these playing cards like dangling knat wings sticking to a bloody red ceiling.

Flying Apron looks like it was there hiding through the Bouche phase the whole time—creaky, wooden with a communal table and little lamps and a pastry shelf that stretches the whole side of the space.

4. The back room at Café Prese: It’s cheap, they keep refilling the coffee, and nobody tells you to leave.