The second-annual world’s greatest feast in a field—featuring a dozen Seattle chefs cooking whole beasts over hot coals—happened yesterday.

It only rained a little, and the carnivores' spirits were undampened. A sell-out crowd of 450 people attended, a smashing success for Smoke Farm (the nonprofit haven for artists, philosophers, and other oddballs an hour north of Seattle that was both the site of and the beneficiary of the event).

Eighteen hundred oysters from Taylor Shellfish Farms were grilled, shucked, and eaten. There was more meat that you could shake a stick at, and the main complaint was a happy one: too much food. People were getting full before they'd sampled even half of the burnt beasts available, and there was no vomitorium. As soon-to-be Top Chef competitor Robin Leventhal—who was moonlighting for the oyster prep team and Team Vegetable—said, "When people complained that my portions were too big at Crave, I always said that if that's what their complaint is, that’s not a bad thing…"

Seth Caswell's team spit-roasted a pig; Caswell claimed the woven copper reflector was the pig's alien communicator, but someone else said it was just scrap metal from somebody's garage. In any case, style points. Elsewhere, organizer Tamara Murphy (Brasa, Elliott Bay Cafe) unearthed another pig she'd cooked Hawaiian-style (having gotten up at 3 a.m. to bury it).

More after the jump...

Photos by Duncan Smith.

This morning, as part of my duties as The Stranger’s resident Twitterist, I attended a “media roundtable” hosted by the good people at Google, who as I understand it are responsible for maintaining the internet and keeping it free of pornography and other deviant acts.

The meeting, nestled in Google’s corporate headquarters in Fremont, was a veritable who’s who of the more tolerable (read: conservative) half of Seattle’s media elites: Brier Dudley represented the Seattle Times, for example, along with Chris Kornelis from the Seattle Weekly. (Unfortunately, nobody informed me that other representatives from The Stranger would be present. Tim Keck, Anthony Hecht, Paul Constant, and Eli Sanders sat huddled in the corner of the room, gibbering like monkeys and occasionally interrupting the presentation with loud cries of “BO-ring!” and something that sounded like—but I pray couldn’t possibly have been—“Yo, bitzatches, where you gots your free stuff at?”)

I learned much about the Twintosphere at the meeting, including the fact that Google is very much concerned with the privacy of “web pages” (which I believe is another name for web logs). The representatives from Google seemed particularly sensitive about accusations of internets favoritism, spending a good third of the hour-and-a-half presentation discussing the difference between advertising content and information. Of course, my good friend Frank Blethen, if he had been able to attend, would have loudly expressed his ardor for the purity of journalistic integrity. His Times has long been a watchdog against such profiteering tomfoolery. The Google representatives spoke of their desire to remain “Googly,” which I believe is youth slang for “good.”

But I am not Slogging on here to let you know about the esoteric ethical considerations of a tiny internet business. I have placed my electronic quill in hand to inform you of the delicious food that is available, at quite reasonable rates, inside the Google cafeteria! Despite the lack of table service—a woeful error on behalf of Google that will hopefully be changed when they read this posting—the food was a wonderful respite from the culinary (and Communist) sinkhole that is Fremont. There was succulent prime rib, a delectable crab and avocado salad, a meatball soup that was apparently made from an ancient recipe handed down from Italian to Italian, and a bar full of baked potatoes with a seemingly infinite variety of toppings!

As I chatted with several Google employees (apologizing all the while for the poor presentation of the other Stranger attendees), I continually found myself wanting to give my compliments to the chef, who turned out to be a lovely, if slightly confused, woman who referred to the food as something called “organic,” which the dictionary refers to as “of living material.” And I cannot even begin to relay the velveteen pleasures of the trifle without dipping into the earthy gutter language of the pornographers whose work I regularly mock in my weekly column (and who Google wisely keeps out of its searchable engines). There was even a cabana set up in the corner where one could order alcoholic beverages!

I highly recommend this cafeteria to all readers of good taste and voracious appetites, although I must note that the wait staff was so scarce and scattered they neglected to bring my bill (being an honest man of considerable means, I left a Benjamin Franklin on the table), so I humbly request that you, dear reader, continue to keep this aspect a secret from welfare queens and the homeless (who might be tempted to take advantage). I would pay a premium to dine there again; I hope to become a regular once they hire a larger wait staff—and instruct those already working there on the basics of the English language.

In any case, a lovely afternoon all in all. Good show, sirs. Good show, indeed.