For foodies with just 24 hours in Seattle, there’s only one place to start – the Pike Place Market. Except that it’s a Sunday, the place is absolutely heaving and we are so hungry that delirium is setting in. The hubby wants to succumb to a dodgy-looking sausage stand; but we’re in the food capital of Washington State – we can’t be reduced to eating hotdogs, surely?

I’m saved by the proprietor of the nearby salmon stall; he’s grilling the famous Copper River Salmon and can even find us a wonky bar stool to perch on. The fish is intensely fresh, blackened on the grill and served in a freshly baked demi-baguette, smothered with rosemary mayonnaise. I can’t tell the owner how good it is when he asks because my mouth is so full.

Having satiated the immediate hunger pangs, we wander the market, as relaxed as you can be when hemmed in with thousands of other shoppers. The fishmongers are putting on a show, singing sea shanties and tossing a giant salmon back and forth over the stall each time someone orders. These food stalls are cheek and jowl with vendors selling leather earrings, or flowers, or tie-died trousers; there’s even an artist drawing portraits. And then we find the bakery stall…

This is America, epicentre of the obesity crisis; the donuts are as big as my face; the cookies the size of a supermoon. We opt for a twisted chocolate beignet (deep fried dough strands laden with a hefty layer of confectioners’ chocolate) – obviously, we won’t eat it all. Just a little bit. Followed by a little bit more. Followed by an empty paper bag and a sick, guilty feeling.

Which means it must be time for a cocktail. Happy hour at the Bathtub Gin & Co. starts at 5pm, but finding it, even in the age of iPhone maps, is a challenge. This prohibition era speakeasy is entered via a plain wooden door hidden away down the kind of alley you try to avoid when your purse is stuffed with tourist dollars. A small brass plaque on the wall is all that gives it away. Inside, a staircase spirals up to a quaint wooden bar, laden with bottles and towers of fruit.

The bartender has eyes rimmed red from the night before but he mixes me a Lapine Blanc expertly; it’s smokey, borderline bitter and cuts through the pastries in my stomach. The hubby tries to order a beer, but I insist and he ends up with a girly-looking St Kitts Cocktail which packs a very masculine vodka punch. At $7, the drinks are a bargain. So naturally, we order another.

Round two is a micro-brewery ale for him – Seattle has dozens of them and they rarely disappoint – and a Death Star for me (too sweet). By the (short) time the glass is empty again, it’s time for dinner. We ask the barman to recommend an Indian. He shakes his head. “There are great Indians in this city, but not downtown.” Instead he sends us around the corner to a Basque restaurant named Pintxo.

It’s tapas, but not like the tripe that they trot out in most ‘Spanish’ restaurants outside of the Iberian Peninsular – I lived in Galicia so I know good tapas from a pig’s ear. In fact, many of the dishes have a distinctly Gallego slant to them, such as boquerones (anchovies marinated in vinegar and olive oil rather than salted and then delicately wrapped around an olive and speared with a toothpick). They serve the quintessential Galician beer Estrella, as well as Albariño, a moisture-wicking dry but flavourful wine from the same region.

We eat lamb meatballs in gravy and tiny chipotle sausages in a red wine sauce; then Manchego cheese marinated in wine. When the waiter clears the dishes from our outside patio table, we order more – crisp patatas bravas and some North African-inspired lamb kefta sliders. Every dish seems to hit a higher note, although I am well into my cups at this point. The husband eventually hustles me back to the hotel on the light rail before I order anything else.

The next morning we head to Beecher’s Handmade Cheese shop back on Pike Place. In the window, a giant vat of milk is being stirred slowly by a mechanical arm. The samples inside the shop reveal the result – exceedingly good cheese, one a squeaky curd and the other, ‘Beecher’s Flagship’, a nutty, crumbly option with a cheddar-like texture and a depth of flavour that belies its short ageing period.

We sit on converted milk churns at a bar. I order the tomato soup which has a roasted, homemade flavour that comes alive with the added cheese. It’s accompanied by a ‘breadzal’, a twist of French bread coated with sea-salt, herbs and olive oil. The hubby has a perfectly toasted cheese sandwich, just the right side of melted, with the richness offset by crisp lettuce and flavour-packed local tomatoes. Our seats look out over the vat and as we eat, the milk metamorphosises into curds and whey.

We have one meal left and we don’t want to squander it. After so much rich food, we opt for the Veggie Grill, home to uber-fresh, soups, smoothies and a variety of ‘high protein veggie meat alternatives’. Their ‘buffalo wings’ are soused in a spicy sauce and served with three tasty salads. It’s the kind of meal you long for when you can’t have it.

And then time’s up; the food odyssey is over, the grandparents return the kids and we’re thrown back into a world liberally coated with spaghetti sauce and conversations starting, ‘just eat one more carrot’. I think I need another of those cocktails – or maybe two.