There are other cinnamon rolls in town—the fat ones that perfume the mall; the white icing bombs—but you’ll find us at a table inside the coziest house in Madrona, the legendary Hi-Spot, where we’ve been since the late 1970s, ordering the sticky six-inch spiral of wheaty pastry, suffused with butter the way morning sky is suffused with light, exhaling soft flavors of cinnamon and just enough sugar, served warm so its almond shards slide around on the glaze like ice skates on a pond, and so substantial it’s served with a serrated knife. There are other breakfasts to order at the Hi-Spot—the Mexi-Fries, the goat cheese–chicken sausage scramble they call the Round-Up—but whenever we visit, someone has to order the cinnamon roll. It’s just that good.