By Ben Landreth
By Isa Jones
By Isa Jones
By Cafe Society
By Cafe Society
By Constanza Saldias
By Lori Midson
By Cafe Society
Cafe Odyssey is supposed to be that most miraculous of late-twentieth-century inventions, an "eatertainment" establishment where people can eat and be entertained. And just how hard up for entertainment are diners who make the odyssey to this spot in the Denver Pavilions?
Well, in the Machu Picchu dining room, there's a six-foot-tall gray structure that looks vaguely like an Incan pile of stones and very much like a big, fake foam-rubber thing sprouting big, fake foliage. Although it's sculpted from some spongy synthetic material that has an unsettling texture, there's something about it that makes every person who walks into the room want to touch it and look inside it, or, as in the case of one ten-year-old boy, try to kick the shit out of it.
Now, that was entertaining!
Cafe Odyssey, which is part of a Minnesota-based chain, debuted three months ago in Denver's new downtown mall and quickly gave other heavy-hitter national outlets already open there (Maggiano's, Hard Rock Cafe, Wolfgang Puck's) a run for their big monies. If possible, Cafe Odyssey has an even more gimmicky edge than the Hard Rock--and even more disappointing food than Maggiano's ("Remembrance of Things Pasta," March 18).
The restaurant's main motto, "Where in the world will you eat today?" refers to the eatertainment outlet's primary conceit. Diners get to eat in one of three rooms, each of which allegedly re-creates some international destination: the aforementioned ancient Incan city, the Serengeti and the lost city of Atlantis. Forget that Peru's Machu Picchu is nothing but ruins, that for much of the year the Serengeti is a desolate locale where animals can barely eke out an existence, and that Atlantis is mythical--the bottom line being that, in the real world, you can't actually eat in any of those places. And also never mind that Cafe Odyssey serves very little that actually resembles cuisine from anything close to those parts of the world (or the ocean floor); in fact, the culinary lineup is the same in each room. This is eatertainment, after all, and the important thing is that people stay entertained while they stuff their faces with whatever.
Like the food, though, the entertainment offerings can be very disappointing. For example, the aforementioned spongy-stone thing usually has a person inside it telling jokes, but it was empty the night we were seated at a table right beside it. People who'd obviously been to the restaurant before when it was occupied knew the guy inside usually puts mints into a little built-in tray, and we found it somewhat amusing to watch diners repeatedly stick their hands in, even after they knew the drawer was empty, as though a mint might still magically appear. They might not have been entertained, but we were.
Another "entertaining" element was the woman who walked through the three dining rooms all night dressed like a Venus flytrap on acid, with plastic plants jammed into her clothes. She even had some in her socks, which made it mildly entertaining to watch her try to walk. Stuck in Machu Picchu, I didn't get the Venus flytrap connection; when I asked a server, he haughtily informed me that the woman was, of course, representing the Serengeti--apparently not realizing that the plant is indigenous to the Carolina swamps. There was also a green-faced woman dressed like a fish, supposedly symbolizing Atlantis. Watching her shuffle past our table every twenty minutes was about as entertaining as watching a lone fish swim back and forth in a tank.
Each room has its unique design elements, too. In addition to the stone whatever, Machu Picchu features poured-stone walls, plastic plants (not quite the "lush vegetation" promised in the Official Travel Passport we were issued upon entrance) and Peruvian wall hangings. There was also a wall-wide video projection of tiny, faceless people milling about on a painting that depicts the Incan city; periodically, day turned into night, although a glitch in the equipment meant that the day sometimes went by in four minutes and sometimes in fifteen, and every once in a while it looked and sounded as though it were raining. Meanwhile, a mechanical waterfall burbled incessantly in one corner of the room, which kept making me think I had to go to the bathroom. The water fell into a tank; other diners had entertained themselves by tossing coins into the bottom. Our server said he had no idea where that money goes. "It's not very much, I don't think," he volunteered. (The restaurant could use it to fund a companion for that poor lost fish.)
Over in the Serengeti, diners sat around two dead baobab trees while the video projected zebras and wildebeests crossing the plains; on the walls was some actual African art. Atlantis, the smallest of the three dining areas, featured a video projection of sharks and dolphins swimming about, while the decor was all fake coral and rock formations. The Official Passport also promised "artifacts" of the ancient civilization, but all we spotted was another foam-rubbery thing that I think the lonely fish woman was supposed to sit on when she wasn't shuffling about.