By Joel Warner
By Michael Roberts
By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
Pilgrim's progress: Vincent Sandoval sounds like he's so convicted, like everyone and everything around him is wrong. He should use his judgment and think. There are how many people in this country, this great country of different races? Hmmm, let me think for a minute here: Every country in the world! If Sandoval is out to make a statement, he is dead wrong. The only statement he is making is his ignorance and foolish pride. This is the United States of America, not the United States of Mexico or France or England.
If you can't speak the language that's been spoken here since the first Pilgrims arrived -- which is the English language -- then learn it, or use your right to leave.
On her own: John La Briola's "It's Now or Never," in the September 25 issue, was an excellent article. I had the distinct pleasure of seeing Lisa Marie that Thursday evening. I was more surprised by what I saw than I was by what I didn't. I was expecting some outlandishly clad, overly made-up, obnoxious woman. What I saw was a well-dressed, almost timid performer with a sort of Pat Benatar style. She was gracious to her audience and even more gracious out back of the Gothic, signing autographs for approximately a hundred people.
Lisa Marie, your father would have been proud of you and this new endeavor you have chosen. You have proven to Denver that you do not need Jacko or Nicky.
Chile con comedy: As a dedicated yet relocated Westword junkie (or a carpetbagger who moved back home -- your call), I have sentimental favorites: Alan Prendergast, for his writing style, which is so compelling I end up reading about subjects I'd usually pass up, and Kenny Be, who just totally rocks. So imagine my surprise to find myself worshiping at a new shrine: that of Jason Sheehan.
I've been reading him religiously and enjoying his prose whilst sneering contemptuously at those who'd like to have him skewered. But I had to write after reading his Jack-n-Grill article ("Thank You!," September 18), especially as I found myself licking the pages of Westword and looking for JetBlue flights at the same time.
His paean to green (pork) chile had me beating my breast and ripping at my clothes, since, outside of my own kitchen, I have as much of a chance to chow down on that ambrosia in New York City as I do to have extramarital sex with Eminem. Quel fromage!
Thank you, Mr. Sheehan, for evoking that much-missed food; and if I tarry too long on the shores of the Hudson River and miss my chance to eat the fiery substance at Jack-n-Grill, I swear there will be hell to pay.
New York City
Pots and panache: I don't even go to restaurants, and I love Jason Sheehan's column. I love how he's romanticized restaurant life. It's one step better than Bourdain or Trillin or any of those other food hacks who try to spin a yarn. He's taken food and made it into life. My Jewish mother has tried to take food and make it into life as well, but she simply doesn't have the same panache. I'm writing to thank Jason for giving me a wonderful reason to read Westword.
The Italian job: I don't care what some of those weird letter writers say; I love Jason Sheehan's writing and his opinions. "Same Old, Same Old," his September 11 review of Three Sons, made me laugh out loud. I am a middle-aged old bat who loves to eat out, and although I have never had a meal as bad as the one he described, I have suffered through some pretty marginal dishes. Thanks for all the great entertainment.
via the Internet
A fine line: Jason Sheehan's "Same Old, Same Old" read more like a malicious vendetta, be it professional or personal, than a restaurant review of Three Sons. It makes one wonder who really is behind this horrible review of an excellent Italian restaurant that has been a mainstay of popular fine dining in north Denver for years.
Reality bites:I am an absolute fan (in the true "fanatic" definition) of Sheehan's weekly column. After weeks of reading his reviews, I am quite sure I could happily follow him to the ends of the culinary earth.
After "Same Old, Same Old," I was compelled to write for the first time. I am a north Denver Italian girl (third generation) who just recently moved back to this city after my own stint on the right coast. Sheehan's review of this depressing excuse for a restaurant was dead-on. Frankly, it was dead-on twenty years ago.
Three Sons was the one Italian place in our neighborhood my parents never took us to. I went maybe a couple of times with friends' families, but I never enjoyed it. Of course, I rarely enjoyed anything Italian as a child that didn't come out of my grandmother's kitchen, and I thought perhaps my remembered distaste stemmed from my parents' grumblings, so I just had to check it out for myself when I moved back here. I thought that maybe after some time in New York, I would be able to appreciate its East Coast flavor more.
I just wish I had read this before I wasted my time.