When I was still back East, I probably had a thousand days that began and ended in places just like this, places where all the light seems gray, where all of life's sharp corners got rubbed smooth. I'd have my coffee in them before work, maybe breakfast, too, and meet my ex in them after my shift was done. If I wasn't at some bar, I was at Tom's or Pano's or the Royal Olympic or any of a dozen similar spots where, later, as my career began its tailspin and things with the ex began falling apart, I became a regular to avoid going home. At first it was because I knew the ex would be there. As time went by, I avoided going home because I knew she wouldn't.
I barely touched the burger. It was fine -- not rare, exactly, but not shoe leather, either, and the lettuce, red onion and tomato were all fresh even at this time of night -- but I wasn't. I dawdled for maybe an hour, then left. The smell hung with me, in my hair and on my fingers. Old smoke, grease, the sour smell of warm lemons and souvlaki marinade. I couldn't really sleep that night, and finally, at about 5:30, I just gave up trying.
John Johnston
Oh, thank heaven for 24/7: Pete's Kitchen has
become a landmark of late-night Denver.
Location Info
Details
Pete's Kitchen, 1962 East Colfax
Avenue, 303-321-3139. Open 24/7
Pete's Greek Town Cafe, 2910
East Colfax, 303-321-1104. Open
daily, 6 a.m.-11 p.m.
Pete's Gyros Place, 2819 East
Colfax, 303-321-9658. Open daily,
6 a.m.-11 p.m.
Related Content
More About
I went back to Greek Town. And this time, when I stepped through the doors of Pete's Gyros Place, the smell hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. It was the stink of grills just getting warmed up for the day, of gyros and souvlaki and all those powerful Greek spices, of the vinegar-sharp marinade for the pork and chicken. It smelled like every restaurant I remembered from back in the old days, of a lot of things I've been trying to forget since back then, too. It smelled like being drunk at ten in the morning, of my stupid junkie years, of bad jobs and worse bosses and all those nights spent hiding out. I hadn't been able to put a name to it the night before, but what had been bothering me was why I hadn't set foot in one of these places since leaving New York, the ex, the old friends, my old days. It had been a denial of my past, a denial of territory too rotten with bad memories, a denial of these foods that I'd loved because they'd spent too long sitting around the mental pantry snuggled up warm and tight against imperfect recollections gone rancid.
I spent two hours at Gyros Place that morning, most of it with my eyes closed, drinking bad coffee and letting the smell take me back to a whole lot of things I'd rather not have been thinking about. It hurt like hell, but the food tasted great. The kitchen makes over-easy eggs loose and runny -- just the way I like them -- and home fries shaved thin like potato chips, cooked on the flat grill, then served in huge, mountainous proportions.
It had been years since I'd had a breakfast like this in a place like this -- and I'd never realized it, hadn't given it a thought until this weekend. No doubt, any shrink would have a field day with all that. Me? I had breakfast.
