Five in 2005

But for whatever reason, Nine75 entranced me, kept drawing me back. I've watched it evolve over the past few months, steady itself, find the crowd it was looking for and an equipoise that's stopped it from straying too far over that line into caricature. The floor is doing three turns a night, two sibling restaurants are coming in the new year, and what was once just good here is now even better. Nine75 is clearly on its way -- as I will be after I polish off my appetizer course.

Next stop: Frasca (1738 Pearl Street in Boulder) for antipasti. Because this is my fantasy, I need no reservations, and though I could have any table in the house, I'll still take my seat at the bar, because that's where I always have the most fun. Here I will get gently smashed on tajuts of red wine from countries I've never visited and eat prosciutto and speck and spiced almonds and olives and grissini breadsticks dipped in red-pepper jelly and rounds of sheep's-milk frico tuiles. I've spent hours slouched at Frasca's bar, drinking my way through Bobby Stuckey's wine list, eating my way through chef Lachlan Mackinnon-Patterson's menus, talking with both of them on the phone about the accolades that keep coming to their restaurant, including my rave review ("Fantasy Land," April 7). I could stay at Frasca all night -- it's clearly the best restaurant in Colorado, and I hesitate to say it's the best in the country only because I have not (yet) eaten at every great restaurant in the United States -- but there are other very good restaurants still calling me.

So it's back to Denver for my first main course: chef Patrick Dupays's wonderful cassoulet at Z Cuisine (2239 West 30th Avenue). Under the candlelight and in a tiny room crowded with strangers who've all come here like pilgrims after a true taste of the Left Bank, I will savor a glass of raw, rough, sweet Beaujolais and ease into the peasant's winter stew, savoring the way Dupays crafts his flavors, leaving each strong ingredient to stand on its own. I will also sneak a second antipasti, digging into the house assiette de campagnard because the plate reminds me of good Christmases, with all sorts of hidden surprises (a few unexpected olives, slices of lovely radish, terrines and pâtés that rival those done by the best garde-manger men I've ever known) and because this is a fantasy meal, remember? I don't have to worry about my waistline or the way Dupays's charcuterie will one day be the fatty death of me.

My best nights at Z have always been late ones, so I will take my time here. Next year, this area of Highland -- with gentrification under way and more liquor licenses pending -- will be almost unrecognizable, and I'll want to hang on to my window seat and drink in the peace and quiet of this dead-end street, feel the bulk of the silent church dominating the sky outside, try to salt away all the reasons why I love this place so much. It's much more than just the food. It's the space, the people, the chalkboard menus and the iron gate over the door. It's my dream of Paris -- or was my dream, on the first night I found myself there ("Z Whiz," November 10) -- and I want to remember it just the way it was.

Then it's down the hill to The 9th Door (1808 Blake Street). At this point, I will be stuffed, drunk and looking for a place to lie down -- and conveniently, the 9th Door has a bed in the middle of the dining room. This trick has been tried before in locales significantly more sexy than Blake Street (and usually to ridiculously bad effect), but here it actually works -- mostly because of its oddity, but also because after dark, space at the 9th is at a premium, and on a good night, you could cram six or eight people onto that bed, easy.

The 9th Door is also a good pick as my night starts winding toward its bloated conclusion, because everything served by the kitchen (once under the command of Michel Wahaltere, now handled by his ex-sous) comes in small portions on small plates with small prices -- a true tapas restaurant in a city abso-fucking-lutely over-goddamn-run with quote-unquote "small plates" menus that barely get the spirit of tapas right, let alone the style.

But the 9th Door does. Pimientos del piquillo rellenos, fried artichoke hearts with lemon aioli, gambas al ajillo tasting of garlic-shot chiles, followed by serrano and membrillo and almonds, fried balls of goat cheese drizzled in honey, and ensaladilla like Moorish potato salad, all washed down with glasses of tinta de verona --cheap red wine and orange Fanta -- because if nothing else, the Spanish know how to have a good time, and nothing says fun like drinking a half-gallon of fizzy pop-skull too fast and then barfing in an alley ("Love and Death," July 7).

Finally, I will arrive at my last stop. On my dream tour of the city, Cafe Star (3201 East Colfax Avenue) has stayed open late just for me. And while I would be more than happy, again, to eat everything on chef Rebecca Weitzman's beautifully controlled and oddly understated menu of New American comfort food ("Shine On," September 22), this time I'm after just two things: the best chocolate pots de crème I have ever had in my life and one single glass of Prosecco bubbly with which to welcome in the New Year. It is here that I will have my chocolate and my champagne and say my last goodbyes to the masters' class of '05.