By Jonathan Shikes
By Alex Brown
By Cafe Society
By Samantha Alviani
By Lori Midson
By Mark Antonation
By Loren Lorenzo
By Nate Hemmert
I drink champagne when I'm happy and when I'm sad. Sometimes I drink it when I'm alone. When I have company I consider it obligatory. I trifle with it if I'm not hungry and drink it when I am. Otherwise I never touch it — unless I'm thirsty. — Lilly Bollinger
I love champagne.
Truly, madly and deeply, I love the stuff. American bubbly is okay, sweet Italian prosecco is better, but my real passion is for la méthode et la région de Champagne and every estate therein that attempts to bottle the stars.
1433 Larimer St.
Denver, CO 80202
Category: Bars and Clubs
Region: Downtown Denver
In my best moments, I like to think of myself sitting alone at the bar with a fine, fluted glass, like James Bond just ten seconds before the girl walks in. In my worst, I fear I'm more like one of Candace Bushnell's cosmo-skanks, getting giggly and paralytic after too many glasses, rolling the stem of a Riedel flute between my fingers and watching the bubbles ladder upward like my own private lava lamp.
The best bottle I ever drank was a limited-edition Piper-Heidsieck wrapped in a miniature red corset by Jean-Paul Gaultier — not necessarily the best-tasting bubbly in the world, but I was wearing a tux and the environment was conducive to the kind of fun and bad behavior that only a man with a tuxedo and legendarily poor impulse control can get up to. My favorite is the Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label. Failing that, a Perrier Jouët grand brut — sweet and muscular, like getting punched in the mouth by a fist made of sugar cubes and grapes. At home, I have a bottle of '86 Moët Dom Perignon that I'm saving to celebrate something very special, though I don't yet know what.
So the idea of a classy, Froggish champagne bar in Larimer Square really Veuved my Clicquot, so to speak, when I first heard that the last vestiges of Josephina's that hadn't already been taken over by Rioja were going to be swept away and filled with something called Corridor 44 — a champagne bar and crudo restaurant to be helmed by the half-famous chef Eric Laslow, who'd been brought to Denver from Oregon by Larimer Square's owners. It was a three-way marriage of convenience between the out-of-town chef, an unusual space (little more than an unused, 44-foot-long hallway, two dollops of floor at either end, Josephina's old bar and a bit of room for kitchen and storage), and a concept that managers hoped would squeeze every possible dollar out of every possible square inch of this cramped piece of real estate.
And it was, perhaps unsurprisingly, a complete disaster. Shortly after Corridor 44 opened in early 2006, the crudo was abandoned when it wasn't instantly successful. Laslow was forced into serving what he called a "whitewashed, diminished version" of what he'd originally wanted to serve, and felt as though he was cooking by committee. And his crew consisted primarily of guys who'd still been limping along in the kitchen when Josephina's was going through its death throes. By the time a second menu was instituted last year (a horrible, Frankenstein's monster of desperation vittles that presumed to offer oyster shooters and crab-spiked mac-and-cheese, sugared gourmet frites served in greasy paper cones and chocolate pudding — but more than anything, really offered the very palpable sense that everything behind the scenes was going sideways fast), Laslow had admitted that his heart just wasn't in it and that all he truly wanted was to be gone, like, yesterday.
I stopped in one terrible and uncomfortable Friday night before he managed to escape and spent a couple of hours in a virtually deserted restaurant with misery sketched between every line on the disjointed menu and nothing but champagne to speed the clock along toward the moment when Laura and I might decently flee. I drank Perrier Jouët in the futile hope that four glasses of bubbles would either give me the borrowed lift to rise above the gloom or just knock my punk ass out, but instead ended up eating a bad oyster and spending the next day and a half suffering the effects of medium-serious shellfish toxicity, a not altogether unpleasant mix of numbness and floaty incoherence that's kind of like being high on opium (or so I've been told).
I wrote about my experience in Bite Me ("Oyster Barred," June 15, 2006), but by then Laslow had moved on, taking at least one of the Corridor 44 partners with him and leaving behind a shell-shocked crew. The response I got from the manager was exactly the opposite of what I expected: not inchoate anger and threats of violence, but sincere apologies, a point-by-point explanation of everything that'd gone wrong since Corridor 44's inception, and a heartfelt promise that things would be turned around as soon as possible. I was asked straight out to give Corridor 44 a little time to get back on its feet and find its way, then to return and see how things had been transformed. And I, the cynic, said, "Sure, why not?" — figuring that the place would be closed before I could get back for dinner, anyway.