By Jamie Swinnerton
By Mark Antonation
By Lori Midson
By Jonathan Shikes
By Amber Taufen
By Cafe Society
By Juliet Wittman
By Jonathan Shikes
I've heard it said a thousand times, by tourists and by natives, by local chefs and national food writers — said ironically, in jest, in cold seriousness, in rage. When your new, million-dollar French-Asian fusion restaurant goes under in a flood of bad debt and worse reviews, it's what you say to put the blame on everyone but you. It's the semantic fallback of the truly beaten, and a phrase I usually avoid — culinarily inaccurate (for the most part, and at the moment) but historically true.
Denver is a cow town.
When they use the "cow town" descriptor, what most folks mean is podunk, provincial, lacking in the sort of taste and culture found in the big cities on the coasts. They're saying that while we, the people of Denver, may be urbane enough to understand that going out for a fine meal is a cause for dressing up, our idea of sartorial rectitude is pulling on our best pair of overalls and knocking the cow shit off our boots before stepping into civilized company.
1634 18th St.
Denver, CO 80202
Category: Bars and Clubs
Region: Downtown Denver
I, on the other hand, will quite deliberately track manure on the carpets of the swells, but when I say that Denver is a cow town, I mean it in the best possible way. I'm saying that here in this town, we know a thing or two about cows — and one of those things is that the highest calling to which any bovine might aspire is being turned into a really good steak. Denver is a cow town because we eat more of them than almost any other city in America.
Even so, if you're a restaurant owner, an investor, a chef, someone thinking about opening yet another steakhouse in this city already overrun with steakhouses that vary in quality from abysmal to best-in-show, you need to think hard about the fact that Denver is a true cow town, and so diners here know from cows. Whatever you're dreaming up to set you apart from the dozens of high-end and low-end and middle-of-the-road steakhouses already out there? We've seen it before. Whatever gimmick you've got, it's not going to work, and you'd be much better served by either surrendering the steakhouse concept entirely and opening a taco stand (we also have plenty of those, but there's always room for one more) or focusing all of your energies and every ounce of your creativity on making good and goddamn sure that you're serving an absolutely perfect steak. Because if it's not, the people of Denver are going to forsake your cow palace, walk a couple of blocks and go to the next one in line.
Prime 121 opened last year in what would seem to be a pure-gold location on Clayton Lane, right across the street from the JW Marriott and at the center of some serious net worth. Provided you can afford the rent and the initial buy-in, you'd have to be suicidally stupid not to make money here — or maybe allergic to dollar bills. An entrepreneur could offer vegan spa cuisine and high colonics and make a mint. And a steakhouse that serves the type of stuff that makes you need spa cuisine and high colonics? That should be a cash cow.
But it didn't work for Bob's Steak and Chop House, the first occupant of 121 Clayton Lane, an outpost of a Texas steakhouse chain that decided, in a fit of incredibly ill-advised hubris, to set itself apart from the pack by being Denver's most absurdly overpriced steakhouse. And home of the giant roasted carrot. One night I dropped nearly three bills there on a dinner for two, and while I would gladly drop a couple hundred bucks at several restaurants in town, this was not one of them. The carrot was no consolation. Bob's lasted more than a year, but it was dead on arrival.
Its home didn't stay dark for long, though. Prime 121 soon reopened the doors with an apple of a concept that fell pretty fucking close to the tree, then hardly rolled an inch. The room was still darkly woody and classically clubby, but the racehorse-themed decor was gone, as were the giant carrots and the most murderous of the prices. In their place were baked pita chips with tabouleh and salted yogurt, and a menu that, though not creative, original, inventive or daring, did preserve Bob's single claim to fame: a butcher's board made up entirely of USDA Prime beef, the best you can get under the USDA's current grading system, which focuses exclusively on fat-to-weight ratios, the so-called marbling of a side of beef. Prime is a nice start, even though it doesn't mean nearly as much as the fattening, slaughtering, butchering, hanging and aging processes do. But the beef is not the problem at Prime 121.
The room is standard, lacking those tiny fillips of excellence. On the main floor, the red-leather booths are classy in a way that only red leather in a steakhouse can be. But the tables tend to wobble, and they're hard, not padded beneath the tablecloths (so that plates won't clank when set down) — which, maybe just for me, has always been one of the purest essences of steakhouse swank. The glassware is nice (as is the wine that gets poured in all those glasses), but the linens are cut-rate and scratchy, the silver light and flimsy, the steak knives an embarrassment of cheapness — splintery wooden handles and ugly, fat blades no doubt stamped out by the millions by some company that I've never heard of before.