Restaurants

Crepes ’n Crepes

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Crepes 'n Crepes has been open for two years and has been busy since day one, hour one, minute one. There are other creperies in Denver now, as well as restaurants that do crepes as part of a larger French gestalt. But none have ever done this kind of business, and none have deserved to. That's because Crepes 'n Crepes is uncompromisingly, unabashedly and unstintingly French. The cooks are French. Owners Kathy Knight and Alain Veratti have imported all their iron crepe griddles from France. The ingredients and preparations — the camembert and Chambord, ratatouille and sauce aux champignons — are French. And the space itself — the ramshackle, patched, plastered and sunny dining rooms, cramped back bar, sundry collection of plates and flatware — gives off the honest and earned vibe of café-along-the-Seine frugality and disorder. The place is lovely in only the way that something so necessarily unlovely can possibly be, and after retiring briefly to use the facilities, Laura, who has been everywhere, came back and settled the matter. "Unisex bathroom," she said. "How very European. Substandard plumbing and all."

It took three waitresses coming through the door, bumping my chair and delivering unmatched plates to unmatched tables before someone took our order: banane & fraises avec crème fouettée aux Nutella, myrtilles sauvages avec du sucre, and the classic Suzette — because it was Saturday and this was breakfast for us and the woman one table over had hardly eaten a bite of her crepe poulet au gratin. (I discovered that she was an idiot when I returned a couple days later for the savory crepes — for ham and cheese that was good, if a bit pedestrian; for my own poulet au gratin with diced, roasted chicken and wild mushrooms in a white wine and cream sauce thickened with emmenthaler that was fantastic, soft and milky-sweet; and for a long-overdue hit of the immortal poireaux grilles that I found less reminiscent than I'd hoped, but certainly hearty and peasant-ish and kind of like eating a collapsed onion pie.)

Crepes, when done well and classically, are simple, the buckwheat or wheat-flour crepe serving just as a wrapper that holds all the good stuff in one place. But while they're simple, they can also be good. And Crepes 'n Crepes makes the best crepes I can remember trying. The French crepe griddles help, as does the practice that comes from banging out hundreds of crepes fresh and to-order every day. So do the quality ingredients. Our order of myrtilles sauvages — essentially wild blueberries dusted with sugar — was beautiful and absolutely delicious. I was sad to see that the strawberry and banana crepe with cream cheese and Nutella used huge American strawberries rather than the bittersweet, almost rosy-tasting French fraises du bois that are virtually impossible to get here, but they were still good strawberries, mixed with homemade cream cheese (thin and almost liquidy), sliced banana and Nutella.

But then there was the crepe Suzette.

"This is not crepe Suzette," Laura announced after having one bite, making a face and tossing down her fork in disgust. "Another bite of that and I won't be able to drive home."

She knows from the real thing because she's had the real thing, in France and at home, as made by her mother, who learned the proper balance of butter to lemon to caramelized sugar to liquor in the cafes of Paris, where they've been making crepes for generations. Out loud, Laura recalled how these crepes should have nothing but a whisper of astringent, orange-y alcohol bite, how they ought not be so cloyingly, sickeningly sweet. And she was right, though I knew the wrongness of these crepes only from the other side of the kitchen door. These suffered simply from not being flamed — pouring the Grand Marnier over the hot crepe in the pan and tilting it until the liquor catches fire in a great, whoofing mushroom cloud. While that French crepe griddle (the modern extension of the ancient two-hot-rocks cooking style) is used to wonderful effect at Crepes 'n Crepes, there's one thing you can't do with it: catch a flame. For that, you need a pan, a burner, a fire-starter's soul.

So we pushed the Suzette aside and focused on our blueberries, our sweet, perfumed strawberries, our hot chocolate and ourselves. And while the crowds swirled around us, we sat cramped at our uncomfortable table, mopping up Nutella with scraps of wheat-flour pancake and making big plans for the future — celebrating with the taste of chantilly cream and almond paste on our tongues, the sting of Grand Marnier still lingering in our throats, remembering only why we were here and no longer wondering why we'd stayed away from the crepe for so long.

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