By Jonathan Shikes
By Alex Brown
By Cafe Society
By Samantha Alviani
By Lori Midson
By Mark Antonation
By Loren Lorenzo
By Nate Hemmert
Fried chicken isn't the only thing worth eating at White Fence Farm. The place also makes some really mean fudge.
I'm not a fan of fudge. I like my chocolate mostly in bar form, mostly plain and un-fucked with. Hershey's is fine. I've got a weakness for Toblerone (though I don't generally like Swiss milk chocolate, or Belgian or British). Chocolove, made right up the road in Boulder, can almost always be found in my candy drawer — particularly the chiles-and-cherries version in 55% dark. But my favorite remains the chocolate from A. Korkunov, a Russian company (a majority of which was bought by Wrigley a couple of years ago) that must employ some kind of mad chocolatier that it keeps chained in the basement, the stuff is so friggin' good. Eating it can only really be compared to drinking wine, the flavors are so complex. If eating a couple squares of Hershey's milk chocolate is like taking half a shot of lukewarm espresso to get up and going in the morning, Korkunov is like staying up all night smoking crack with supermodels. It's just that powerful.
But because I am a full-service restaurant critic (and totally weak-willed when it comes to any confectioner's counter), I had to try the fudge sold at Granny's general store. As fudge goes, this was damn fine — smooth and rich and creamy, made with real cream and butter somewhere deep inside the White Fence production facilities, hand-cut generously off the blocks laid out on wax paper inside the case. One of the things that really impressed me? The fact that the ladies doing the cutting trimmed every block before chopping off a portion, essentially skimming the end bit that'd been most recently exposed to the air (and might, therefore, have staled just a bit) and discarding the scraps. That's a significant amount of wastage, but it guarantees that the fudge being sold is of the best quality the house can offer. So good for them.
2700 S. Broadway
Englewood, CO 80113
Region: Southeast Denver Suburbs
Pasta point of no return: Yes, the new 3 Sons opened last week at 14805 West 64th Avenue in Arvada, a few days ahead of its revised schedule. The menu is a modern take on the classic 3 Sons board: chianti-braised duck gnocchi, crespelle funghi and lamb scallopini with Tuscan white beans alongside the usual spread of lasagna, ravioli and spaghetti Bolognese. Another addition? A pizza oven so that the Scarafiotti family and their staff can now sling some pies and calzones as well.
Colore Pizzeria Moderna, a new joint at 2700 South Broadway that's brought to us by the Momo clan, who already own Cucina Colore at 3041 East Third Avenue, didn't make its June 15 opening; a few last-minute snags pushed that back at least a week. Still, odds are good that Colore Pizzeria will open before the Momos' other new restaurant, the Icehouse Tavern, debuts in the former Via space at 1801 Wynkoop Street. But according to former Via chef James Mazzio, who's overseeing the transformation, he's shooting to get the doors unlocked and the galley fires stoked by the end of the month.
Leftovers: If you didn't read Cafe Society last week, you missed my picture.
Yeah, you read that right. My picture. No disguises. No fake mustaches or eye patches. I was finally unmasked when a writer in Florida ran a photo of me off the jacket of my new book, Cooking Dirty, two weeks shy of its official July 1 release date. And that was just fine; I knew I wouldn't be able to keep the thing under wraps forever.
But those of you who missed the somewhat premature unveiling of my pretty mug, have no fear: I'm throwing a party to commemorate both the book's release and my official return to (semi) non-anonymous life at 5:30 p.m. Wednesday, July 1, at Katie Mullen's (1550 Court Place). I'll be there in the flesh, shaking hands, telling stories, swilling whiskey and signing books for a couple hours. What's more, the good folks from the Tattered Cover will be on hand selling books, so if you haven't already pre-ordered a copy (from Amazon or just about anywhere else online), you're covered.
So come on down, have a drink (I'm both funnier and better-looking with a couple of drinks in you and three or four in me), buy a book and help me celebrate. I'm told that Westword has close to a quarter million readers a week. Assuming that only half of those readers look at this column (the rest, I know, are just looking for anonymous sex, club listings or a DUI lawyer), that half of them will be available on the night of July 1 (the rest being busy with other things, too lazy to leave the house or held under lockdown in some sort of high-security psychiatric facility), that half of them will actually decide to come, and that half of those who mean to show up will actually arrive — and aren't distracted en route by traffic, cops, a better offer somewhere else or something shiny lying in the street — that'll still be...well, I'm really bad at math, but that'll still be a shitload of people. More than would be required to take over Katie Mullen's, drink the bar dry and turn this night into one king hell mother of a party.
I can't wait to see you all there.