By Gretchen Kurtz
By Mark Antonation
By Cafe Society
By Kristin Pazulski
By Chris Utterback
By Cafe Society
By Jamie Swinnerton
By Jamie Swinnerton
How in the hell am I supposed to eat this?"
It was a perfect summer night in Denver. Inside the Squeaky Bean, a lively crowd was watching the Celtics and the Lakers battle it out on the bar TV, cheering over the freak folk and remixed indie rock coming from the speakers. Outside, where the sun was setting over Highland, the patio was buzzing. Sitting amid the amusing din, Rob and I had a pressing issue: how to get a towering mountain of foie gras into our greedy mouths. The dish, a six-inch tower of deconstructed peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, looked like a delicious joke: a stack of sweet rhubarb gelee, crispy brioche, savory and creamy torchon of foie gras, then more gelee, this one strawberry. We finally drove in our forks, toppling the mountain, then scooped up the remnants — and savored the flavor and texture of the sexiest rendition of that particular lunchroom classic ever invented.
There are a lot of jokes at the Squeaky Bean, which was named for the sound a fresh green bean makes between the teeth and captures owner Johnny Ballen's love of both seasonality and quirkiness. So many jokes, in fact, that you could never hope to get all of them. You've got a better chance, though, if you're a fan of 1960s and 1970s TV shows. Then you'll understand why the platter of cured pork is called the Arnold Ziffel, why you might want a "Rerun" of a fruity cocktail named the Fred Berry, why the short pour of beer is called the Gary Coleman. Otherwise, you might miss out, as I did, on the Pinky Tuscadero reference, homage to a minor Happy Days character who appeared in just three episodes.
3301 Tejon St.
Denver, CO 80211
Region: Northwest Denver
If you believe that puns are the highest form of humor, you'll eat up the endless examples of Ballen's wordplay. "Explore your inner bean," says a stencil on the window. "It was meant to bean," cries the website.
And if you're into cultural kitsch, you'll appreciate how the space feels like a jolly throwback to lunch counters past, complete with a stainless-steel bar and tiny black-and-white hexagon tiles, the original floor of the drugstore that first inhabited this corner space. There are artifacts that you could probably dig up in your grandma's basement, too: an old Bingo board above the bar, eclectic black-and-white photographs on mustard-colored walls, and a couple of ancient Easy-Bake Ovens mounted on a shelf above the bathroom.
Actually, those Easy-Bake Ovens have a deeper meaning at the Bean. Chef Max MacKissock gave up vast, ambitious kitchens (he did a stretch at Chicago's Alinea after leaving Vita, which is just down the street) for the opportunity of a lifetime here: to turn out decent fare from the smallest kitchen imaginable, using only a couple of electric ovens, a couple of George Foreman grills, and some camping equipment.
All the jokes have a point. "There's no sense in not having fun when it comes to dinner," explains Ballen, who's also a partner at Solera. "The Bean draws from my own personal dining experiences and gives people something to talk about. Even if you're here on a first date, there's a way to break the ice."
Inspired by restaurants he'd seen in the Italian town of Palmanova, Ballen decided he wanted to create a neighborhood joint that would feed people three meals a day, morphing from a cheery breakfast and lunch café into a vibrant dinner spot. And he decided to do it here, in an old northwest Denver drugstore that had no kitchen. He didn't have any operating capital, either — and he wasn't likely to get any, since he opened the Bean in May 2009.
Still, just over a year later, his place is turning out those three meals a day. During the day, the Bean is a true cafe, with MacKissock's crew using MacGyver to cook up steel-cut oatmeal, cinnamon toast, beet salad and sandwiches. What they lack in equipment they more than make up for with creativity, which elevates many of the offerings beyond working-lunch mediocrity. The croque monsieur, for example, is hard not to inhale, with thyme bechamel and cave-aged gruyere and thin prosciutto sandwiched between two slices of crispy bread. If you can handle a drink during business hours, the beverage program is like the food — simple, but thoughtful. Good, tart Vouvray white wine is offered by the glass, as are local beers on a rotating tap. And warm days see at least a couple of Squeaky Spritzes, the bar's take on the aperol spritz, a bittersweet apertif, heading out to the patio.
At night, MacKissock likes to play with his food. The dinner menu features lighthearted takes on American classics — but not the classics you'd expect. There's no hamburger and fries, for instance. No meatloaf, either. But there is Shake 'n Bake — sort of. MacKissock makes his own version of the cornflake batter and coats sweetbreads with it, serving the crispy, tender offal with sweet pineapple, frisee and cucumber. There's spinach and artichoke dip here, too, but it's not the gooey blob of cheese proffered in nouveau Californian restaurants across the country. MacKissock's is a literal translation, a deep green savory sauce made of the pureed vegetables, served with thin, brittle crackers.