Curious about what kind of steaks would be served in a restaurant that has its own butcher shop, I returned to Westerkamps with a friend for lunch. This time the dining room was close to full, packed with families and lone diners who looked like they were coming off of night shifts and grabbing something to eat before heading home to bed. A man in an apron was standing behind the meat counter this time, working with a side of beef.
We took a table in the center of the room and asked for a ribeye, which came with Texas toast and a side, and a Mexican hamburger, since I'd been going on and on about the green chile. And then we waited. And waited. My friend quietly surveyed the room while I listened to the couple at the next table interpret passages from the Bible. Finally, after almost half an hour, our food came out of the kitchen. But when the plates landed on our table, accompanied by a profuse apology from the server, we became totally oblivious to our surroundings.
Mark Manger
Location Info
Details
Westerkamps
Pork, eggs and potatoes $3.49
6 oz. ribeye $12.99
Mexican hamburger $8.50
Pint of green chile to go $3.99
5106 Washington Street
303-296-3622
Hours: 6 a.m.-6 p.m. Monday through Friday, 8 a.m.-2:30 p.m. Saturday
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Most Mexican hamburgers I've had in this town — and this town is probably where they were invented — consist of a thin, once-frozen patty and a glop of refried beans wrapped in a flour tortilla, then covered with gravy-like green chile and melted plasticky cheese. The Westerkamps version switched out the crappy burger for chuck ground in-house. It was infused with iron from the grill and slightly overcooked — but completely revived by the refried beans that must have been stewed in lard. And then, of course, there was that awesome green chile.
The ribeye could have used some. Like the pork chops, it was a thin cut — which rendered my requested medium impossible. The steak was gray along the edges and pale pink within, but expertly seasoned and still supple enough to eat, though I would certainly have preferred it less well done. The meat here is choice or higher — a step above what you'd get in a grocery store — and it comes from the same supplier who stocks the Westerkamps butcher counter, usually with loins and steaks rather than whole sides of cow, and most of those from Omaha (hello, corn-fattened cattle). The toast was all Texas, big and painted with so much butter that it practically oozed, then popped on the griddle until the bread was both flaky and crunchy. But the salad of shredded iceberg lettuce and straight-from-the-bag grated cheddar was basically just plate filler; I wished I had forked over the extra $1.50 for a baked potato.
By the time we finished lunch, the couple at the next table had moved on to rehashing Heavenfest with the waitress. So we got up and paid our check at the counter by the door.
The last thing I saw before exiting into the sunshine was a sign that instructed me to "Smile, Jesus loves you."
And I did smile. Because while I may not have seen Jesus at Westerkamps, I did find some heavenly green chile.
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