The morning that Mexican drug lord Joaquín "El Chapo" Guzmán was nabbed in Mazatlán, the single TV at Tacos Selene was tuned to his capture — but the hordes of taco fans barely took notice. Who cares about the world's most-wanted drug kingpin when you're in taco utopia? A great taco is worth going the distance, worth driving across medians and through barriers, worth fistfighting for a parking space and, in this particular case, for a surface on which to sit, because this is a taqueria that never seems to experience even the slightest lull. If you crave tacos al pastor with pineapple, this is your muse. Lengua tacos? Your daydream. Barbacoa? It, too, fulfills every fantasy. Even the salsa bar, stocked with flavor-smacked sauces and every garnish imaginable, is an object of desire. If you want to taco 'bout a paradisiacal experience, this is it.
The ultimate Sunday brunch begins and ends with a Bloody Mary. It's vital, too, that there's something on the board for the egghead, the French-toast fanatic, the potato junkie and the granola-leaning earth muffin. Under chef Theo Adley, the Squeaky Bean's kitchen serves all that and more, but because chief bean-baller Johnny Ballen has a serious fetish for playful diversions, he's got a bag of tricks to elevate the creativity quotient — including the wall-spanning bingo board. Every Sunday from 1 to 3 p.m., Ballen and his irreverent accomplices roll out two hours of bingo, complete with a bingo ball-cage set, bingo cards and a dedicated bingo announcer in the form of comic Sam Tallent, who's also in charge of the prize patrol, a stash that includes bags of dollar-store trinkets; gift certificates to Golden Corral and a bottle of malt liquor stashed in a paper bag; and a grand prize of $50 to spend at the Squeaky Bean. No matter how the balls bounce, brunch at the Bean always results in a Sunday fun day.
Despite the waves of accolades, Land of Sushi might still be the most undiscovered sushi bar in Denver — but that's certainly not the fault of chef Ben Liu, whose exquisite fish outperforms that of the sharks who sell their sushi and sashimi for double, even triple the price. True, the name makes you blink in confusion ("Ocean of Sushi" would have made more sense), the flashing neon sign is more brothel than bluefin, and its location, tucked into an obscure corner of a strip mall, isn't particularly welcoming — but, oh, the fish! Liu turns out translucent sea scallops with tangles of fresh herbs; luscious sea-urchin roe wrapped in nori; rich toro shining like luxurious silk; and stunningly fresh whole mackerel perching on a stark white plate like a silver statue. Freshly grated wasabi that tastes nothing like the stuff squeezed from the tube is available for a small price, too, and it's worth it.
The sign of a great tater tot is when it doesn't need ketchup. And no one does elegant, condiment-free tots better than Table 6, where the humble potato proves once again that it pairs as well with a tie (and a glass of wine) as it does with jeans. Chef Carrie Shores, who took over the kitchen last year from longtime chef Scott Parker, likes to vary what form the long, crisp tots will take. We couldn't get enough of one recent version that featured slivers of fried onions and a dollop of rich French onion spread in a playful nod to that '50s party dip. For those who can never decide between onion rings and French fries, it offered the best of both worlds, a savory version of having your cake and eating it, too.
Once you pass through the humble exterior, if the beautifully serene interior of Thai Diamond Cafe doesn't capture your attention, the smashing dishes certainly will. The menu travels all over Thailand, and while there's nothing groundbreaking on the board — no curry, soup or noodle dish that you may not have tried before — the kitchen, manned by a jovial Thai gentleman with an easy smile, does justice to the classics, turning out a warm laab with chicken or pork, chiles and fresh herbs; nuanced (and fiery) curries liberally stocked with meat, seafood or vegetables, including kabocha squash; intensely flavored soups, filled with seafood and aromatic with lemongrass and lime leaves; and noodles — thick and thin, egg and rice — in every guise. You'll see people waving their forks or chopsticks around, urging everyone at the table to try this or that, and if there are leftovers, prepare for a fight.
Thick-crust pizza used to be nearly interchangeable with deep-dish. These days, though, with the resurgence of super-thin crusts ranging from cracker to Neapolitan, it connotes something different, something that Goldilocks would've liked — i.e., not too thick and not too thin. When we have a hankering for this kind of pie, we head to Papou's Pizzeria, where owner Luke Loukopoulos turns out Greek-style pan pizzas. This no-nonsense storefront is elevated by its sparkling-clean vibe, its vintage Italian posters and its pizzas, of course, which boast a golden, rounded edge and a bottom that morphs from crackly to pillowy as you edge closer to the piles of melted mozzarella. Pizzas are cut into squares, not triangles, so everyone will be pleased, from the ones who want all middle (kids, usually) to those like us, who can't get enough of the crisp, buttery crust.
Thin is in, with new pizza joints that keep crust to a minimum opening every day. But Virgilio's, a behemoth New York-style pizzeria in the suburbs, continues to dispense the area's best thin-crust pies: The crave-worthy, crisp-edged, thin-crusted rounds of dough freckled with brown patches of char deliver a satisfying chew. Slap the red-sauced surface with fennel-scented sausage, red onions and garlic, and you have a purist's pie; top it with blots of feta, artichoke hearts, black olives, spinach and garlic, and you're living the vegetarian dream. A carnivore's pizza bombarded with pepperoni, meatballs, ham, chicken and sausage may lead to a cholesterol spike, but the thin-is-in mantra only goes so far.
From the day that tireless chef/restaurateur/farmer/cheese-maker/forager Alex Seidel opened Fruition, diners near and far have sung its well-deserved praises. Seidel, whose kitchen also boasts the insane talent of sous-chef Matt Vawter, serves amazingly transporting food (think house-cured pork-belly carbonara haloed with a yolk-spilling egg; Dungeness crab-stuffed petrale sole with housemade artichoke cappelletti; and coq au vin with black truffles) in informally intimate quarters, with graciously unpretentious service. This is the ultimate neighborhood restaurant — if you consider the entire world your neighborhood.
A traditional Cubano puts an international twist on a ham-and-cheese sandwich. Given the ingredients, it's almost impossible to even imagine veganizing a Cubano. But Sputnik tried — and succeeded — by slow-roasting jackfruit, which carries a sweetness similar to that of roasted pork, then serving it up on Cuban bread with specially spiced mustard, a creamy garlic spread and pickles. The result is a sweet-and-savory sandwich so tasty you won't miss the cheese.