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Best Way to Fit as Many Meats as Possible Between Two Buns

Crown Burger

Go on. You know you want to. Forget the squawking of your self-righteous vegetarian ex-girlfriend, forget your waistline, screw PETA and just order the Royal Burger at Crown Burger. One chopped-beef patty, lettuce, tomato and "special sauce" -- that's good for a start. But add roast beef, ham, pastrami and bacon, and now we're really talking. This burger is a true carnivore's dream, wrapped up nice and neat in waxed paper for the bargain price of $4.25.


Best Way to Fit as Many Meats as Possible Between Two Buns

Crown Burger

Molly Martin
Go on. You know you want to. Forget the squawking of your self-righteous vegetarian ex-girlfriend, forget your waistline, screw PETA and just order the Royal Burger at Crown Burger. One chopped-beef patty, lettuce, tomato and "special sauce" -- that's good for a start. But add roast beef, ham, pastrami and bacon, and now we're really talking. This burger is a true carnivore's dream, wrapped up nice and neat in waxed paper for the bargain price of $4.25.
Finding a great classic drive-thru on Route 66 wouldn't be a surprise -- but in the middle of busy Broadway? Still, the traffic on this artery can make you feel like you're on an interminable road trip without even leaving the city limits, so pull over and treat yourself. Griff's serves up burgers wrapped in waxed paper, along with fries and shakes at prices better suited to a time when the cost of gas didn't make just idling in the drive-thru lane the most expensive part of dinner.
Finding a great classic drive-thru on Route 66 wouldn't be a surprise -- but in the middle of busy Broadway? Still, the traffic on this artery can make you feel like you're on an interminable road trip without even leaving the city limits, so pull over and treat yourself. Griff's serves up burgers wrapped in waxed paper, along with fries and shakes at prices better suited to a time when the cost of gas didn't make just idling in the drive-thru lane the most expensive part of dinner.
Mark Wolfe, owner of Wingman (formerly Woody's Wings), is a brave guy. Not only did he open a hopping little spot dedicated (almost) entirely to the art -- nay, the majesty -- of cooking the humble chicken wing, but he then took his wings and carefully crafted sauce to Buffalo, the temple of the chicken wing. And was he laughed out of town during the first annual Chicken Wing Festival? Was he sent packing simply because he came from the wrong side of the Mississippi? Nope -- he did Colorado proud. And we couldn't have picked a better ambassador, because Wingman's wings are the best in town.


Mark Wolfe, owner of Wingman (formerly Woody's Wings), is a brave guy. Not only did he open a hopping little spot dedicated (almost) entirely to the art -- nay, the majesty -- of cooking the humble chicken wing, but he then took his wings and carefully crafted sauce to Buffalo, the temple of the chicken wing. And was he laughed out of town during the first annual Chicken Wing Festival? Was he sent packing simply because he came from the wrong side of the Mississippi? Nope -- he did Colorado proud. And we couldn't have picked a better ambassador, because Wingman's wings are the best in town.
So many indignities have been heaped on the humble potato. So many wrongs have been done in its name. So many cooks have been content to just dunk fistfuls of frozen potato pieces in hot oil and shovel the resulting pasty, greasy fries out to diners who don't expect much more. But not Joe Sinopoli. First at Adde Brewster and now at Bistro 250 (in Adde's old location), Sinopoli has elevated the maligned tuber, putting out plate after plate of perfect pommes frites -- the Apollonian ideal of a potato's existence. Blanched first in hot oil, left to sit, then dunked again until golden brown, this process results in crisp, nutty, even slightly sweet fries -- thin as shoestrings and lightly touched with salt -- that will forever ruin you for the limp, oily and pallid fare of the local drive-thru.


So many indignities have been heaped on the humble potato. So many wrongs have been done in its name. So many cooks have been content to just dunk fistfuls of frozen potato pieces in hot oil and shovel the resulting pasty, greasy fries out to diners who don't expect much more. But not Joe Sinopoli. First at Adde Brewster and now at Bistro 250 (in Adde's old location), Sinopoli has elevated the maligned tuber, putting out plate after plate of perfect pommes frites -- the Apollonian ideal of a potato's existence. Blanched first in hot oil, left to sit, then dunked again until golden brown, this process results in crisp, nutty, even slightly sweet fries -- thin as shoestrings and lightly touched with salt -- that will forever ruin you for the limp, oily and pallid fare of the local drive-thru.
Egg whites, dried kiwi, a little brown sugar, a little cinnamon, a little vanilla, a few other little things -- that's all that Bruce Harrison, owner of Sweet Bob's, will say when you ask what's in the sauce that comes with his sweet-potato fries. But those words don't even begin to describe these frites, which become as sugary as candy and as addictive as heroin once they're set to soaking in Harrison's secret sauce. Imagine a kiwi cake frosting melted over soft, fried sweet potatoes. Or your grandmother's best sweet-potato pie topped with warm syrup. Hell, imagine anything you like -- but get down there and give these spuds a try.


Egg whites, dried kiwi, a little brown sugar, a little cinnamon, a little vanilla, a few other little things -- that's all that Bruce Harrison, owner of Sweet Bob's, will say when you ask what's in the sauce that comes with his sweet-potato fries. But those words don't even begin to describe these frites, which become as sugary as candy and as addictive as heroin once they're set to soaking in Harrison's secret sauce. Imagine a kiwi cake frosting melted over soft, fried sweet potatoes. Or your grandmother's best sweet-potato pie topped with warm syrup. Hell, imagine anything you like -- but get down there and give these spuds a try.

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