Never mind that I’ve spent the last three hours in the kitchen with Ian, O’s chef de cuisine and the mad scientist responsible for this cheese plate. Never mind that I’ve followed every step in its construction, been in on the testing and tasting, watched him make caviar out of…
I drink champagne when I’m happy and when I’m sad. Sometimes I drink it when I’m alone. When I have company I consider it obligatory. I trifle with it if I’m not hungry and drink it when I am. Otherwise I never touch it — unless I’m thirsty. — Lilly…
Brian Sifferman has had a rough couple of years. Brought in for the opening of Corridor 44 (see review), he’s the last member of the original team left, the one who’s survived every cull, every shift in direction, every bad night, week and month. Now he’s not only the manager,…
What would Britney do? At one time, she was the biggest pop star on the planet; now her name is just another term for vagina (when used in a sentence: “Her skirt was so short, when she bent over I saw her Britney”). One day, in a silent protest of…
No best out of three. No deliberation about what number we’re going to count to before throwing. No time to over-think things. This is drunken Rock Paper Scissors, and the loser has to pee in the sink. But it’s no big deal. In fact, it’s my idea. As fourth in…
When people talk about Steuben’s, they usually talk about the place rather than the food. Sure, the kitchen does some dishes well (big plates of hand-cut fries drowning in gravy and topped with perfectly browned and melted white cheese) and some dishes wrong (fried chicken that, every time I try…
In my best moments, I like to think of myself sitting alone at the bar with a fine, fluted glass, like James Bond just ten seconds before the girl walks in. In my worst, I fear I’m more like one of Candace Bushnell’s cosmo-skanks, getting giggly and paralytic after too…
It was Anthony Bourdain who first warned diners against eating fish on Mondays. He issued the warning in a New Yorker article, “Don’t Eat Before Reading This,” and then again in the book Kitchen Confidential, which sprang from that magazine piece. And he’s been issuing it ever since, because the…
I know what you’re thinking: Why did I write about two seafood places in a row? Specifically, last week’s love letter to Cherry Crest Seafood (“A Fish Story,” October 4), with its brief harangue about selling two-ton SUVs to Mr. Magoo, and this week’s review of Oceanaire Seafood Room (see…
Before Colorado’s no-smoking law took effect, I would venture into one of Denver’s classic dive bars knowing full well that after a few hours there, I’d have to go home and disrobe on my back porch so that the stench of stale cigarette smoke wouldn’t seep into the smoke-free sanctuary…
I’m just starting to peel back the label on my third Bud when Terry slides onto the stool next to me at the last great dive on Larimer Street. I’m at Star Bar (2137 Larimer) to watch the Rockies’ post-season tie-breaker game against the Padres; Terry’s here because he works…
There are many things that should be part of a restaurant critic’s working kit. Credit cards, first and foremost, or a large wad of cash. A healthy appetite and a willingness to eat (almost) anything put before you. One of those noise-o-meters would be cool, so that you could determine…
In the October 4 Bite Me, I asked for suggestions for a new, true Denver omelet. The best recipe so far comes from my friend Stephen Crout, a champion gastronaut of the first order, who’s clearly given the matter some thought. He also reminded me that the prep and service…
Like me, you could just say fuck it and eat the pound of bacon guilt-free, figuring there’s also a chance that you’ll get hit by a bus out in front of the new Oceanaire Seafood Room and, if you do, you’ll at least die with a sated smile of your…
On a Saturday night, Cherry Crest Seafood is all business. The menu for this small strip-mall restaurant and fish market lists twenty entrees, not counting pastas or salads, as well as a spread of house specialties and a long board of apps; the chalkboards and dry-erase boards are full of…
I am sick of the Denver omelet. My folks were in town recently, and my dad — a willing gastronaut, but never the most adventurous eater when left to his own devices — ate a couple of these atrocities for breakfast at a couple of different places. “Well,” he said,…
Sometimes I ask questions that I already know the answer to — just to make sure the world is spinning correctly on its axis. Why do birds fly south for the winter? Why are bald heads shiny? Why are holier-than-thou conservatives always the ones busted in scandals? So when I…
During my first two years as a Coloradan, I lived in Capitol Hill. Not the Wild Oats or Queen Soopers Capitol Hill; not the Bender’s or Chipotle or Lancer Lounge Capitol Hill; not the Charlie Brown’s or Table 6 Capitol Hill. No, fuckin’ Rent-A-Center, Famous Pizza, Scooter Liquors, Burger King…
One of these nights I’m going to blindfold myself, have my wife drive me to some random point along South Federal Boulevard, then get out of the car and start walking. Why? To prove a point, of course. To put paid to my long-held belief that there’s such a profusion…
On a Saturday night, Cherry Crest Restaurant & Seafood Market is all business. There are twenty entrees on the menu, not counting pastas or salads; the chalkboards and dry-erase boards are full of daily specials; and the kitchen — an open hot-line arranged in a tight, cramped square — is…
I feel the same way about pig roasts that I do my morning run: I like the idea of it, but the execution is rarely so satisfying. My first pig roast happened when I was a senior in high school. As student body vice president, I was charged with turning…
The end of August and beginning of September are pure murder in the restaurant industry. Diners are sick of summer and waiting for the first chill of autumn. Seasonal menus are growing stale, business is glacial when there’s any at all. In the kitchens, the end of summer is just…
