Japanese cartoons are lysergic-acid freak shows of giant robots and big-eyed children, blinking lights and talking cats, and jumpy, herky-jerky dancing-root vegetables. Japanese porno is vile and fetishistic. Japanese punk music is ten times more screechy and primal than that of any teenage American garage band — often reduced to…
Cheeseburgers are the single most recognizable American contribution to the world culinary scene (and, according to a monument on Speer Boulevard, an actual Denver invention). They’re also the ideal thing to eat on a blazing-hot afternoon. So last week when the temperature hit 97 degrees, I hit the road for…
There are a few things that I like about Boulder and many that I don’t. For example, it bothers me that Boulder exists where it does, snugged up tight against the base of the Flatirons, frantically humping the leg of a mountain range that would be that much more splendid…
I believe that life, in all its brutish, stupid grandeur, is the ultimate extreme sport. Forget mountain biking, snowboarding and base jumping. You just haven’t lived until you’ve Indian leg-wrestled a hungry Russian grandmother over the last fistful of peel-and-eat shrimp bobbing in the melted ice at a Chinese buffet,…
Saturday night should be busy. Cute place like this, good food, service that’s old-American doting without being old-French smothering — Dario’s Restaurant should be running the edge of a full house, playing the curve of table turns so that every party leaving brushes shoulders with the next one coming through…
Of Earth and Spirit is how I describe my style of cooking. The foods chosen are pure and of the Earth; they are intended to be food for the spirit as well as sustenance. They have been prepared for generations by the distinctive combination of Native, Mexican and Spanish flavors…
Back when I was hungry and vicious and always questing after dumb-luck fortune in the galleys and basement kitchens of this country, I could smell doom in a restaurant a mile away. It was a survival mechanism then, learned rather than instinctive, though no less hardwired into my autonomic switchboard…
Here’s what Emil-Lene’s Sirloin House is missing: a really big steak. Not just a big steak — big steaks it’s got. There’s a 16-ounce sirloin on the board, a 10-ounce prime rib that’s cut so generously it takes up half a plate, even a 24- ounce T-bone that certainly far…
Outside the front doors of the Fresh Fish Company was a valet — a big fella, slouched in his chair at the curb, hands in the pockets of his windbreaker. He was staring out at a lot with room for about 10,000 cars, enough parking for the hundreds of people…
The phone rings once, three times, five, and then Charlie Master answers. “Brix. Happy Monday.” This would be an incredibly annoying way for anyone to answer the phone — shades of that “case of the Mondays” scene from Office Space — if Charlie didn’t sound so sincere. He really means…
At the diners I frequent on deadline day, the waitresses know what I do for a living and don’t hold it against me. They see me hunched up in the corner going longhand through these discursions on food and love and triumph and disappointment, dog-earing menus, smoking too much and…
If I lived in New Orleans, I’d be fat as a bastard. Old-Southern-colonel fat, in a Borsalino damp around the hatband from sweating in the Delta sun, a white linen jacket with the pockets full of boiled crawfish, and étouffée-stained pants with steel-belted suspenders to keep them up. Every time…
Three months. For most critics, that’s the amount of time that must pass before a brand-new restaurant is considered fair game for a review. Ostensibly, three months should be long enough for a place to survive its opening jitters, find a true tone and voice, and get a good set…
This was one of those weekends when too much introspection and too many bad memories had turned me sour, when anything could trigger an avalanche of old junk down in my subconscious basement, raising dust and making my head hurt. Some ill-timed souvlaki, a lack of sleep and the smell…
I have yet to become acclimated to the vastness of the American West. It’s been almost five years since I left New York (the state), longer since I spent any significant amount of time in New York (the city), and still, my internal cartography remains keyed to East Coast measures…
It was a beautiful piece of fish. Generously cut from mid-body with a gentle, mathematically pleasing slope from the thick flank to the thinner, slightly more tough back quarter. The lovely white flesh was shiny with oil, golden-brown on the top and bottom from a pristine pan-sear and a broil…
This is important, so pay attention. I’m going to tell you the secret of eternal happiness — and it won’t cost you a dime. You’re getting it in a free paper and from a restaurant critic, which just goes to show that you never can tell where or when enlightenment…
John has a British accent — cultured, smooth, well-practiced, but fake. It keeps dropping off mid-sentence and goes out entirely when he has to raise his voice to be heard over the Saturday-night crowd of beautiful people and liars at Mao Asian Bistro and Sushi Lounge, hereafter to be known…
It was the steak knives at the Capital Grille that really got to me. They were beautiful, utilitarian works of art with gleaming, sharp blades laser-etched with the restaurant’s logo near the forte, perfect balance, full-tang handles and black grips cold-riveted with bright steel. On the table, they had the…
It was getting on toward late, but I was still sitting at Cielo, sprawled in a soft, comfortable, sky-blue chair across from the fireplace in the vaulted dining room, closed in by cloud-white walls, the arched black ceiling above me like starless midnight. There had been four of us for…
Imagine that you’re a restaurateur who’s just been handed a million dollars. A little more than that, actually, but for the sake of nice, round numbers, I’ll call it a million. You’ve got a big, fat check in your hand, ink still wet on all those zeros. What do you…
Matt checked the steel-bodied German dive watch clipped through the top buttonhole of his chef’s jacket. “Eleven minutes,” he said. “Total?” I asked, turning to make a bare-handed grab out of the salamander, the count “one-one-thousand-two” in my head as I set a searing hot platter on the stovetop rail…
