Laura Shunk was Westword's restaurant critic from 2010 to 2012; she's also been food editor at the Village Voice and a dining columnist in Beijing. Her toughest assignment had her drinking ten martinis and eating ten Caesar salads over the course of 48 hours. She still drinks martinis, but remains lukewarm on Caesar salads.
My last week in Denver was not really my last, since I have friends and family here who will draw me back to the Mile High City. But after three years of living off the local restaurant scene — first waiting tables and then writing about food — eating in...
It was once perfectly acceptable to have a three-martini lunch in this country, but that practice has gone the way of fax machines and napping under your desk after a long, liquid lunch. Not every culture is so prudish, though: The Italians and French still like wine at their mid-day...
My mom has only commanded a classroom since I was a teenager, but she's always been a teacher at heart, and when I was a kid growing up in the southern suburbs of Denver, she'd devise elaborate lessons for my brother and me to carry out over summer break, packing...
On a snowy February night, I ate one of the best meals I'd had in a long time at Ambria. I'd been excited to try this spot, which Steve Halliday opened last November in the former Ling & Louie's in the Tabor Center; he'd brought in chef Jeremy Kittelson to...
One side effect of being a restaurant critic is that you can't help analyzing every bite that goes into your mouth. It's automatic. At dinner I might be having a fascinating conversation about something very far from food, but under the surface my brain is still buzzing with passing thoughts...
Hana Japanese Bistro is the full package — complete with instructions. Every meal at this six-month-old spot in Louisville starts with warm towels and complimentary bowls of miso soup (a little dish of pickled vegetables or edamame often finds its way to your table, too). And on my most recent...
The restaurant would soon fill up with middle-aged ladies who lunch, but when Rob and I first stepped into The Wooden Table, we were the ones on early-bird-special time. The dining room was empty at 11:15 a.m., and after the server manning the host stand gave us the "Sit anywhere...
Any cook can call himself a chef — and often does — these days. Historically, though, the term was reserved for those culinary professionals who'd actually mastered the craft of preparing food, which involved everything from running the kitchen to adding the perfect finishing garnish to a brilliantly constructed plate...
Almost every culinary culture embraces the delicious concept of filling a pastry shell with meat and/or vegetables, then serving it up as a snack: The Chinese have pork-stuffed bao, the British make meat-and-gravy pasties, India puts potatoes in samosas, and in America we heat up Hot Pockets — which were...
Although I certainly appreciate craft cocktails, there's a special place in my heart for white-trash margaritas that come in a multitude of colors and fill birdbath-sized glasses. Is that nuclear juice made in a blender with flavored syrup and alcohol that's maybe not even tequila? Bring it on. So I've...
What's your favorite shrimp dish?" my friend asked our waiter. He'd been standing beside our cramped booth, shoulders slumped, holding a small notepad in one hand and studiously avoiding our eyes while we studied the huge menu and sucked down the sugary, freshly made lemonades he'd slid across the table...
I fell in love with Greece while sitting at a rickety wooden table at a cafe in Corinth, picking at a brick of feta. My infatuation was initially superficial, of course; the country is beautiful viewed from the deck of a boat navigating around white islands on the royal-blue sea,...
A woman dressed in purple is sitting beneath the Havana skyline, her shoulders dipping and swaying to the Cuban music pouring through the speakers. "Que rico!" she shouts after taking a bite of a rib. "Like Florida!" she exults, holding out the coffee she's just sampled, her body continuing to...
Go back to the bathroom," Rob whispered as he returned to his seat. "Trust me." I'd just finished paying the check for our feast at Hong Kong Barbecue, and a trip to the restroom didn't have much appeal. Given the restaurant's spare decor — just a few wall hangings featuring...
Fuck," I whispered. My friend's giggle urged me on. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck," I said, a little louder. She kept laughing, so I kept saying the word, applying it to our surroundings. "Fucking playground!" I shouted. "Fucking swing! Fucking ball! Fucking Anthony!" By now my friend was screaming with laughter,...
In the final hours before the Christmas-gift exchange, while family members made one last trip to the liquor store and put the finishing bows on their packages, I was at my computer, listlessly clicking through Open Table. I'd done most of my shopping but still had one pair left to...
Hunched in a club-chair bar seat under the glow of multi-colored Christmas lights, I looked nervously at my boyfriend. "Where's the rest of the noodle?" he asked, glaring. "You ate it, didn't you? You're supposed to be judicious with the noodle." "But I liked the noodle," I responded. "I liked...