Long ago, from what I understand, this spot was an outpost of Las Delicias, the homegrown Mexican chain. Later, Eddie Aguirre (who comes from the Las Delicias family) took over the address and made it his own, upscaling both the interior and the menu, giving it a LoDo vibe while still serving real Mexican food in the shadow of all those office towers that, nightly, spill out his best, most loyal customers. D'Corazon does good business. Dinners are busy, boisterous, with people occasionally banging like pinballs from the yellow walls. The margaritas facilitate this; they're strong and cheap, the two best things any margarita can ever aspire to be. At lunch the line can stretch out the door, every seat full, waitresses flitting from table to table like small, bright birds until the hours begin to wear and they start clomping like warhorses, tempers shortening, walking every step like it's uphill at a wicked slant. There's this joke: When D'Corazon opened, all the tables were round. It was the business, the speed of the staff flying by a hundred or a thousand times a day, that flattened all those easy curves, brought every table in the place to a fine, smooth square. It's not a true story, but it's true.
I like D'Corazon when it's busy, when I snag the last seat on the floor. I like it better, though, when it's quiet, in the lull between crushing hits. The radio here plays nothing but Mexican music — ballads and love songs, heavy on the accordions. I like it when I hear one of the waitresses start singing along, only to catch herself, remembering two or three bars too late that there's still a couple customers on the floor, or just one. Just me.
Friday evening, I return hungry for pork chops, for quesadillas like I used to get back in the day. Threading my way through the knots of customers toward a vacant high-top near the bar, I move through clouds of spice and smells like crossing the borders between competing states. Jalapeño and lime here, adobo there, mole poblano — thick and dark, bittersweet and sharp with dry red chiles, like an advertisement that no menu description can ever do justice.
Sadly, there's nothing especial about my quesadillas especiales. They're stuffed with tough and flavorless sliced steak and cheese like bargain-basement government cheddar, and clumsily folded. Even the tortillas — usually so good here, crisp from the flat grill and smelling like bread just out of the oven — taste stale. So I drink tequila, hoping to forget, and it works: When my pork chops arrive (ranchero-style, slathered with bell peppers and onions and a thin sauce that tastes of tomatillos), I am hungry all over again, and dig into the plate almost before it has reached the safety of the tabletop.
Mexican pork chops have become one of my weird little food obsessions over the years. I love how they come thin, cooked all to hell, and require real effort to eat. I love how they go down like pig jerky — in small bites, chewed over for a good, long time. I love how the sauce (red enchilada sauce or green chile or something like this ranchero) serves to lubricate each bite, soften and smooth the experience. I like it that D'Corazon's pork chops require some rasslin' before they go down; in that way, they remind me of those Mexican pork chops I ate in neon-lit little shops off the main drag, in shacks in neighborhoods where my high school and kitchen Spanish did me no good at all. The side of rice is dry (and mixed with desiccated peas and bits of carrot like a Mexican Top Ramen). The refritos are forgettable. But the chops I eat right down to the bone.
On Monday, I'm back for carnitas in a dining room that's silent but for the Spanish Muzak and a waitress singing along up by the hostess stand. The carnitas come wet, falling to pieces as soon as I look at them, and are delicious wrapped in a tortilla (good again) with a smear of guacamole and a little lettuce. I skip the rellenos because I have never developed a Coloradan's taste for them and take some tacos to go off the à la carte menu — three of them for six bucks and change, all desebrado, gone before I make it back to the office. I'm back on Tuesday for enchiladas, comfort food for the ethnically displaced. As with the chile con queso, I can't stop eating them. I put away the entire plate, scraping after the scraps with the edge of my fork. When I think no one is looking, I eat some of the leftover sauce with a spoon and savor the burn on the roof of my mouth like it was whiskey.