Unfortunately, the Ficklin Vineyards Tinta Port that accompanied dessert was a joke--cheap-tasting with no body. The other wines were an improvement, but still somewhat lacking: a Wente Bros. Grande Brut that was nice considering it was mixed with Chambord; a well-balanced Concannon Vineyard Sauvignon Blanc (1992) intentionally missing a butter flavor it sorely needed; a Wente Bros. 1992 Chardonnay that had some oak but little else; and a Concannon Vineyard 1991 Petite Sirah that was simply boring. The best of the batch: a Wente Bros. 1989 Cabernet Sauvignon from the Charles Wetmore Vineyard that would have gone well with the truffles--currantlike, deep and rich.
Rich also describes Emily's decor. The dining room actually consists of several intimate rooms, each with only a few small tables, decorated in elegant Victorian style.
You couldn't even hear the clanging of the slot machines downstairs.
What's in a name: A recent visit to the Wynkoop Brewing Company (where they've introduced a great Sunday brunch buffet) answered a question I've been puzzling over for months: Why does half of Colorado pronounce the name "wine-koop" and the other half "win-koop"--and which is right? According to the waiter's explanation to the next table--which had a bet riding on it--the brewpub is named after General Edward W. Wynkoop, who pronounced it "wine," as do most male Wynkoop customers. The majority of the general's descendants, however, pronounce it "win"--as do most women and Wynkoop employees. After all, says co-owner John Hickenlooper, they don't make wine there.
As I left the Whateverkoop, two fire trucks and a police car came screeching to a halt in front. I rushed over to find out what was happening (hey, I'm a journalist, and besides, my car was parked there) and overheard a fireman call in his report: "Yeah, we're over here at the Winekoop; it's nothing. A birthday cake set off the alarm.