At my last job, my boss had a butcher's diagram of a broken-down pig tattooed on her ass. I worked on the line with another guy who had PORK inked across the knuckles of his right hand. And in my family, bacon is how we show our love for one another. Last Christmas, my brother and I cooked a six-course dinner for friends and relations. Five of the courses were pork. The sixth was dessert—kept pork-free only because we couldn't figure how to make bacon truffles. For special occasions, my wife knows to forget the flowers, the high-end home electronics, and just buy me prosciutto. One of these years she's going to surprise me with a flatscreen plasma TV draped in pancetta. Hasn't happened yet, but I have faith.
But until then, I have a restaurant where I can go to satisfy my every porky jones, a place where the cooks have taken one of the world's great cuisines—Mexican—and done the only thing a kitchen could conceivably do to make it even better.
They've added bacon. To pretty much everything.
And that restaurant is... Los Carboncitos, a brilliant short-order place in northwest Denver that's redefining everyday Mexican food, by serving it in a style that's lifted straight from the midnight streets without any sop to assimilation. You won't find breakfast burritos here, or nachos, or margaritas. But you will find bacon...
For the complete review, return to this page tomorrow -- or grab a copy of Westword hot off the press. -- Jason Sheehan