Eat, drink and be wary

When did I become such a delicate flower?

I eat well, fruit or veggies at most meals, mostly non-processed foods, lean protein and little to nothing fried. I sometimes envy those who can eat or drink anything, anytime and any quantity with seemingly no aftershock. One late night Taco Bell run and I’m a twisted sister. Even an otherwise “healthy” bowl of slightly-too-salty risotto last night led to a two-hour carb nap followed by bloating lasting into this morning; thank goodness for roomy cotton sundresses and forgiving panty elastic. Then again, a pasta dish that requires 6 tablespoons of butter and absorbs 6 cups of liquid (in this case half vegetable broth, half water) is the recipe for heavy belly moaning.

I embrace the time spent in yoga where we detox, twisting and turning, bending and wringing out the ascending and descending colon from the inside out. I finish class with a feeling of draining from my sinuses and head, feel the blood feeding all my limbs.

And therein lies the rub, the conundrum. The "Twilight Zone" sad twist when Burgess Meredith's glasses slip from his face and shatter. The more effort spent pursuing a healthy lifestyle, from getting enough cardio and sleep to eating “right” and the more I become its bitch. A couple days away from hard and committed exercise (no pansy-ing around with the treadmill set on 3 but the stuff that hurts) and I’m cranky and fuzzy and did I mention cranky. Don't sleep, don't write. Eat like crap, feel like crap.

I’ve created a feel-good monster.

I fondly recall the late-night-early-morning ritual of chili cheese fries (a pound, and always very yellow cheddar) inhaled at Denny’s after hours of drinking and dancing. Sometimes pancakes loaded with butter and running with syrup. I’d awake the next morning energized, fueled by carbs and cheese enzymes, the chili adding a pink glow to my cheeks. Now a bowl of popcorn washed down with a Fat Tire and I bloat to 4 months pregnant from salt and oil.

But son-of-a-bitch, is an occasional Pop-Tart too much to ask?

Gordon Biersch Brewery (revisited), Broomfield

This is hard because 1) I'm a girl of my word, committed and assured and strong in decision making, I think and B) the fries are still so good. And oh so bad, like lust should be.

But I have to let you go. It's not me, Gordon Biersh, it's you.

This is tough because you were the first to serve me the fries of my youth. You brought back memories of a time in my life when fries represented freedom (and not in the pissy, post-911 way). I realized yesterday one has to fully commit to the Garlic Fries, bellyache be damned. Be okay with the too-warm-FUNYUNS®-sitting-on-the car-dash-over-a-long-road-trip- aftertaste that lingers. A raw garlic sting and bite that makes you want brush your teeth for a hundred years.

But what killed me is what you pass as Kobe sliders. Pucks of meat overcooked to gray inside, under seasoned (except for the odd sprinkle of Lawry’s Seasoned Salt as plate garnish) and served between two hard and high buns. And you clocked me $10.95 for them.

Kobe doesn’t deserve to be treated that way. The USDA-regular on the Mushroom Swiss full size burger was spectacular (if again, overwhelmingly unseasoned to the point of requiring a shake of salt), pink (almost too) and wet and running with savory juices (although hard pressed to find mushrooms plural).

Last, no ginger ale at the bar. Sure, you mixed me up a Sprite and bitters but – Gordo – you're so missing out on lovely, panty-dropping sweet and creamy mixed cocktails. Wedding Cake (premium Vanilla Vodka, ginger ale, loads of ice) anyone?

I think we need a break. I think I need water with lemon and hard cardio.

I think I need to get the taste of you out of my mouth.

Vita, Denver (Highland)

Did you see the episode of HIMYM* about “occupational hotness,” the theory that certain professions create a veil of perceived sexual juju. For example a perfectly handsome nurse is seen as an overly-sexed up caretaker, and firemen imagined with flat abs and girth.

*How I Met Your Mother, the best show on network telly.

Vita suffers from a form of occupational hotness. “Location litmus.” Cuddled into the über hip section of Lower Highland, next door to Lola and down the street from Linger, with rooftop patio seating and sweeping city views of Denver across the Millennium Bridge, Vita is one of the more popular girls in school. Perfectly coiffed, coming from the right family, holding hands with the quarterback.



Pretty on the outside (courtesy of vitadenver.com/)

But I expect more from a prom queen. 



Went for Denver Restaurant Week. Arrived on time (even a bit early) but the otherwise bored yet (oddly enough) constantly coffee drinking hostess told us our table wasn’t quite ready. No worries, a girl can always use a quick trip to the loo. You can tell a lot about a place by its bathroom. An outdated bathroom with toilets that had to be flushed twice to sink a small amount of paper. 



Led through the modern but cozy interior and upstairs then seated on the perimeter of a large party. I think I counted 12 of them, loudly celebrating a birthday. It’s not clear why they weren’t happily huddled next to the bar downstairs, near the barking televisions and the loud talking. Instead a few random two-and-four tops out for a lovely quiet evening ended up pooled around the party goers, feeling as if we’d left our invitations at home. Feeling like we crashed Jake Ryan's bash. After spending a good 20 minutes with the battleship of a table, taking drink and food requests, a wide-eyed and wildly scribbling waitress came over, took our cocktail order then asked without making eye contact, “Do you know what you want to eat now too?”

Um. Okay. Ordered–actually strike that reverse it–reordered and repeated our order several times as she stayed distracted by the party table and arms reach away.



At least the martini was good, although the blue in the blue-cheese stuffed olives I requested lacked any tart zing or taste. More akin to Oreo Cookie filling. And it wasn’t until it came time to pay I realized a $1.00 surcharge per drink for the stuffed variety. Vita charges $9 for a Grey Goose martini; expect and anticipate paying $10-$12 for a top shelf cocktail, especially at the swagger spots in LoHi. I wouldn’t have batted at three martinis, $10 each on my bill. But a dollar more for a bit of bad blue? It’s not good marketing. In fact it’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad marketing. 

First course appetizers were the best of the three. Tuna Tartare piled over two large round wonton crisps had a slightly sesame oil aftertaste and perfect crunch. The Seven Hour Pork, braised in cherry and habanero sauce, served with pickled red onions, green onions and house fried chips a little sweet for my taste, but interesting in method and plating. 

The salad course was fine but unmemorable, the sweet pepper and applewood smoked bacon in both the Spinach and Romaine worthwhile. How sad is that sentence? 

Oh, and sullen pepper guy, a grunt of acknowledgment goes a long way when the cheeky redhead tries hard to engage you, make the evening and our short experience together a little more lively than simply grinding and clearing a fork. 

Main course Steak Frites, mostly a chewy mess. Once grizzle cut through a soft bite of medium rare and velvety meat could be found here and there. Of the accompanying sauces the Horseradish Cream was a winner, but the interesting sounding Black Cherry Demi-Glace tasted more like flat cherry cola reduction. The Blackened Sea Bass with spicy charred crust and super white flaky fish hit the mark; the odd textural pairing of Sweet Potato and Crawfish Hash worked, with soft bites of potato and chewy (in the right way) texture of the shellfish. 

I’ve heard the $9 Honeysuckle Mint (16 oz. glass, Skyy Vodka, St. Germain, lavender, mint and honey) is worth a sip and a sit on the roof.  But I’m more likely to take my Benjamin’s up the street to LoHi SteakBar (killer Steak Frites and service) or over the bridge to My Bros. Bar for a Johnny Burger and end-of-shift shot of Ouzo with Paul or the soul-affirming green tea broth rice soup at Sushi Sasa. Or into the Baker neighborhood when (fingers crossed and god willing because there’s no better scotch egg in town) Argyll reopens later this spring.

The prom queen has big competition.