My Brother’s Bar, Denver

When the manfriend takes me for burgers we go to one of two places. LoHi Steak Bar over the bridge into Highland or the oldest continually operating saloon in the city, a joint on a corner on the edge of downtown. Dark and wooden inside but with a surprisingly charming patio out back, all wobbly tables and mismatched chairs.

Oh, and there’s no name on the door.

We go for the burgers and the drinks. And for Paul. He knows manfriend from music (the local scene is more than incestuous; you can’t swing a drunk girl without hitting someone-who-knows-someone-who-sang-with-that one-who-played-an-open-mic-with that one. And like Pamela Des Barres, I like being with the band.) Paul shakes what I’ve declared the best dirty martini, slight on brine, perfectly icy premium vodka (make mine Grey Goose, the true Dirty Bird) and floating three giant olives. He never overclouds, more Catholic school girl dirty than truly filthy. Perfection. He's a good guy, and may even share a shot of "end-of-shift" Ouzo with you. Opa!!

My nosh and (other, can't call it second 'cause I have love to go around) Denver favorite is the The Johnny Burger. Grilled on a silver flat top, wrapped in paper (forget plates!) and piled with caramel-colored grilled onions and three kinds of cheese; one a happy yellow another a smear of jalapeño cream cheese. When you pull buns apart to add extra pickles (at least five chips) strings unearth in a cartoonish, cheesey melt. Best with lettuce and tomatoes, it’s a messy, glorious, juicy and hot handful of love.

LoHi Steakbar and My Brother's Bar are like brothers from another mother, related but unique and each carry the other half of this amulet. Bars at heart, but familyish-friendly (both pubs and barstools on one side, tables, chairs and booths on the other). Brother's less polished, the older and wiser of the duo.

Don't forget the Girl Scouts, cookie. The owner buys (rumor has it) $20,000 worth of cookies from the Scouts each year and resells them at face to customers until they run out. At the height of cookie madness, boxes line every wall, nook and cranny.

And boy howdy Tagalongs® go well with Guinness.

Highland Tap & Burger, Denver (Highland)

Much like the wobbles when learning to ride without training wheels, or lack of waves crashing and cannons exploding at first virginal poke, it can take a little time for a restaurant to find its groove. Highland Tap & Burger is dancing the white guys overbite when it comes to its new(ish) Sunday brunch. Little awkward and not much soul.

The patio was packed given the sunny, bunny day (at night it burns with two long rectangular fire pits, super welcoming). The outdoor scene one of Highlandish big sunglasses, babies in sunhats and dogs on leashes; inside the crowd more Emo-meets-Real-World-Season-7-Seattle, mopey boys and girls that like to stay out of the sun (but look damn while good doing it.) Although the restaurant was mostly empty when we arrived until well after we ordered, our food took twice as long as you'd expect and even then arrived incomplete; the frites to my mussels came only after a little prompting, but a tasty highlight from the paper cone presentation to garlic aoli. The “Soup on Tap” was a disappointing white bean and chicken chili that tasted like it’s taupey color. Took a half-a-dozen drops of Cholula to spice it up to medium.

The “Bloody Mary Bar” intrigued but was nothing more than a sad ledge holding up a pitcher of tomato juice and usual condiments (green olives, celery salt, pepperoncini). Sadder yet knowing just a short stroll down 32nd Avenue is the far superior “Beanie Bloody” served at The Squeaky Bean and jumbo-spicy-schooner for $6 at LoHi Steakbar. The Greyhound was a little shy on the vodka and blushing on the mix. I take my Greyhound classic, the way my Lithuanian Dad drank them, white grapefruit juice and never, ever pink. Pink’s not a greyhound, that's a poodle.

Ba-dum-bump! Thank you, I’ll be here all here week!

The beer list is impressive, 18 Colorado brews on tap, and the bar pours local favorites like Stranahan’s whiskey, which is also incorporated into the Stranahan’s Barrel Smoked Chicken Wings*. Juicy and melt in your mouth, smoking the bird is a cooking method that results in tender as a hot roasted chicken out of the oven bites. The sauce smoky and a little sweet and ready for a dredge through homemade bleu cheese almost as good as mine. Almost.

The Tap Burger, the signature of the house, is an all-natural and locally sourced Angus beef patty stacked with root beer pulled pork, a “Mama’s Pilsner” onion ring, American AND cheddar cheese. Add a fried egg for a $1 more. I said, “Eh.”

Winning is the “Modus Hoperandi Mac N’ Cheese” (fontina, aged white cheddar, parmesan and toasted homemade rustic breadcrumbs, add bacon for a buck). Like the fries, comforting comfort food done well. By the looks of foot traffic both times I’ve been, the joint is destined to become a neighborhood gathering spot. Which is good, great really.

Leaves more seats open at The Squeaky Bean.


*sadly, you won't find these on the limited Sunday brunch menu.

LoHi Steak Bar, Denver (Highland)

Are you familiar with the practice of polyamory?

"Polyamory (from Greek πολύ [poly, meaning many or several] and Latin amor [love]) is the practice, desire, or acceptance of having more than one intimate relationship at a time with the knowledge and consent of everyone involved."
- courtesy of Wikipedia

In other words, loving more than one and being okay with it.

My name is Jodie and I have a polyamorous cheeseburger relationship.

Much ado is made over finding the perfect burger. Events like The Denver Burger Battle are dedicated to the quest. I haven’t been everywhere, mind you, but am sticking cozy and content (for now) with my picks. The legendary Johnny Burger (grilled up on a true-blue flat top at My Brother's Bar, deserving of a full blog post) and The Blue Smoke served at LoHi Steak Bar.

Wrapped my jaw around one just this past weekend and the heart doesn’t forget. SteakBar serves up three specialty burgers – thick, chewy and lightly seasoned patties of fresh ground chuck. The Highlander (mushrooms, swiss and béarnaise) is a messy delight; expect and prepare for liquidity streams of heavenly butter and herb down both arms. The El Tejon, topped with a fried egg, chili and cheddar (the only burger of the trinity I’ve not tasted). And The Blue Smoke, swimming in grilled onions and velvety soft pillows of blue cheese, criss-crossed-on-top with two pieces of thick cut bacon (the four best bites happen right there, where the bacon outruns the bun). All served with a generous mound of crispy frites, seasoned with salt, pepper and parsley and ready for a swirl though the sweet and savory house ketchup.

Your belly won’t want for more, but start with the classic Caesar salad, never-had-less-than-crisp romaine lettuce, parmesan shavings, fresh toasted crouton and oily, garlicky dressing.

I go for afternoon lunch and weekend brunch. It’s a bar after all and Friday nights I’ve been to eat the scene is just that, loud and a little drunk but not entirely disorderly (no worries if you're after chow only - bar on one side, sit-down tables and booths on the other, plus an outdoor patio). Quiets down to a lazy Sunday vibe and menu that features big drinks on the cheap (bloodies, mimosas and screwdrivers) served in schooners you need two hands to lift from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m.

Also good is the Moscow Mule (Van Gogh Blue vodka mixed with ginger beer and bitters) served proper in a real copper mug. Don’t be an ass and slip out the door with one because 1) that’s called stealing and 2) it just ruins it for the rest of us. The mixology menu changes from time-to-time, but the spicy and smooth Ginger Gimlet (muddled ginger, simple syrup, fresh lime juice and Hendricks gin, shaken and served up) always seems to stick, and rightfully so.

The staff, too, is aces. Cool and urban and young, just like the revitalized and funky Highland neighborhood where the bar sits. They've never failed to remember me or the last time I'd been in, take time to chew the fat, share an iPhone photo or slow story. It's the kind of place I wish I lived closer too and could claim as my local hangout.

And where my love, one of them, awaits. The other is just blocks and a walk across Millennium Bridge away.

To be continued…

The Infinite Monkey Theorem (IMT) Winery, Denver

Denver is known for many things. Altitude, Red Rocks Amphitheater. Things to do here when you’re dead. And fine winemaking.

For reals.

Just shy of two years ago my love of monkeys and a perfectly light Riesling collided in a gorgeously silk screened bottle. It was and remains a favorite, ripe peach sweet and green apple tart with a tiny lime bite that sticks in the back of your throat long after a swallow.

And it’s made in downtown Denver at The Infinite Monkey Theorem (IMT) “urban winery." Seriously, in a converted Quonset hut behind an indistinct beige building that quietly sits at the intersection of “Warehouse” and “Biker Bar” near Santa Fe. This is no snuffy, huffy Napa winery and Ben Parsons doesn’t come across as your average winemaker, more mad scientist and marketing genius than grape-stomper. He both makes (the majority of his grapes come from Palisades on the western slope) and bottles the wine himself (follow him on Facebook and he'll invite you down to bottle and label whatever is ready to go.) Local hipster read, 5280 Magazine recently did an interesting piece on this interesting Brit in which they call him charismatic. I prefer “cheeky," a high compliment in my book.

Met him and had the chance to chat at two dinners he’s hosted; Parsons fully embraces the Denver food community, regularly hosting wine dinners at amazing and also local-owned eateries. Last year at a heart soaring rosé dinner we had the opportunity to barrel taste a cloudy Muscat; a year later at another dinner we ended the meal with the final fermented results. Currently available only at the hut on Santa Fe, a field trip is planned in the very near future to procure a bottle. Or six. The Black Muscat 2009 drinks like a super casual and friendly port, sweet and amber in color.

You can buy IMT wines right out of the downtown hut or locally in a growing list of liquor stores (check the web site). I also find it on more and more restaurant wines lists. Prices run $20-$50, but spots like Westminster Total Beverage (so worth the trip north) often shave a few bucks off that.

Just this week we emptied a bottle of the Albariño at home, alongside a sage and savory sweet potato bisque, topped with smoky bacon crumbles and salad dressed in feta, capers and lemon. The grapefruit and tart acidity of pear complemented it perfectly. Big bang for the buck (around $20ish) is The Blind Watchmaker (keeping cheeky sensibilities firmly in cheek, Parsons has christened two blends with monikers equally intriguing as the name of his winery, this blend and 100th Monkey - Google both.) This fantastical red goes with pretty much any meal. Even popcorn.

But my favorite IMT of the moment, hands down is the Syrah. Not being a super wine encyclopedia I call it, “Big and deep and plummy and happy to my soul.” And that’s all kinds of good.*

*If you're impressed by such things, Wine Spectator bestowed a rating of 87 on IMT’s Syrah, a tie for the highest mark ever bestowed on a local wine.

Two Rivers Coffee, Arvada

I never got into coffee until college. The trinity of a teeth-rattling-strong pot, bag of Hershey’s miniatures (I’d save the Krackel for last) and a copy of The Monkees Greatest Hits (on Rhino cassette) got me through nearly every cram session. Now if studied in a chemical lab, science may determine I'm composed of approximately 10% coffee, the rest bone and muscle and fat. I love coffee. I take it crotch-singeing hot or iced with a splash of soy milk. Sumatra and Ethiopian preferred and never, ever instant. To quote Ab Fab’s absolutely fabulous Jennifer Saunders, “Instant coffee is just old beans that have been cremated.”

The latte is my go-to, often a meal on it’s own or grabbed and consumed while running errands or as a late morning belly filler. And the best I’ve found is brewed in the ‘burbs. Yep, at Two Rivers Coffee in Arvada, Colorado. Doesn’t hurt that they’re serving up Novo coffee, quality and huff worthy beans, rich in color with very little oily sheen. They sell it by the bag too. Score.

Imagine my surprise, while waiting in line for my medium soy, to discover the pleasant young man behind the counter is also the owner. A staff of one, so be forewarned you will wait for your java. He’s a rock star to the regulars, those he calls by name (one raving that his is the best double espresso) and finished my cup with a lovely bit of swirly foam art.

The storefront is like most coffee houses, real wood tables and chairs, comfy couch, free alternative weeklies and wifi. But it’s bare in there; still undergoing renovation and finishing touches. Would love to see Eric (barista and aforementioned owner) hang local art, perhaps bring in bands some evenings. There’s room and vibe for both.

Pastries available for purchase, probably brought over from the neighboring Great Harvest Bread Company, scones large as a man’s fist; I had (most but not all) of the coconut-almond-chocolate this morning. Should you wander next door to Great Harvest (and you should) you’ll find samples cut fresh, full slices and as many as you like to spread with agave and other specialty butters.

Go Joe!

Euclid Hall, Denver

Check out most of the reviews on Yelp and majority rules; it’s the cheese curds at Euclid Hall Bar & Kitchen that make the people happy. But then not liking anything battered, deep fried to crunchy and served with house made ranch AND hot sauce for dipping is un-American.

Admittedly they’re pretty good. I imagine I could polish off a big bowl with any of the many beers on tap and bottle. A “cheese curd” is, basically, a small rolled log of cheese; imagine the bit that breaks away and sticks to the Cusinart blade when you grate, Tootsie Roll in size. Now bread and swim it in hot oil.

Smell what I’m stepping in?

The poutine, also a menu classic, was damn hearty. Hand cut fries smothered in “duck gravy” (sounds dirty, isn’t), a brown and earthy sauce with larger and more delicate than expected pieces of duck throughout. Black peppery and salty; found myself doing the palate smack on the drive home, the kind when you realize you haven’t had enough water. Topped with cheese curds, virgin though - no batter, no fry.

Also winning was the crispy fried Caraway Spätzle. Chewy little noodles dressed in 1,000 Island that came together in a warm dish I’ll be dreaming of next time I’m just-a-little-sick-but-hungry in bed sick. Or hungover. Comfort food, emphasis on comfort.

Fave of the night was the fresh and larger than both of my palms put together graham cracker stuck deep into a gooey S’more Pot de Crème. I don’t care much for the standard graham, dry and boring even under the best  of circumstances (that being a square of Hershey’s dark chocolate, marshmallow puff and the broiler). These were more like shortbread, thick and smelling like the spices and cloves that come out at Christmas. Served warm(ish) and fresh from the oven, when you broke off a piece it didn’t snap but instead whispered something that sounded like, “pphhhhhooot.”

Damn yo.

Downside, location and parking (and that's it wicked loud, not a great first date spot). We paid $20 to park (due to some “special event”) in the lot across the street. But then everything in the Larimer Square part of town is cramped and tight. Double-dog dare you not to find yourself in traffic jam any time of night. And a bit pretentious really, although we spotted – didn’t venture into – an interesting looking spot during our walk-about after dinner. A little hole down a flight of stairs called “Wicked Garden” that offered “unexpected pleasures.” Don’t know if it was a strip club or a fetish shop or a badly marketed 20-something dance club, but it peeked our interest. Hoping a fetish club.

Given it’s Larimer Square, though, bet I’m sadly wrong.

Naked sushi: Boulder's Hapa bares all

Not everybody does it, but Boulder's Hapa Sushi does. Naked sushi. Not that you as a patron are naked while enjoying your salmon skin roll (that would prolly cost a good deal more) but those serving it are. Really serving it.

I dunno. I have zero objections to nudity whether public, private or shared. And this is art. Fish art. Actually it’s an ancient art form called Nyotaimori (Yo-too-more-ee), or to my people eating sushi or sashimi off of a naked woman - or man, in the case of Nantaimori - as a human platter.

But I dunno. As the body warms so does the food. And pardon the obvious pun, but sushi already has a…fishy…umm…taste. My imaginating would take it to an entirely new level as I dived in. 

Do they full body wax for pub and pit hair free presentation? And good lord, what about toes? Especially the big ones. Don’t get me started on belly buttons. I am thismuch curious about eating food off an unknown man. Makes me giggle to think how and where they’d place the squid. And watch out for the wasabi.

Hapa has an intriguing menu of house sushi rolls, many with names cheeky and "winkwink" in nature; the Booty Call Roll (Shrimp tempura, crab and cucumber roll wrapped in salmon, sweet soy and baked with a luscious cream sauce - the Orgasm Roll has the same sauce); the Climax Roll (California Roll with "tons" of masago - Google tells me that's Capelin roe, or tiny eggs). Funny, no Walk of Shame Roll.

Sushi tease, it's like they're trying a little too hard. I give it a semi-flaccid.

John's Restaurant, Boulder

It’s the kind of restaurant where a fellow might propose. Fresh flowers, wine, candlelight.

No. Not that kind of blog.

But John’s Restaurant absolutely offers just the right mix of warm charm and laid back elegance. Its upscale eats with a sprinkle of pretense served in a little red house, converted into separate dining rooms. John's is everything I really love about Boulder, without the patchouli stink.

Went for Denver Restaurant Week(s), an annual event where local establishments offer special menu dining options for $52.80 per couple (we’re five-thousand, two-hundred and eighty feet above sea level here in the Mile High City) or half that for one. John’s included wine parings with each of the three courses for $50 a head total (and our girl was not shy on the pour.) Do yourself a solid, when offered a wine pairing take it. Chefs and sommeliers have the knack, Sharona, for choosing florals and fruits and oaks and smokes that complement each dish. Imagine my red-wine-loving surprise to fall madly for a 2010 New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc that smelled of apricots and exploded the flavors of my baby spinach salad (with dried cherries, pancetta, goat cheese, walnuts and balsamic vinaigrette).

Had the waitress jot down the name so I could pick up a bottle of my very own.

For the entrée, I chose the ribeye with poblano pepper and blue cheese potato cake (imagine flavorful mashed potatoes scooped into a patty, slightly breaded and pan fried) with herb compound butter and garlic au jus. The seared, salty crust gave way to a perfect medium rare. A Hearty Man Dinner kind of guy might not appreciate the smaller cut of beef (about the size of a babies foot), but just right for me.

And duck! Who knew?! The few times I’ve tried duck I didn’t care for it much, too deep and oily and earthy in taste. But the Maple Leaf Farm Duck (seared duck breast, white polenta with huckleberry reduction) ate like a sweet and salty pork roast, delicate and soft. Perfect over super duper creamy white polenta.

Topped the night with a trio of fruit cobblers – strawberry, pear and huckleberry – served in tiny, hot ramekins. Slurpy and sweet, we left berry juice splotched Pollock-style all over the tablecloth.

And winner, winner chicken dinner, John’s included a $20 gift certificate with the bill.

With regular entrée prices in the $26-$42 range, definitely a special occasion restaurant (and type of joint where  crumbs are brushed away and fresh flatware brought after each course). But homey, welcoming and leisurely. I like to linger and the waitstaff never rushed a course or had us on stop watch.

Ducks beware.

Let’s eat

Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity. 
~Voltaire

Welcome to Eat it, Denver!

I admit. I like to eat around. Uptown, downtown, LoDo, LoHi. Boulder.

From the best cheeseburger and dirty bird (Grey goose dirty martini) both found - oddly enough - at the same split-personality-Girl-Scout-cookie bar, soup that makes your soul sing, local wine and spirits, the low dives and the high cooking, I'll share my food with you.

Because life is to be devoured.