The Berkshire, Denver (Stapleton)

What is type?

Type is about what suits us; tall for a girl at a bit over 5’8 I prefer taller men. I like looking up. Type fills desire; my work and my passion are words. Proper spelling gets me hot. And type is physical; join any online dating service and you can order up a potential partner as simply as choosing steamed or fried rice. When it comes to food, type is literally taste, the salt and the savory, the sweet and the tart. Plus a shake of atmosphere.

True-blue burger people are serious types. In Denver there’s even a highly-touted and often sold out competition, the annual Denver Burger Battle, wherein competitors are hand-picked to go head-to-head and meat-to-meat in a glorious fight. So when the Battle touted The Berkshire as a 2011 contender (and after a quick look at the online menu) I was on board.

The night got off to a rocky start. We were seated at one of two four tops oddly stuck behind the serving station and fountain area. Eagerly ordered and anticipated the Bacon Flight (premium bacon four-ways, garlic, cinnamon-chipotle, curried and balsamic) only to be told after ordering they were out. At 6:30 p.m. On a Wednesday night. Went with the Stuffed Jalapeños (cream cheese-stuffed, pancetta-wrapped and served with a honeysuckle dipping sauce) instead. Beautiful presentation and a palatable bite. As for the The Deep Fried Pickles (served with in-house ranch), a picture is word a thousand sad, limp words. The spear didn't crunch and the unsalted coating slipped right off. Like it was running away.

The dirty martini was too salty and floating sad, limp olives. The Patio Pleaser, bargain priced at $3.50, is their simple classic margarita but far superior to the double-plus-the-price-better-on-paper-than-execution Organic Margarita (Partida Reposado, Agave honey and fresh lime juice), sour and devoid of any tequila taste. The Ice Pick (tea infused vodka with soda water and a splash of lemon) was served too warm and too sweet (even though the drink menu made nary a mention of simple syrup in the mix).

Then the burger, a.k.a. “The Style Over Substance.” Found it curious no one on shift could offer an explanation (valid, cheeky or otherwise) as to why The $50 Burger (Kobe beef stuffed with braised short ribs, mixed with shitake mushrooms, topped with truffled caramelized onions, bacon and Vermont white cheddar served with hand-cut duck phat french fries and black garlic aioli) is priced at $25. A wink-wink-nudge-nudge inside joke like the House Made Duck Phat Fries (hand-cut french fries served with aged black garlic and saffron aioli). “Phat” like “Krab?” Again highly anticipated, they tasted burnt and looked the color of the Sienna crayon in a box of 64. And (keeping on theme) served up limp, soggy and "phlaccid" (ha!) sprinkled with salt and sugar; the aioli similar to sweet mayo, nothing more.

The Kobe beef was super juicy and flavorful, but ground together with short ribs and mushrooms, tight and dense like a meatloaf. Would have preferred a truly stuffed burger – and shitakes I could see. Topped with thick, crisp and perfect bacon (not enough for a full flight, I guess, but a short drive) and tangy white cheddar. Meat super seasoned – not a bad taste, but a lingering one – and held together on a pillowey English-muffin-meets-ciabatta bun. I’d eat it again, certainly, but not for $25. LoHi SteakBar serves a far better burger at half the price (and alongside frites so good – ask for the house ketchup – you’ll wet yourself).

Stuck in the middle of a manufactured neighborhood, from the street to the eats, The Berkshire seems to suffer from a lack of identity. Hip dining wrapped in plastic Saran. A sign etched over the small bar reads, “I am fond of pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.” Winston Churchill

Me, I’m not fond of The Berskshire.

Just not my type.

Gordon Biersch Brewery, Broomfield

Remember the food you ate when you first set out on your own? Not only the hand-to-mouth “Ramen Years” paying college tuition or in your first bad apartment when you subsided on popcorn or day-glo orange Kraft Mac 'N Cheese (who else licked a finger, plunged it in the cheese powder bag then sucked it off? Hands?) Rather, the time of life away from parents or rules or anything other than a youthful metabolism when you ate what you wanted.

Mine was fries done my way, a specific process nearing ritual. Always frozen Ora-Ida Crinkle Cut (I’d splurge on brand) deep fried in vegetable oil. Used only the silver sauce pot I’d inherited from Mom (so old I wore it as a hat when I portrayed Johnny Appleseed in my sixth grade production of the play— musical actually—I wrote instead of the standard book report and which my teacher insisted I stage for the class). It was heavy and forever shiny stainless with a thick black handle. Cooking time had to be precise and just so, resulting in fries oily but crispy on the outside, overcooked almost to the point of becoming a shell of crunch. I’d drain them on a brown paper bag, season with Lawry’s Garlic Salt, California Style with bits of dried parsley, and dump into a big, slightly dented silver bowl that stayed warm on my lap.

I loved those fries and fondly recall the freedom they represented, cooked on my own cheap stove in my own cheap apartment, cheap ingredients bought with the few dollars I had. This weekend, I came close again.

And I thought I might cry.

You can say it’s the same but it’s never same and these weren’t. Exactly. But the signature Garlic Fries at Gordon Biersch Brewery came close. Yes, a chain restaurant (now open in Taiwan and some airports to boot) but Gordon Biersch housed the other half of my amulet, because we were meant to be together, those fries and I. 

Fat and super crunchy outside, so tender on the inside you’d think they were hollow. Instead of simple garlic salt, coated in fresh chopped parsley and finely, microscopically minced raw garlic for a tangy bite.

Perfectly salted.

All the better, they came warm and nestled under a plate of Steak Frites, a thicker cut of flat iron steak than expected (marinated in Märzen lager for a mildly sweet and malty finish) and lightly drizzled with tangy steak sauce.

To call the Hummus and Goat Cheese Salad (dressed with Märzen Balsamic Vinaigrette) a mere salad is an insult. It ate like a large tapas plate, spring mix greens piled high with lemony hummus and goat cheese, surrounded by roasted red peppers and warm herb flatbread points.

Washed it all down with a Limoncello Lemon Drop—shook with Absolut Citron Vodka, Caravella Limoncello and fresh-squeezed lemonade—Limoncello tangy, but the lemonade finish a bit sweet for my taste (“my” Lemon Drop is Grey Goose, juice of half a lemon and a salt/sugar coated rim on the glass).

Better of the puckerish two, the Pomegranate martini (Ketel One Citroen Vodka and POM Wonderful pomegranate). The Schwarzbier (literal meaning is “black beer” in German) was a dark and chewy lager with a dry finish and roasted coffee aftertaste, the espresso of beers.

You can't go home again, really. But sometimes you might find yourself in a place or at a time or with a person or a thing that—if you simply pay attention—means more than the sum of all the parts.

I found love, again and for the first time. In a french fried potato.

Snooze, Denver

Given the rapture is due tomorrow, coming to steal your sinning souls, it’s a good thing I made it to Snooze recently. But then again, should I happen to linger until October 21 (the “backup rapture”) maybe it’ll be easier to get a table.

snoozeeatery.com/

Snooze, an A.M. Eatery, has been on the gotta-try short list for months, ever since 5280 Magazine and friends touted this breakfast/lunch only spot. The problem with great buzz, word of mouth and being open for business just until 2:30p.m. is the wait. It can be hours. So early one Thursday morning on the way to the airport, and anticipating less foot traffic, took a chance on Snooze.

And I’m part of the in crowd now.

Facing several hours airborne, and not one who’s a fan on bringing food on a plane, I bucked healthy egg white omelet tradition and ordered the Breakfast Pot Pie (homemade rosemary sausage gravy over flaky puff pastry, topped with an egg your style and hash browns).

Gravy is a pleasure and treat; gravy over heavy-carb-loaded biscuits a diet anomaly.

So how’d they get this dish to taste so light?

The puff pasty crispy and airy, exploding into flakes under each fork dig.

The white gravy creamy but not overly dense, full of white pepper, woodsy rosemary and delicate – yeah I said it – bites of crumbled sausage. The carrots and celery were a sweet and homey surprise. Served next to a perfectly-sized mound of potatoes, more hashpuck than traditional flat browns and so good I finished every bite.

Unable to decide between a couple menu items, our sever suggested half orders each of the Corned Beef Hash (shredded hash mixed with locally made corned beef, caramelized poblanos and onions.) and the Bella! Bella! Benny (thin slices of prosciutto, Taleggio cheese and poached eggs on toasted ciabatta, topped with cream cheese hollandaise, balsamic glaze and arugula.) The Benedict, as good it read on paper and ate in real life, was overshadowed by the hash – an absolute triumph. Salty meat shredded and not chewy, potatoes crisp all around (no searching for the favorite burnt edge) with a sweet spicy touch of onions and peppers. Next time, a full order.

And a big ass bloody, absolutely the Bugs Bloody (pepper infused vodka and a shot of Odwalla Carrot Juice.)

snoozeeatery.com/

I’m not a sweet morning eater, preferring eggs and bacon to French toast or anything powdered sugary. But I want to take off on a Snooze Pancake Flight; your choice of any three flavors. Already calling 1) Pineapple Upside Down Pancakes (caramelized pineapple chunks with housemade vanilla crème anglaise and cinnamon butter), 2) the signature Sweet Potato (topped with homemade caramel, pecans and ginger butter) and 3) the Red Velvet (red velvet buttermilk pancakes with a touch of cream cheese frosting, praline syrup and chopped pecans). Would be lovely to try with a group, a bite or two from each because like Sophie can I really choose?

The coffee, an exclusive Guatemala blend, strong and slightly bitter like good diner coffee, ready to be milked up or watered down to taste. The small grapefruit juice (fresh-squeezed) was served in a glass as tall as my head. Loads of eye opening adult beverages on the specialty menu, too, featuring local liquors from Leopold Bros. I didn’t imbibe, having to keep sharp to elbow a prime seat on Southwest (hands up, who else is amused by lining up in order, like you did for the school bus?)

Snooze delivers big and tasty belly fillers at Denny’s prices, by an engaging staff who help you quickly through your meal without ever feeling rushed or hustled. I get the hype around Snooze. And yep, I'm going back. After tomorrow.

Hell, good breakfast is a sign that God/Buddha/Yahweh loves us.

La Patisserie Francaise French Bakery, Arvada

Been a week besieged by cravings and bloated belly. So many cravings, in fact, I peed on a stick this morning.

It’s only a Fritos® baby.

The cause of the cravings and tight(er) waistband are carbs. Car-bo-hydrates. I’ve always been more a savory than sweet eater, stating emphatically that were I to be stranded on a deserted island with one food item to nosh mine would be the potato – chip and tot and baked and fried and smashed and hash and shoestring. When ill in my sick bed the want isn’t grocery store pre-made Jell-O with floating fruit or broth or rice, but a bag of salty Lay’s chips and cold, cold ginger ale.

So it’s odd that what got me this week and sent me over the edge began with a simply exquisite chocolate croissant from La Patisserie Francaise French Bakery.

Stopped in one morning as a treat to the fit me, foregoing for just one day the protein bar or morning fruit and yogurt. I sunk into this instead.

And it was so worth it.

The super delicate pastry (those French know how to work a stick of butter) stuck to my lip gloss in tiny shreds. The dark chocolate chips held their full, pot bellied shape but gave way to creamy soft bites. It’s a favorite, which says a lot considering what this shop has to offer. Every year, at the end of September, I look forward to blowing out candles burning atop two or three of their classic–and highly-liquored–pastries, more to taste and try than one standard birthday cake swirled with fruit coulis and frosted in butter cream.

The day olds, too, always top notch and a price performer at ½ off.

Oui, oiu, poo, poo.

That’s French for “saweet!”

Salt Bistro, Boulder

It's a destination, really. Figured as much when I overheard a beigey-blonde Mom in yoga class tout its fabulousness, “Food SO GOOD, atmosphere SO CHIC. Oh em gee!!” The kind of place a McMansion suburban family goes for "fancy." Salt Bistro in Boulder is one of many highly-touted and highly-reviewed joints in hip local media:

“… one of the best be-cool and be-seen spots in all of Boulder…”
~ elephantjournal.com, Sept. 2009

And that’s what it feels like. But I'm already cool.

Been to Salt once before, about a year ago, one afternoon around holiday time. Hungry, cold and looking for one of the infamous "prohibition-era “cocktails and hot meal. Met with a small happy hour menu instead, much of which I don’t recall (thinking spiced nuts, something figgy, maybe an oniony flatbread.) Have attempted dinner or a burger or a much-raged about dessert since then, but always turned off and turned away given the usual hour-to-hour-and-a-half wait at the door (and that they take reservations only for parties of 5 or more.)

When a girl in heels needs to eat, she needs to eat.

Luckily made it for lunch on a sunny Saturday after a stroll through the Boulder Farmer's Market. Salt is odd in its hours of operation - open for lunch and dinner with a mid-day gap between 3-to-5 p.m. with just the house burger and limited appetizers offered. I think. Still not entirely clear.

Salt was Tom's Tavern, Boulder legendary as a college drop-in-and eat-on-the cheap beers and burgers. Doors opened in 1962 and closed to much sad fanfare in 2007. A lasting tribute can be found on the Salt menu, the original Tom’s Tavern Burger (Never-Never beef, Vermont cheddar, pickled onion, house made fries and ketchup). For $13. In the day, thirteen bones bought smart groceries for a week.

The Never-Never beef (Salt partners with ranches that produce only humanely raised animals, without anti-biotic or growth hormones, hence the silly name – got me thinking tofu) was juicy with  a capital “uicy.” Squirted it did, meat highly seasoned (salty even to my tongue and I’m known to chew a Murray River flake as a palate cleanser.) Little else to it, save gooey cheese and a side of greens.

The Never Never (really, Peter Pan?) Steak Sandwich (shiitake mushroom, caramelized onion, roasted poblano pepper, fontina cheese, serrano aioli) ate like a grown up Philly Cheese Steak housed in the same pillowy, egg bread bun as the burger, good if out out place. And $12.

The fries were crispy and meaty, ketchup spicy and sweet (server recommended the garlic aioli, savory without being heavy) but also a bit over-salted. Washed it down with a Vanilla Bourbon Sour (Stranahan’s Colorado Whiskey, vanilla and lemon juice.) At $13. Tart and not too sweet with an actual float of vanilla bean pods on top; made several more at home later that night based on the simple recipe.

Any local reviewer will insist the Dark Chocolate Caramel Salt Tart (served along coffee cocoa nib ice cream) is a must. Chewy and lush, although a little hard to fork into; I’d have preferred a smaller piece or two of the candy-like dessert next to a larger scoop of the divine coffee ice cream with crunchy frozen cocoa nibs cracking under molars like tiny chocolate chips.

Service friendly but mostly absent; had to remind our otherwise lovely and eyeball-to-eyeball waiter to take a food order after sipping drinks for a good 15 minutes. Accommodating is a good thing; feeling rushed in a posh spot a peeve. But it felt more as if the staff was waiting us out until the easier, appetizer only mid-day crowd arrived.

Tally for lunch (two burgers, two drinks, one dessert) ran $70 with tip. With a plethora of known and yet-to-explore places to eat it, Denver (and Boulder and Arvada and Lyons and Louisville) can’t say I’m salivating to return.

The web site sorts of tells why, screaming style over substance:

"...European technique...innovative thinking...truly remarkable experience...simple, yet elegant and delicious."

Show me.

I Eat Dinner (When The Hunger's Gone)

Isn’t it ironic, Alanis, that a writer with a lifetime of eating issues plunges fork first into a blog dedicated to food?

And eating it?

Shouldn’t come as a revolutionary confession or surprise, given the number of women (and men and girls and boys) who suffer body issues, food disorders or dysfunctional eating. I was a cute little girl, looked like all the other little girls. The first after two boys and my Mom styled me proper. I wore a pastel dress, black patent Mary Jane’s and white anklet socks trimmed in lace for Easter, paired with matching cape. A cape. There’s home video of toddler me, Beatnik cool with a bowl cut, Navy pea coat, striped tee, slim black pants and flats with a buckle. I would wear that outfit now.

But I got chubby fast and stayed there, “beefy” my Dad called it. Even with the Weight Watchers diet plans and chalk-chocolaty AIDs weight loss candies (an unfortunate marketing concept it would turn out) introduced before I was 10.

Because, you see, fat is shame.

For summer vacation, Mom bought me a bikini. “Oh Maaaaaa,” I groaned in my head, already aware at eight of the dread of exposed, wobbly flesh. I tried it on in the little bathroom, pulling myself on top of the vanity for a full view. Although hunched over, my head just grazing the popcorn ceiling, I liked myself in my bikini. I grabbed a faded floral towel from the rack – just in case – and headed down the split level stairs. Two of my three brothers saw me first. There were no words, just loads of rolling laughter. I never wore that bikini.

“Epiphanous” best describes the summer between freshman and sophomore year in high school. Not only did I get my first period earlier that year, I realized, “Oh god. Gym is a requirement. I have to wear shorts at school.” With little guidance and no one really watching, during a hot and muggy summer spent in Nebraska with my Dad, I decided to stop eating. It was easy actually. My Dad was gone all day to work, my brothers glued to the widely entertaining and brand new cable station, MTV. I would lie in a twin bed in the second bedroom, a tiny, B/W Sony on the bed side table at eye level and watch soaps all day. I would create fantasies about the handsome soap actors (although never an object of attention, I had thoughts about boys – and my body – very early). I would drink Diet Cokes and eat nothing. When Dad came home I would pick at dinner, consuming 500 calories or less per day. The period I’d acquired just months before stopped, supine to standing brought a head rush and my hair started to fall out. Oddly enough, that summer with nutrients absurdly and dangerously restricted, I still managed to sprout from 5’6 to 5’8.

I returned home two months later and 30 pounds lighter; I ended up losing 60 by year’s end. The boys looked, the girls asked. Grown men whistled when they drove by. I was an object of desire. I recall just two instances where my still-unnamed-not-yet-movie-of-the-week-fodder eating disorder (that came in 1983 in the guise of Karen Carpenter) garnered parental attention. The first occurred that summer in Nebraska. My Dad took me to White Castle, just me and not the boys. He bought a plate of sliders and watched. It was torturous to chew then swallow the meaty/cheesy/oniony squares. I had two down and Dad appeared to relax. When he went to the bathroom and for cigarettes, I threw the rest of the meal on the floor, hiding it underneath the table. He was proud of what he’d accomplished. Problem solved.

The second came when I refused to eat cake on my birthday. I don’t know if my Mom was more concerned and angry because of the trouble she’d gone to or at how I merely swirled a glob of white frosting streaked with pink around the plate before abandoning it. “If you don’t eat like a normal person, I will take you to the hospital and force a needle into your arm,” she said. I bet she wouldn’t. She didn’t.

I did eat again, of course. I’ve come to like my round, womanly, strong body. I have the muscle mass and flexibility to stand tall and straight and regal. I have a beautiful neck and shoulders from endless deltoid work. My thighs are amazing. I can take a picture of myself naked. I’m working towards Kate Winslet in Titanic, Bettie Page in her heyday, a body with tone and shape but curvy and sexy. I polish the product I have, shoot it in the best light like a food stylist capturing the essence of a roast turkey.

And I’ve learned to love, really love food. I love red wine. I love martinis. I butter my corn. There shouldn’t be fear about a loaf of beautiful baguette. Brie is not the enemy. But I eat well and consciously address the emotional eating that still plagues me (emotional covers a gambit - sad, happy, Tuesday). I tend to obsess over exercise, chide myself when I miss a day and consider five-days-on-two days off normal. I get angry when I don’t go harder. Part of the sickness, the chatter and howling of the old monkey brain.

Still, I’ve never been happier. Or more beautiful.

It feeds my soul.

Eat it, St Louis!

I did.

They say you can’t go home, don’t look back. But sometimes catching up on your past is yummy.

Flew out of Denver late last week for 4-days in the St. Louey Lou, my second-only time there. Met up with the blond bombshell behind Eat it, St Louis! who’s also a college friend (eatin’ it west to south). And along with old chum frivolity, catching up and endless questions (mostly mine) we ate. We ate St. Louis.

Having gobbled up her blog on the Smoked Wings (slow smoked and served with a mango, ginger and habanero sauce) at The Shaved Duck, I requested a stop once the wheels came down. The restaurant web site touts “barbecue, folk and soul” and these wings hit all three notes.

smalltowngirlsguide.com

Tender off the bone, looking almost charred and crispy black in the dim bar light and so good on their own I had little need for the side sauce. Washed down with a local brew served super cold by the fully-sleeve-tatted and attentive bar staff. Split an order of the Walnut and Brown Sugar Encrusted Bacon (served with pears and bleu cheese) with her hubs. She doesn’t eat bacon; I don’t get it either. The bacon was thick and sweet and paired smoothly with the deep brine of stinky cheese. Could have stayed for more and the local music playing in the main dining.

Llywelyn's Pub happy hour and Grey Goose dirties for just $7 (God love the midwest), the first better than the second; three giant olives always win over two dunked in a chilly glass. After a couple more food was in order and the Pub Burger (pan seared and topped with caramelized onions, crispy bacon and sharp cheddar cheese) soaked the day up nicely. Killer served on a toasted English muffin.

A lazy Saturday afternoon stop at Krueger’s Bar because I’d been told the fried pickles are life-changing. Although spears not chips, the heavy and chewy coating (I'd guess Parmesan-based but a place like this doesn't get into flowery ingredient detail on its menu) won me over as a mid-day snack (and held up beautifully to two tall gin & tonics). Not a dive – far from it – given the lush tree lined University City location and well dressed, middle age crowd. Really a neighborhood bar and grill with an overly animated web site. The gruff wait staff only added to my overall enjoyment. Better yet I cracked a smile on the older gent’s facade who served us with an initial huff.

It’s what I do.

I bring the love.

Ate my entire appetizer size order of “toasted” ravioli (own these gems as fried), but would have liked the traditional marina (which accompanied) along side a dip through melted butter and grated Parmesan I’ve heard legend speak of.

A sweet stop at Kakao Chocolate, staff as warm and welcoming as the squares of dark and white and milk in the front case. Owner and chief chocolatier Brian Pelletier (Pelletier the chocolatier) came out for a chat and offered both a truffle (mine, Turkish Coffee) and fruity fresh gelée on him. The latter lemon and star anise was sweet and tangy, light on the licorice burn. Found on the web site he also does grill rubs, a blend of cocoa powder, cinnamon, salt and spices for any meat. I hear short ribs.

roosterstl.com/

What is it about a Slinger, St Louis? My just-met-dining posse asked immediately upon ordering if I’d had too much to drink the night before. Define “too much,” because I’d take the Rooster Slinger (andouille sausage, breakfast potatoes, fried eggs and sausage gravy over thick-cut toast) sober.

I’ve since been schooled by the manfriend (who sprouted in the Lou) that a slinger is diner chili–no beans, no muss no fuss–over eggs, toast, potatoes and cheese. Promised him we’ll hit the Eat-Rite next time around. Call it what you like, the plate was a Sunday belly diversion, creamy and tasty (I imagine slightly crunchier potatoes would hold up better to the pretty mess). The 8 inch tall cold Greyhound (proper) didn’t hurt. 

Much like many ever-popping-up Denver joints, Rooster serves fair-trade organic coffees; pork and beef is Missouri-raised; and hormones and antibiotics banned. The sustainable movement is already played out. Just call it good food. Damn good food. 

Now I’m home sweet home. Thank you for the hospitality, but there’s no better place to be.

Better yet? I can still button my pants.