Modmarket, Boulder

Had a proper English tea with a group of proper ladies recently at a little shop in Highlands where charm out weighed much else. One of those locally owned, renovated old Victorian businesses with class and panache that you just want to love, but lose patience with during an afternoon tea stretching into three hours, with scones and finger sandwiches coming in the last 20 minutes.

Lovely thing about a lovely long lunch is catching up; who’s done what where, to whom and how often. One told about her new(ish) live-in relationship, complete with built-in bonus family. 

I asked, “What does his older son do?”

“He’s not at home, he’s in his twenties and living in California,” she shared. “He works in movies. Not sure doing what, but…oh, and I don’t know who he is, really, but he’s good friends with some young actor. Hot right now. What is his name? Rya…?’

“RYAN GOSLING?!”

“Yes, Ryan Gosling. He’s even come out with him to Boulder, to visit and do a local theater thing.”

Forget The Notebook. Too easy. He had me at Lars and The Real Girl, took me over the top with Blue Valentine and the indie (what else) where he played a sociopathic killer who may have done in young wife Kirsten Dunst. And sure, the happy-vein-disappearing-into-trousers shirtless scene in Crazy. Stupid. Love. Being four degrees of separation removed sent a tingle into my dingle.

And it wasn’t much of a stretch to think I saw him a week later, lunching at Modmarket in Boulder. Not him though. Several casual cool saunters by confirmed it. Some of the cutest boys in puppetland are found in Boulder, ladies.  

And I found a gem in this little strip mall stop. Wine. WINE! By the glass and just $6 a pop, the Pinot Noir the perfect pizza companion.

Like Larkburger, this isn’t an assembly line feed joint but a sit and wait. The company’s web tag line is, “Fast food that’s good for you,” but not so speedy that I couldn’t peruse the current issue of my old college paper.

Ordered the Goat Pizza (goat cheese, tomato, arugula and red basil pesto) on a wafer-thin crust, my choice made easier with nutritional information posted in readable, doable font on the overhead ordering boards.

The tomatoes were whole, plump and fresh, split and cracked open from time spent in a real brick oven. The arugula, spicy and peppery, kept its fresh bite and crisp texture. Not one bit of skimp on the creamy goat cheese atop a thick spread of nutty and sweet red basil pesto.

The gluten free, vegan Cashew Butternut Squash Soup is on tap to try, as is the Hummus toasted sandwich stuffed with eadame (different, loving it) hummus, feta, cucumber, spring mix, tomato, red onion and dill dressing on ciabatta.

And the Superfood Salad, a spinach and chock-full-of-goodness kale blend, quinoa pilaf, blackberries, feta, carrot and almonds. Just the thought of chewing that makes my insides feel healthier, as if feeding cells and blood. The salads, much like at Mad Greens, are made before your eyes, spun and tossed together in large silver bowls. You can ask to mix your own too, choose ingredients as you go.

Eating like that, I could get Gosling abs. Or something just as tasty.

Doppelganger be damned.

IKEA, Centennial

IKEA may be one of the reasons other countries hate us.

Sleek, contemporary consumerism and overabundance. Like Wal-Mart but with cleaner edges and Slavic sensibilities. Forget Occupy Wall Street, occupy Wal-Mart and its over-packaging of cologne and lip chap sets featuring Justin Beiber, wrapped tighter than a fat lady at a wedding in the south. Comically oversized and vacuum sealed plastic clam shells so hard that the bonus Selena Gomez bath sprinkles must be cut out with scissors.

IKEA markets its wares as “affordable solutions for better living,” and it’s half true. The $9.99 stainless steel toilet paper holder with overlapping protective cover and razor sharp zip edge will no doubt save on paper (at 14 the indoor cat still insists on unrolling every square when bored). And upon the $200 lavender writing desk I might sell a column or book proposal.

But damn they make it hard.

Arriving at IKEA is like going to the airport; park the car, follow the fold and enter the building up a gargantuan escalator. Once ascended, just signs. Signs, signs everywhere is signs.

Pick up a bag.

Take a pencil.

Make a wish list.

Follow the arrows.

Give me what I want and no one gets hurt.

IKEA is not a dash joint. You must start at the beginning and continue to the end like Homer’s Odyssey, traversing every level of hell. The first rush is a big one, squishy elongated sofas and chaise lounges, compartmental books shelves and pillows and trinkets and tzotchkes and side tables and rugs and…and that’s just the first chapter, Ulysses. Be forewarned, there are no bathrooms on part one of the journey. In the miles and miles of mapped showroom, one must go continue to the café for relief. Maybe that’s what clouded some of my experience, late morning omelet and too strong coffee rumblings ringing a warning through kitchen shelving.

There are no sales people either, except the one passing out samples of too oily Gravad Lax on Wasa. The crowds are surly, ugly even. Nary an “excuse me” or “pardon me” or “yes-I-know-I-brought-my-double-wide-stroller-into-this-like-a-virgin-tight-space-sorry.” To the one – one – emo boy who uttered, “Excuse me,” in the crowed bath accessories department, I think I love you. And your skinny pants. But I may have figured out why IKEA shoppers are so rude.

They’re tired. About half way in they give up. And they must sit.

Across a busy aisle I spotted the aforementioned writing desk, thick sturdy wood with spindle kegs. A large man had taken root on the tiny and aching stool like seat placed in front of it and refused to move an inch. Not as I poked and prodded and did a reach around, checking out the merchandise; I may have twisted a testicle thinking it was the lock. There’s a discounted “as is” section in the store but never buy there. Any chair in the “take it or leave it” island of misfit goods has been sat on thousands of times, farted on more than that.

The halfway point is the café where weary travelers stop for infamous meatballs. I was invested enough to try a bite. Nothing spectacular, like any Swedish ball of meat found in your grocers freezer and covered with a taupey brown sheen of gravy paste. The potatoes alongside looked like actual spuds, perhaps even some peel mashed in; the smear of tart and sweet lingonberries made the balls easier to swallow. The Lingonberry Drink was pleasant, a cross between strawberry and cranberry, but I’m guessing “drink” is to “juice” as “ground meat” is to “ground beef.” Oddly, for a store stocked with hundreds of styles of drinking apparatus, the fountain beverage glasses are too tall, too skinny and too lightweight to hold their empty own on a wobbly tray. Every fourth glass through checkout came crashing to the ground.

At the end of our nearly day-long journey, we swore never to return. Didn’t work out that way.

See, the efficiency experts that are IKEA forgot to pack a piece of the lavender desk in the box, meaning a return trip, a take-a-number-wait-in-line afternoon.

Those cheeky Swedes. They got us. Again.

Savory Spice Shop, Denver

Growing up in a lower middle-class household of six, Hamburger Helper was a staple and parmesan sprinkles from the green shaker can the height of seasoning. The most exotic spice in the squatty cabinet over the stove was the non-brand version of Lawry’s Seasoned Salt.

Mom’s hamburger gravy (browned ground beef stirred with rendered fat, flour and water to create a gray paste and served over mashed potatoes) didn’t even take a shake of pepper. Dad’s “beans” (a ham hock boiled on the stove for a full day, dry beans soaked overnight and chewy dumplings) faired better, the pork creating a salty stew.*

*As many times as I bemoaned eating those beans and as much as I grew to hate them, I’d birth a baby to the man or woman who could recreate his dumplings. Dense but full of tiny air pockets, salty and tasting like eggs and lard. I miss those beans.

It wasn’t until I began to cook as an adult that I discovered the lemony kick of thyme, the woody poke of rosemary, warmth of sage, nose tickle of ground harissa and wet, unrefined sea salt that actually smells like the ocean.

And I get them at Savory Spice Shop, founded locally in 2004. The Denver shop remains my favorite; a knowledgeable, edgy and friendly staff, wood floors that creak and stairway into what looks like a dirt basement from the top step–I’m too scared to descend. They’ve since grown to Boulder, Fort Collins and beyond with nationwide franchises.

photo courtesy of savoryspiceshop.com

Check the ever-changing staff picks over the register for the newest offerings, like Dried Kaffir Lime Leaves to charge up a Chicken Korma. Or try a sprinkle of Black Lava Hawaii Kai’s Palm Island Sea Salt over toasted sourdough with a smear of unsalted butter. Top corn popped in coconut oil with Blue Cheese Powder, a Smoky Cheddar or dressed with Shichimi Togarashi, a Japanese seven spice, fresh minced garlic and sesame oil. Warm a thermos of red wine with Mulling Spices to take off the outdoor chill.

Savory also sells sugars flavored with vanilla, lavender, maple and more along with traditional whites and browns, and extracts and oils for cooking, tinctures or health. Plus look around for complimentary recipes cards or ask a clerk; they’ll happily rummage through a huge library-card-catalog collection by spice blend, course or cuisine. A must try is the Sage & Savory Sweet Potato Bisque (even better topped with crispy prosciutto and alongside a feta croquette).

You can buy by the glass bottle or refill by the bag. Get bottles to start; the salt-free Herbes de Provence that finds its way on nearly everything I prepare—pork, salmon, roasted chicken, pasta, sweet potato fries—retains a better blast of aroma in glass.

Wonder how those beans would have held up to a pinch of Sarawak Fine White Pepper (ground weekly). Or a whisper of Hungarian Sweet & Spicy Paprika (cayenne added for a little heat).

Never know. But then some things in life are already perfectly seasoned.

Pizzeria Locale, Boulder

Know what’s annoying?

Parents who insist you can never know real love until you have a child. Laying claim to some kind of golden ticket or secret decoder ring. Because even though mine’s more a one way system, I too feel and understand compassion and connection without ever passing a head.

You know?

And it’s annoying when restaurants sell a concept over its cuisine. This is what authentic is and not liking it means you don’t get it, not really. That was my experience at Pizzeria Locale, Boulders hippest and hottest pizza contender. The media and the foodies love the place; Food News even named Pizzeria Locale one of best in U.S.

In all of these United States of America.

Admittedly the appetizers are good, if not slim pickings; the amaze-balls and perfectly seasoned "Polpettine" (veal meatballs with walnut pesto) come just three to a plate and $6 an order. Same with the trio of hot fried and Falafelesque chickpea balls holding in melted mozzarella shreds.

But you come for the pie, the "traditional-style pizza found in Napoli, Italy." And having never been, could I argue? The Mais, topped with sweet corn, crème fraiche, prosciutto coot and mozzarella di bufala—even the menu is overly pretentious…coot?—was a standout. Never heard of or had creamed corn on a pizza and it worked. The prosciutto a crispy and salty cut to sweet. But the pie came out sloppy, wet and undercooked. The staff from barkeep to water glass monitor explain at every chance that it’s tradition (“…and you don't monkey with tradition, amen!" – I would have killed for a fictional Mystic Pizza) for their pies to come uncut to slice and serve yourself. But the dough in the center was cool, stringy and pulled all the toppings into a mess in the middle.

The super-attentive and Abercrombie cute waiter forewarned that the four cheese variety, a.k.a. the Quattro Formaggio, consisted of 1) mozzarella, 2) parmigiano reggiano, 3) fontina and 4) ovinsardo.

Hands up. Who’s heard of ovinsardo? It’s a blue cheese made from sheep’s milk and for the 8-year-old in tow a deal breaker. I didn't birth the boy but understand youthful logic enough to know kids won’t eat things that smell like their feet. Kid friendly? No. As much our small companion enjoyed the comically over sized and pure cane sugared Coke (in a tall, tall bottle) he only nibbled around due of the quattro cheeses.

In a too small space for the noise and the traffic. And at $15 per small pie you won’t walk away on the cheap.

No decoder ring needed.