Ruth Tobias

How you can be a lush & a lightweight at the same time is beyond me, but so I am. Much as I guzzle the vino, I have to tread very carefully when it comes to spirits. One cocktail makes me loopy; 2 make me goopy. Like I have the muscle tone of hot fudge.

But having hit the bar at ChoLon on the very night that Brian Melton & co., including the lovely Ali Terrill, were debuting a few new concoctions—well, suffice it to say I have about 5 minutes to write this post before I sink into oblivion.

So let’s make it quick: the Still Life is brilliant.

I happened to overhear Mr. Melton wax pleased to Ms. Terrill about the name; he was picturing a painting, say by Meléndez, of a table laden with bowls of pears, plums & walnuts. Because that’s what the drink contains: it’s a blend of Old Overholt Rye, Asian pear purée, walnut oil, Japanese plum vinegar & egg whites, dusted with Saigon cinnamon. It goes down like an iced coffee drink, minus the coffee, minus the cream, minus the sugar.

I’d have had 2, but I’d already had 2—I started with the Royal Garden.

For all my years-long bitching about beet salads, I’ve got nothing against beets themselves; on the contrary, I heart them. I just don’t need to ever, ever, ever eat them over greens with goat cheese again. I’d far rather drink them; the earthy sweetness of their juice mixes beautifully with a well-crafted vodka (ask a Russian. Come to think of it that would be me. Well, half of me). Here, it’s also combined with ginger & lime for a surprisingly light, refreshing tipple complete with an adorable garnish of dried golden beet ring.

Rock on, ChoLon. You had me at Kaya toast, but you can have me whenever. Especially after 2 cocktails.

**Oh yeah, the mysterious UPDATE: I’ve got 2 *major* projects on my plate, one of which is the 34th Starz Denver Film Festival & the other of which is food-related. You’ll learn more about the latter in the weeks to come, but in the meantime, I may not be posting with my usual vigor for the next couple of months. Bear with me. Confession: I don’t really know what radio silence means.

Just as craft-cocktail conoisseurs are abuzz these days with the renaissance of tiki bars, Hawaiian cuisine is once again on the tip of many a chowhound’s tongue. But while the former group is going retro with fogcutters and Singapore slings, foodies are eschewing the pupu platters of the midcentury Trader Vic’s era for that staple of what islanders simply call “local food”: the plate lunch.

Grounded in the traditions of the Polynesian natives, local food also reflects the cookery of the myriad peoples who have settled in Hawaii over the past couple of centuries—primarily Asians from Japan, Korea, China, & the Philippines, along with Portuguese and even Puerto Rican immigrants. If that sounds like quite a mishmash—well, it is. On the menu at any given plate lunch joint here in greater Denver (& there are quite a few, most links in multi-state chains), you’ll find Korean short ribs (kalbi) side by side with Japanese cutlets (katsu), Portuguese sausages, & good old American hamburger patties topped with gravy & fried eggs in a dish called loco moco. Any of these (& more) may be featured on a typical plate lunch, accompanied almost invariably by scoops of island-style sticky rice & macaroni salad. But it’s kalua pig, the quintessential pit-smoked centerpiece of luaus, that packs the biggest Hawaiian punch.

Tucked away in an Aurora strip-mall sports bar called the Oasis Grill, Da Hawaiian Kitchen does not have an imu (as the aforementioned pit is known) at its disposal. But chefs Eric Semingsen & Kalani Kamanu, who grew up together in Kailua, replicate the classic masterfully nonetheless—rubbing the pork with native sea salt, wrapping it in ti leaves, & oven-cooking it “on Hawaiian time,” in Semingsen’s words (that is, very slowly). The result, mixed with cabbage for contrast, is mouthwatering—tender & richly savory. It comes with macaroni salad that’s actually seasoned well enough to be flavorful, a rarity. It also comes with the ultra-soft white roll known as “sweet bread,” an adorable orchid-blossom garnish—&, if you’re lucky enough to be there when it’s available, kimchi-fried rice speckled with bits of Spam.

That’s right, Spam—the notorious canned pork loaf that achieved lasting popularity in Hawaii during World War II due to a surplus from military rations. It makes all kinds of cameo appearances on plate-lunch menus, perhaps most surprisingly in the sushi-inspired snack known as Spam musubi.

Though Da Hawaiian Kitchen offers them too, the pictured rolls come from Hawaiian Hut BBQ in Golden, whose backstory alone warrants it a mention. First of all, it’s inexplicably set on the premises of an indoor flea market called the Home Décor Outlet—separated from the huge, tchotchke-cluttered showfloor by little more than some strung leis and paper cutouts of tiki gods. And second, its owner, Paul Ho, just so happens to be a cousin of Don Ho, the late ukelele-slinging crooner of “Tiny Bubbles” and “Pearly Shells.” In short, it may just be the most fortuitous amalgam of kitsch this side of Casa Bonita.

As predicted, nothing I sampled this weekend—& I sampled some fine vittles—could touch this wacky snack.

Read all about it in my review of the Asian Fusion pleasuredome that is ChoLon. Then go try it. Then tell me I’m wrong, that it’s not the edible orgasmatron I’m cracking it up to be. Go on, I dare you.

Dear server whose name I didn’t catch, I guess I owe you an apology.

I may have seemed a bit standoffish as you launched into your spiel about the wonders of small-plate dining, basically ignoring you to survey the wine list instead. (At least my charming companion was graciously all ears.) It’s just that it began with that dreaded query, “Have you dined with us before?”, from which my eaterly ego instantly recoils: even though I hadn’t, I’m perfectly familiar with the ins & outs of family-style meal-sharing; it’s nothing new, & to imply otherwise always strikes me as a tad precious.

But it’s not your fault that you’re required to spout twaddle like “Things will matriculate out of the kitchen in a sushi-esque fashion.” Your service was more than competent—indeed quite polished—& you personally proved a genuinely kind sir. And the meal itself? Damn. Amid the spate of Asian Fusion peddlers popping up these days (somewhat inexplicably, really, post-heyday—see: Se7en, Japoix), I was expecting good things of Jean-Georges Vongerichten protégé Lon Symensma especially; henceforth I’ll be counting on great things.

This being my 1st real review since going public with my identity, I should make a brief digression to admit that I’m somewhat ambivalent about the whole affair. On the one hand, I’m proud of my work & want to showcase it as best I can. On the other hand, I’m not so proud of myself to imagine that any chef with a lick of sense is scanning his dining room hourly to determine whether I’ve graced it with my presence. On the 3rd hand (food writers have 3, you know—1 to gobble with, 1 to guzzle with, 1 to think with), discretion really is the better part of professional valor. I can only say that so far I’ve not noticed being noticed, explicitly or implicitly, based on my treatment; if & when I do, I’ll state as much up front (as I do when I go to press events). And I can only add that you, possessed of the knowledge that my ugly mug is out there for all to gawk at, should take my opinion with as many grains of salt as you see fit. (Granted, that was always the case. My humble hope is that regular readers know my voice & can vouch for my intention to do them an honest service by now.)

The kitchen takes pride in exquisite presentation, as is clear with the arrival, in lieu of a bread basket, of this veritable sculpture of puffed rice & black sesame seeds,

more a textural vehicle for zesty, smoky tomato-chili jam

than a flavor conveyor in its own right (perhaps a little more salt would remedy that; perhaps not—texture is a pleasure in its own right.)

But no amount of artfulness can compensate for culinary mediocrity; I didn’t rest assured, for all his acclaim, that Symensma’s palate was on a par with his palette until our first dish, an elegant take on Vietnamese green papaya salad.

What makes the dish is that exhilirating scoop of tamarind sorbet; the contrast of textures (smooth, slick, crunchy) itself contrasts the ultra-refreshing profile of complementary flavors, tart on sour on downright acidic.

More subtly deviating from the classic is the beef tartare,

coarse-chopped rather than minced, nearly dripping with egg yolk, threaded with a chiffonade of fresh basil instead of parsley—a notable switcheroo—& flanked by buttons of Chinese-style hot mustard where the standard is mixed with Dijon. Pretty but paltry, they didn’t cut the you-know-what for me, so I requested extra on the side. Like the puffed rice cracker, the tapioca puffs served as all-but-flavorless scoops for the meat, which was no problemo—after all, the usual slices of baguette don’t carry much flavor-weight either.

That said, the baguette used for the Vietnamese French dip—basically a bánh mì—was excellent, fresh & chewy with a satisfying crust; enjoyably rich (though kept in check with “pho jus” rather than mayo), it didn’t quite carry the punch of more rustic versions, where fish sauce, cilantro & chilies give, say, head cheese a swift kick. It’s an admirable rendition; I’d have it again. But I wouldn’t give it the edge over its hardcore counterpart.

By comparison, I can’t recommend highly enough the Kaya toast with coconut jam & “egg cloud.” Nor can I fathom what I could possibly eat between now & Sunday that will trump this for the Dish of the Week. Not even diamond-encrusted haggis stuffed with foie gras & lutefisk. What an extraordinary dish.

You dip the chunks of brioche, slathered with the creamy jam, into a savory custard froth—made, I was told, by putting eggs, butter, & skim milk under a foam gun, then misting them with soy to give it a touch of funk. And then you go insane with glee for such lusciousness.

I’ve said before that, lacking much of a sweet tooth, I only order dessert when I’m too disappointed in a meal to end it on a sour note or too delighted with a meal to want it to end at all; the latter was our motivation to split the molten chocolate cake with salted peanut ice cream & toasted marshmallows.

Mind you, it was the ice cream we were after; the cake did nothing to change my opinion that the ubiquity of this dessert some 10 years after its heyday is head-scratching. But that quenelle was all we hoped for, peanut buttery & so soothing.

In short, dear server, you done good; Mr. Symensma, you done stellar. Four-&-a-half-soon-to-be-5-I’m sure stars stellar.