Ruth Tobias

I rarely have cause to be sniffing around the DTC, but after an invite to the media preview for this brewcentric newcomer in the Hyatt Regency, I took a glance at the goods & liked what I saw—not only a serious collection of local beers, both on tap & in bottle, but also a gastropubby menu that’s itself drenched in booze. I counted some 17 alcohol-infused dishes, from the chocolate malt-honey butter on the buttermilk pancakes for breakfast & the Avery White Rascal salad dressing to the chorizo-IPA consommé, beef-cheek pastrami sandwich slapped with Vodka 14 aioli, & hops-smoked pork shortrib with malted cranberry-bean puree & apple-mustard marmalade. And I liked it all no less when I saw it for myself; hotel director of food & beverage Ben Hardaway admitted to me that he’d had to make some noise to realize his vision in the face of corporate hesitation, but he did it. Good on him.

For this casual premiere, the team graciously put the spotlight on their purveyors above all—take this salad bar courtesy of Grower’s Organic, featuring some of the prettiest black radishes, baby carrots & teardrop tomatoes I do believe I’ve ever seen.

Or this spread of locally produced salumi & cheeses (think Continental Sausage, Avalanche, etc.), plus housemade accompaniments. That pan-fried pancetta in the foreground? I want some more RIGHT NOW. I want to wrap this apple I’m eating in it. I’m not even one of those bacon freaks who won’t give it a rest already, but the pancetta-apple scale definitely tips in favor of crispy pork product.

I didn’t manage to get around to the prime-rib carving station (but the Director, who adores the stuff—RIP Rodney’s—raved about it). Why not? Because I was too busy snarfing up the sandwiches: BLTs with house-cured bacon, green tomatoes, smoked cheddar, & cipollina aioli; grilled cheddar-&-swiss with roasted tomatoes, onions, arugula, & amber ale-infused Dijon mustard;

& the RIGHT ON whiskey barrel-smoked beef brisket with rutabaga sauerkraut & Hazel Dell mushroom ketchup on jalapeño-cheddar bread. One of those surprises that makes your pupils dilate—you think you’re biting into one standard thing that turns out to be a whole other rainbow thing. (It didn’t hurt that the delish cocktail I’d paired with it was whipped up by none other than that old smoothie Sean Kenyon, on hand to guest bartend.)

I was also loading up on wings & drumettes, for which the kitchen goes to town. The chicken itself is malt-roasted; then it’s coated in 3 different sauces—Wynkoop Black Lager buffalo, Left Hand Milk Stout BBQ, & spicy Dry Dock Apricot Blonde; finally, it’s served with housemade ranch & ridiculously chunky, good-quality blue-cheese dressing.

Dessert was a charm offensive of assorted Mason-jar pies, eclairs, & truffles.

And while the bartenders kept the flow of suds from Funkwerks, Elevation, Odell, Avery, Great Divide, Upslope & other beloved locals going, I was tickled to see their investment in a barrel-aged cocktail program—there must’ve been 8 or 10 of these on the counter for sampling (click to read the labels).

It goes without saying that you wouldn’t expect such passionate, community-conscious effort from a hotel oriented toward business travelers. Here’s hoping these guys get the crowd they aim to cater to.

Being shudderingly antisocial & unplayful by nature, I recognize I’m not the target market for the bananas hyperspace that is Robert Thompson’s Baker District bowling alley-pool hall-video arcade-watering hole-retro diner, especially given the strongly mixed reviews the latter, i.e. the only part I care about, has been receiving.

But as a big fan of Thompson & his exec chef Sergio Romero in general, I meant to give it a go eventually; a recent snowy weeknight seemed just the time to skirt the chaos inherent in all the parts I don’t care about. Maybe it’s the case that on a Friday night, the kitchen gets lost in the wild weeds of birthday & bachelorette bashes; I dunno. My experience, though, was totally satisfying; no reason I can see thus far that a neighborhood institution shouldn’t be in the making.

Because pickled eggs! The old-school pub staple ain’t fancy or subtle, just creamy, sharp & meaty by turns.

And housemade beef jerky with horseradish foam for dipping! Way barklike to be sure—I’m partial to jerky that’s a little more steaklike, as at Doug Born’s Smoke House & Sausage Kitchen in Montague, Michigan. Still, that doesn’t mean I kick this chewier style to the curb—so long as it brings such full-throated flavor.

And complimentary biscuits with herbed butter!

But nothing topped my pastrami sandwich. Layers of lovingly cured, pepper-crusted, shred-tender meat are slathered with sauerkraut, melted gruyère, & gribiche—a dressing of mayo, chopped eggs & pickles—then griddled on rye; the effect is warm & hearty & sepia-toned, an ode to delis gone by. Actually, one thing topped it—the baked beans it came with, richly textured & chock full of pancetta & cayenne. And get this—you’ll find the recipe in the Denver & Boulder Chef’s Table, edited by moi, when it comes out this summer!

Before you say you’re over chicken & waffles, listen up—PBS serves the soul-food classic with syrup &, not or, sausage gravy. The 1st time I ever had it, some 15 years ago just south of Harlem, that’s how it was done—but I’ve never seen it that way again until now. Kew-dohs. Not that that would matter if all the appropriate descriptors—hot, crispy, greaseless, juicy—didn’t apply to the bird, but they did.

You can’t hardly tell this is a Frito pie. Yet it is—an especially fresh, thoughtful twist on the trashy original.

Though this was my 1st meal at PBS, I’d been in previously for drinks—& every time I walked by the dessert case, something managed to catch my fancy: huge brownies, sticky cinnamon rolls, etc. Gotta love the effort to revive the pure Americana of daily-made, sky-high cakes & tarts à la Wayne Thiebaud—& the banana-cream pie was heartfelt, actually tasting of fresh fruit.

How ’bout that? Perhaps I just got lucky—but I don’t think so. Perhaps, rather, an operation of this size just needed some time to gel, & things will only get better from here. I for one am giving it the benefit of the doubt.

The Jefferson Park space, already weathered amid recycled woods of all stripes (pine, cedar, hickory), is tiny. The menus are tiny, at least at present, listing only a handful of items for both daytime & evening. But Corner House feels big—filled with light & personality, above all that of big-hearted chef Matt Selby (“Matty” to many).

Prior to the opening on 1/11, the original Steuben’s & Vesta Dipping Grill vet has pared the original list of about 40 dishes down to just a few unanimous staff favorites; he’ll gradually expand it over time, but until then you’ll be privy to such nibbles & sips as:

Sean Kelly’s roasted almonds—named for the fellow longtimer Selby calls one of his heroes, they’re tossed with olive oil, garlic, rosemary & chilies, & I couldn’t keep my grubby mitts off them—& the PCP, whereby a glass of Port-style wine from Paso Robles’ Justin Vineyards is topped with shaved prosciutto San Daniele & Manchego, which you’re invited to dip into the drink or eat separately.

A sunny little snack of kampachi (a type of yellowtail) dotted with supremes of orange & yuzu, slivered Manzanilla olives & jalapeños, & a pinch of smoked salt; this is the kind of precise arrangement that bids you include a touch of each element in every bite for the full effect, which is much bolder than the sum of its seemingly delicate parts.

The tuna-poke bowl: poke is essentially Hawaiian ceviche, here served over a small mound of sushi rice & topped with sliced avocado & a sprinkling of roasted seaweed. The flavors are clean, clear, a touch herbal & fruity—instant classic. I could eat this for breakfast on a daily basis.

Chocolate duck-egg crème brûlée. Pal Tyler Wiard of Elway’s, Selby told me, “loves duck eggs. We were talking all the dishes he’s used them in & I asked, ‘What about crème brûlée?’ He thought about it & shook his head. So I feel like I beat Tyler to the punch with this.”

As someone who craves neither chocolate nor custard, I have to confess I was crazy about it—so toasty & smooth & mellow.

Speaking of brûlee, the Clay Street Collins was distinguished for me by its garnish, a torched lemon wheel that added a ray of warmth to the blend of gin, herbal liqueur, IPA (in this case from Avery, though it may vary), & simple syrup; between the citrus, the herb-&-barley tones, & the Ball jar it was served in, it possessed a rather soothing, tea-like quality.

Though the whiskey-based Three-Oh-Three contained both chai liqueur & apple cider, it proved surprisingly light & none too sweet, illustrating bar manager Gerard Collier’s knack for the balance so key to cocktailery.

About 10 wines & microbrews round out the beverage list, along with Novo coffee drinks for the morning shift. As for the rest of the repertoire, think deceptive simplicity: a panino of curry-smoked chicken-thigh meat with Brie, pickled onion & scallion mayo; roasted squash soup with lobster & mushrooms; foie gras cured in truffle salt, drizzled in pear gastrique & accompanied by pickled cauliflower & brioche.

Culinary theatricality, in short, is not the raison d’être of Corner House; low-key, comfy conviviality matters most. It all goes back to the origin of the word restaurant—to restore. To revive. To replenish. I foresee many an hour slipping by unmarked here.

Though what I really wanted was the “fries with eyes”—fried smelts with malt vinegar aioli & bottarga (dried, cured, pressed roe)—I was trying to behave when I stopped by Euclid Hall yesterday afternoon. A side of roasted spaghetti squash with mushroom croquettes, blistered tomatoes, fresh oregano & Pecorino croutons sounded relatively benign.

So it was, from a dietary perspective; flavorwise, though, it was fierce, spraying rounds of ammo in the form of chopped garlic & chili flakes. Granted, those juicy, earthy, whole-wheaty croquettes softened each blow. What a perfect light lunch.

Neon graffiti murals & chalkboards in the bathroom lend a lively, DIY community vibe to the burger joint formerly known as Madison Street—one that’s underscored by Troy Guard’s mix-&-match menu of 6 patties & 15 topping combos, plus 17 à la carte toppings, from goldfish crackers to Cheez Whiz to what I suspect is a frico-like “parmesan chip.” (You can also opt for butter lettuce instead of a bun, or even skip the burger altogether & load a baked potato instead—now that’s using your noggin, Guard. Love me a good spud.)

So, for instance, you could order a turkey patty Ménage à Trois style, topped with Grey Poupon, Gruyère & French onion-soup style onions. Or a salmon patty à la Lady Gaga, with burrata, tomato, basil & balsamic-vinegar glaze. Or daily-ground beef done Colorado Proud—smothered in local goat cheese, wildflower honey & green chiles. Looking forward to all those—not to mention a baked potato Andrew Jackson (for a $20 premium, as the name suggests): house-cured pork belly, fried-chicken skin, fried egg, truffle aioli, bone-marrow salt & mustard-vinegar slaw. Holy moly.

After all, what pal Adrian Miller (@soulfoodscholar) & I actually ordered at the preview dinner on Monday night showed the crew is ready to bring it, starting with kimchi laced with scallions & carrots that wasn’t overpoweringly spicy but did show funky fermented depth. (That cheapo Nicaraguan lager, by the way, hit the spot with its creamy tones.)

Potato bites let us have our brunch-style fare (which TAG Burger Bar will also be serving, complete with a spin on Hawaiian staple loco moco! awesome) & eat dinner too: a mess of cubed, browned potatoes smothered in cheese, smoked bacon bits, scallions & spicy ranch. A no-brainer: junky, gooey, fun.

Truth be told, I’m not a huge burger buff, so tend to gravitate toward the sideshows more than the main event at venues like this; in fact, I was half-tempted to throw in some BBQ brisket nachos, fried pickles & an order of mac-&-cheese topped with Cheez-Its & call it a night. But I’m glad I didn’t, because the stars earned their top billing, from Bluepoint Bakery‘s sesame-seed buns—chewy & flavorful in themselves—onward.

If I do say so myself, my pick—the Godzilla burger with an edamame-based veggie patty—was an umami-rich natural, the latter’s fresh green notes brightening the smoked Japanese mayo, teriyaki sauce, meaty shiitakes & “tempura crispies” (basically fried-dough bits, so what’s not to dig?).

I also loved what I took home for the sickly Director: the Los Chingones buffalo burger packed a KO punch with griddled cotija cheese, black bean purée, Cholula aioli, Baja-style coleslaw—& the kicker of chiccharónes. Come on, you can’t fight that.

Adrian’s Dock of the Bay lamb burger with classic rémoulade looked pretty plain, so I skipped the pic, but in its relative simplicity it proved that, beneath all the bells & whistles I’m a sucker for, Guard has the fundamentals down pat: the lamb patty, tinged pink & dripping juice, was perfect, its smear of creamy caper sauce just icing on the cake.

Speaking of cake, we also split a couple of desserts: deep-fried Oreos

& the ubiquitous molten chocolate with raspberry sauce.

Both were fine; I tried the latter only to humor Adrian’s sweet tooth, having been sick unto death of the thing for years. But I get that I’m outnumbered by the world’s chocoholics; so long as it’s adequately prepared, then, a bite or 2 every now & then is okay by me. This was. The batter on the cookies was a little thick & doughy, but that’s a quibble that sounds ridiculous even to me—it’s hard to complain about such a blatantly guilty pleasure.

Besides, this is a burger bar, not a dessert bar, & I think Guard was right to transform the old neighborhood watering hole according to a more focused concept. The results are better in quality than those of HBurgerCO, the choices more delightfully elaborate than those of Park Burger or Larkburger (both of which I like, mind you). So yeah, looks like he’s done it again.

True confessions: a) I actually shared this charcuterie platter with pals at Colt & Gray a couple of weeks ago, & b) the porchetta di testa wasn’t even my favorite thing on it—that honor goes to ‘nduja, the vicious-red slab towering somewhat obscenely over the octopus terrine, rye-cured steelhead trout, housemade condiments (including an intriguing escarole chutney, of all things) & etc. It’s a spicy Calabrian sausage whose almost unnervingly creamy texture is due, I understand, to a ridiculous amount of fatback.

But I haven’t grown so jaded as to shrug at the fact that something as in-your-face (so to speak) as head cheese could become a staple on an American restaurant menu. Nor would it ever, if it weren’t for brave chefs like Nelson Perkins—whose thinly sliced version is so gorgeous it looks like it should be behind glass in a natural-history museum display case & labeled “pink-limb-cast petrified wood”:

If you’ve still never sampled his pâtés, puddings, pastrami, prosciutto, etc., etc., it’s past-high time you did.

Just as really, really ridiculously good looks can be both a blessing & a curse for humans (or so I hear), striking décor can render a restaurant either a promised land or a prison for its own staff. If culinary kudos are sufficient to excite serious-minded skeptics, all is extra-golden. But if style is largely perceived to trump substance, then return customers are bound to be surface-dwellers—scenesters rather than gastronomes. And once you’re stuck with ‘em, you’ve gotta cater to ‘em, like it or not.

Such is the trap in which this LoDo wine bar seems to find itself. With its creamy white leather booths, zebra-print accents & chandeliers as sparkling as the wines it specializes in, it’s been virtually empty every time I’ve arrived there for dinner—only to fill up much later with a depressingly obvious bevy of singles on the pre-club prowl, be they fedora- & hot pants-clad chickies & the dapper gents who pat their bottoms or darting-eyed cougars & their eternal frat-boy prey.

It’s a bit of a shame, because both the kitchen & the bar have real potential they’re constrained from fully realizing. On a recent girl’s night out—my 1st visit in a couple of years—pal @MO_242 ordered us a bottle of Pierre Gimonnet et Fils, & the beverage manager actually came over to compliment her on her taste & do the cork-popping honors, so clearly starved for enophilic attention among the flavored-vodka-&-schnapps swillers was he.

I can only suspect the chef is similarly frustrated by underappreciation (this is why we can’t have nice things, as the kids are quipping these days). Much of the menu is actually rather elegant, but what percentage goes out on any given night? I’m betting it’s pretty small. As a result, execution seems a bit half-hearted—& yet all the flavor’s there, just waiting to be taken to the next level, as with these escargots gratinés. Meaty & drenched in garlic-herb butter, they were really well done; with the addition of crustier, better-quality bread & a touch of color to the presentation, the dish as a whole would’ve been a solid-gold hit.

Likewise, a smartly conceived sandwich of hearty sliced short rib, melted gruyère & caramelized onion was left hanging by mediocre, flimsy sourdough; perfectly decent mixed-potato fries & sharply tangy aioli added enough support to leave me thinking, damn, so close!

A couple of oysters, a bite of foie gras, a few glasses of red, & all was pretty well right with the world; maybe these guys just need a little more encouragement to rise to the occasion.

Five stars for a place that hasn’t even officially opened yet is a giddy amateur move on my part. But if the sheer skill & savvy Black Cat Bistro’s Eric Skokan & crew showed throughout their friends & family kickoff is indeed a sign of things to come—& one imagines it is—then Bramble & Hare is gonna see my bet & raise it twofold.

It’s all about the little things here: tiny rustic space, small plates (supplemented by a daily-changing 3-course prix-fixe), innumerable background details—like the fact that the clay on the walls is mixed with hay from Skokan’s barn or that his wife stuffed the pillows lining the banquette with wool from their own-raised lambs. (As if “chef-restaurateur-farmer” weren’t enough of a hyphenate for Skokan, he added “general contractor” to the mix while building out the new space.) You also can’t quite tell by looking that the “all-star team” he’s hand-picked to cook here hail from all over—Atlanta, Chicago, Maine. But you can definitely tell by tasting that it all adds up to something special.

I mean, this is just ridiculous.

The rib is cut from a heritage breed Skokan’s helping to breed back from near-disappearance, with good reason—its rare flesh simply melts away. (Perhaps the pigs spontaneously deliquesced.) Of course, it first fills your mouth with such complex, smoky richness that I told Skokan I don’t think I’ve ever had a better rib—not at a barbecue joint, not at a Korean eatery, nowhere. And I wasn’t just kissing his ass, I meant it—notwithstanding the fact that what originally sold me on the dish were the pressure-cooked pork-skin “noodles” bathed in Sichuan-spiced jus. A dab of them pure-fat apples’ll do you.

Of course, Skokan’s commitment to not just whole-animal but whole-vegetable sustainability is evident at every turn. Take the farm chips: last night’s beet & turnip crisps were just the tip of a bowl that may, at any given time, include fried kale, Jerusalem artichokes, chicken skin, or pig’s ears: “Whatever we have that’s in season, we’ll turn into chips,” he promises.

Pictured in back is yet another winner: chilled, roasted turnips tossed with broccolini & cabbage in a star-anise vinaigrette—such a smart touch, bringing out a whole new side of the earthy veggies.

Granted, the veggies alone had a way of bringing out a whole new side of themselves: a cold soup special of carrots & the whey leftover from housemade ricotta, though seasoned only with S&P & lemon juice, possessed a distinct, almost cinnamony spiciness. Skokan surmised that the recent heat spike may have concentrated certain flavor compounds in the carrot patch.

So the list of hits—most fully realized, a few potential—went on, & on, & on, from the steamed bun filled with chopped beets alongside a dollop of beet-dusted chèvre mousse that called to mind my beloved gnocchi di prugne

to gorgeous, giant Hama Hamas on the half-shell with kimchi vinaigrette

to duck liver mousse-filled sourdoughnuts with grapefruit marmalade

to a killer special of perfectly cooked pork shoulder over the silkiest, poppiest little pearls of couscous ever (plus yet more turnips! Can’t get enough of those)

to, finally, a juicy, fruity as opposed to sugary yet heartily streuseled wedge of cherry tart.

That’s still not all: while the craft beer & cocktails flow, Dev’s carefully curated wine list is not to be dismissed—chock-full of all the Zweigelts & Teroldegos & boutique Lambruscos to stir an oenophile’s cockles. Nor is the keen service (courtesy last night of on-the-ball Tyler).

Sure, this is one of those occasional googly-eyed Dear Diary accounts wherein I suddenly pull back to add a steely disclaimer: I came as a guest, not an anonymous reviewer. My experience can’t be separated from my familiarity with the staff or my prior admiration for Skokan’s work—at least not by me. It’s up to you to validate my vote of confidence (or not, for that matter). Keep me posted.

Well, isn’t this place more fun than a barrel of shrieking monkeys aged in rum.

Located at the edge of the Baker District on S. Broadway, it’s quite the jazzy throwback to the Polynesian-crazed mid-century era of Trader Vic’s—all bamboo & sunset hues, fishnet-strung & blowfish-shaped lanterns, ukelele-playing hula girls & booths upholstered in embossed alligator print.

Since Adrift doesn’t seem to have a website or even a Facebook presence yet (hey, like it really is the 1950s!), I snapped the cocktail & small-plate menus (click to enlarge)—you’re welcome indeed.

 Given that 6 of us covered a good chunk of both over the course of our stay, I’ve gotta give props to our server, clad in some sort of flowery caftan, who managed to keep the entire order straight without writing it down—smooth! We started with drinks, natch; my favorite among the 3 (unpictured) I tasted —which are mostly fresh & fruity tiki classics—was the Suffering Bastard, a blend of gin, brandy, ginger beer & lime cordial, garnished with mint, that kept sweetness in check with spice & citrus notes.

As for eats, I admit I kind of pined for just 1 or 2 old-school snacks like rumaki or spareribs, but the contemporary, non-cheesy versions thereof were overall pretty swell—better than I’d expected, certainly.

I’m anointing the barbecued beef-tongue potstickers Dish of the Week not because they were the best thing I’ve had in the past 7 days—they weren’t even the best thing I tried at this meal—but they were the most intriguing. The minor problem was the blandness & chewy texture of the dumplings, more like unwieldy ravioli than silken guotie; but the filling, with big chunks of tangy, tenderly marinated tongue, proved a nifty innovation on pork—& shiso leaves plus a zesty sweet-soy dressing ensured the slaw beneath was more than just a token attempt to round out the plate. Soft, savory-sweet fried green-plantain patties in coconut-rum drizzle went down way too easy as well.

Although the below brioche toasts were too hard—the stuff really does go stale so fast; might as well not use it if you’re not equipped to keep it fresh—the little coins of airy foie-gras mousse, awfully tough to top in themselves, came smartly, subtly enhanced with drops of tea-thyme syrup.

And though the black-bean sauce on the fried calamari was a touch too sweet for me, & the squid itself not particularly flavorful, the light, ultra-crunchy breading had a lot going for it—I almost thought there were crushed nuts in there. Macadamia, maybe? If not, kudos for the illusion.

I passed my threshold for voluntary ahi-tartare consumption years ago, even topped with avocado mashed with crabmeat. But some friends who ordered it offered up a yucca chip whose delicacy I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the likes of before—so thin & crisp it evoked phyllo. Impressive.

Top marks, however, ultimately went to—color me surprised—the most seemingly stolid of selections: lemongrass-roasted, pan-sauced chicken thigh alongside coconut black beans & pineapple-tossed rice, all perfectly cooked & harmoniously aromatic & flavorful.

Just goes to show that cheeky retro flourishes on the one hand & novelties on the other, delightful as they can be, don’t always trump square fare, even for a jaded so-&-so like me.

Nonplussed: that’s my take on this DU hangout in a nutshell. I’d never intended to set foot in there, since never setting foot in its predecessor, the shabby-looking Smugs, had worked out pretty well for all involved. But trusted pals Mantonat & Amy had sworn, albeit with some bafflement on their own part, that the wings were worth a shot; hope against the odds—& the need for some Celtics on a big screen—got me through the door.

Boone’s claims to “smoke our BBQ right in the backyard,” by which they seem to mean a covered annex in the parking lot—at least that’s whence the admittedly enticing aromas waft. Because I wanted to taste that smell right in the meat, I suggested we forego a rub & stick with 1 of 10 sauces (which range from “wimpy” to “waiver required”; we opted for the medium-hot, sweetish Jalapeño Gold.

Now, I can’t tell you Boone’s suddenly tops my list of local wing slingers—or rather, I can tell you it doesn’t; that honor currently goes to The Red Claw &, believe it or not, Le Grand Bistro & Oyster Bar. But they were a hell of a lot better, plump & juicy, than I’d have bet dollars or doughnuts on.

That was true of the ‘cue in general. Again, I wouldn’t begin to pit Boone’s platters against those of a true pitmaster or even some talented enthusiasts I know. But they did all right in a pinch (see: Celtics). For instance, the shaved pot roast was a little overdone for my tastes, but still flavorful &, surprisingly not at all dry; the pulled pork, too, though lacking textural integrity—practically minced—possessed some punch. I didn’t try the coleslaw, but crinkle-cut sweet-potato fries were just fine, & the cornbread fritters rocked—hot & salty-crunchy on the outside, dense & sweet within. (I’d say the napkin havoc is evidence of reasonable quality, but my napkins always end up looking like that. So it’s more like a cry for help.)

The Director’s ribs & fries were just average, though the tangy baked beans at least were a half-notch above.

Recently I was across the street at Morgan’s Liquors & overheard a clerk praising Boone’s hummus, of all things; I won’t hold my breath until the next Celtics showdown, but I might amble back to test her opinion one of these days.