Ruth Tobias

That Le Grand would be le great was a given from day 1. Between owner Robert Thompson, whose vision is unwavering, and chef Sergio Romero, whose talent is indubitable, the brasserie-style downtowner simply couldn’t miss, any more than the superduo’s Argyll Pub could when it opened, or will when it reopens.

Indeed, the French phrase comme-il-faut—“as it should be,” “how things are done”—here applies across the board, from the décor (twinkling Parisian vibe, check; red leather and mosaic-tile floors, check) to, bîen sur, the menus, with their emphasis on charcuterie and raw-bar fare, bistro and cheese plates, French wines and French-kissed cocktails (not to mention traditional absinthe service).

What I admire most about Romero’s cooking is, honestly, precisely what I could take or leave about everyday French cuisine in general—its straightforwardness. Maybe I’ve just grown jaded after a decade of food writing, but my tastes tend toward the off-kilter & the boldly flavored; I just don’t crave soupe à l’oignon or moules frites or steak au poivre the way I do goat curry or vitello tonnato or dan dan noodles. Yet Romero’s style is one of deceptive & profound, not one-note, simplicity; a year after eating the Scotch broth he served back at Argyll,

I still recall its equal depth & clarity of flavor. At Le Grand, too, I know from several visits that what on paper doesn’t necessarily make me go gaga is nonetheless likely to delight me wholly in reality—which is where it matters, right?

Exhibit A: happy-hour wings marinated in garlic, bay leaf & red-wine vinegar & paired with a crème fraîche-based dipping sauce. These wings have legs—a mahogany gloss & a subtle tang.

Then there’s the saucisse à l’ail, or garlic sausage, served over brothy lentils with pearl onions & carrots (pictured as both an entrée & a happy-hour small plate)—

earthy to the core, the sausage robust with its slight char, the lentils a touch nutty & so soothing—not just comfort food but restorative food.

The escargots are absolutely beautiful inside & out; where so many preparations emphasize snails’ sea-salty richness with lots of butter & garlic, Romero highlights their sweetness with less butter & a generous smear of parsnip puree.

By contrast, scallop-&-ahi tartare is so startlingly pungent that I’m still at a loss as to how he prepares it; asking our server got me nowhere. Yes, there are toasted capers, but they aren’t the culprit. Is the seafood smoked? I was convinced it was, but I was told no. Is there soy, miso, fish sauce? I don’t know. The accompanying béarnaise toned it down a little—not enough, I imagine, for the sodium-&-iodine-averse. Me, I’m all for it, though (or because) it’s a real mouthful.

Conversely, only the cassoulet has been a bit of a letdown—a little underseasoned & underdone, the ingredients not wholly melding. Truth is I’ve rarely been transported by restaurant versions of this dish, & I can’t help but assume that most pro kitchens aren’t equipped to prepare it the old-fashioned way, a process that takes at least 2 days. If anyone is likely to honor the tradition, it’s Romero, so let’s just say my verdict’s still out on this dish—I’d certainly give it another go. Sure is pretty, in any case.

Okay, the steak tartare was a slight bummer too, but only because the portion was too small to suit my greedy needs. Otherwise it was parfait, fried instead of raw quail egg & all. (I didn’t try the Director’s arugula salad with house-cured bacon, croutons & another fried egg, but I’m sure it’s something Romero can pull off in his sleep.)

Finally, having said that originality isn’t Le Grand’s be-all-end-all, I’d be remiss to note the exception: desserts. Aside from the signature foie gras crème brulée, classic profiteroles made new with bay-leaf ice cream instead of vanilla & eggnog anglaise in lieu of chocolate sauce, plus a zingy underlay of clementine chutney, are downright fabulous. The herb and tart-fruit notes, the crunch of the airy puffs, the tooth-thrilling chill of the filling—they’re far more complex than they have a right to be.

My high praise was rewarded by a complimentary dish of jalapeño ice cream whose recipe Romero’s playing with, which capitalizes on the chile’s initial sweetness & slow-to-build heat. I can’t wait to see what he does with it. I can’t wait to return, period.

Shame, shame, shame on me. I’m embarrassed that it took me years to get around to a meal at Black Cat Bistro, embarrassed that it’s taken me weeks to post about the extraordinary multicourse tasting I finally experienced—long enough for the details to be lost in the haze of general appreciation for chef-owner Eric Skokan’s style, eclectic in scope yet laser-precise in execution, & the graciousness & intelligence of the floor staff. Among them was the young wine gun Dev; if it weren’t for the menu he handwrote for me, I’d be embarrassed about the number of delicacies I could no longer identify—which, granted, is partly Dev’s fault, given the copious amounts of N.V. René Geoffroy premier cru rosé & Castelfeder Lagrein Riserva 2006 he kept pouring.

What I’ll never forget, however, is the tiny, scrumptious slice of heirloom carrot-chèvre terrine peeking out there next to the salt-&-vinegar turnip chips on an appetizer sampler that also included white radish soup with black truffle & heritage pork head cheese in a dried-tomato shell.

It was followed by a sturgeon duo: 1st, creamed & pickled sturgeon on a buckwheat blini with chopped egg & winter herb purée,

& 2nd, roast sturgeon with black garbanzo beans and black garlic.

A pasta duo included nutmeg-tinged farro with chanterelles & cherry tomatoes

& another strikingly funky dish I won’t soon forget—farmer’s cheese gnocchi with grilled chicken livers & mustard.

Meat courses took the elegant form of chicken ballantine with a lentil fritter, apple chutney & raita

& celery crêpes stuffed with duck ragôut, accompanied by squash gratin & sumac jus.

Yet another unforgettable tidbit: the warm apple-thyme tisane that came with a simple green salad. You use the spoon to stir it up before sipping—so pure, so refreshing.

Finally, I’m embarrassed to admit that I snapped a pic neither of the cheese course—a pungent, cold pairing of crumbled gorgonzola with beet gratinée—nor the palate cleanser we received in lieu of the dessert we just couldn’t hack: Asian pear with grapefruit & bruléed figs.

From start to finish, the tasting was accomplished, suave, balletic (& I say that as someone who hates the use of dancing metaphors in food writing). This post doesn’t do it justice; may it, in all that it lacks, inspire you to strike forth to Black Cat & judge for yourself.

Thought about titling this post “Trillium in Manillium,” decided it was a stretch. But Ryan Leinonen’s new homage to the cookery of Scandinavia and its immigrant American offshoot is a thrilla, right here in Five Points instead of the Philippines. Leinonen’s repertoire is intelligent, inspired & just plain fun to explore.

If you’re anti-anchovy or sardine, boo on you, but even so, don’t mistake smelts for either. These tiny freshwater fishies are white-fleshed & cod-like rather than salty & oily, & Leinonen does the Midwestern tradition of the fish fry proud with his mini-version; sourced from Lake Michigan, marinated in buttermilk & deep-fried in cornmeal batter, they’re ultra-fresh, light & crunchy right down to the tiny bones, gaining creamy tang to boot from the lemon-vodka tartar sauce.

The balls on the below dish, if you’ll excuse the expression, smacked my mouth off at the media opening I got to attend, warranting a last-minute nod as one of the top 10 dishes I tasted over the course of my season-spanning guidebook-research marathon. The second time was no less a charm: it’s a boldly multifaceted juxtaposition of velvety, subtly funky foie-gras mousse, sharp pickled chanterelles, cloudberry preserves & the whole-wheat biscuit-like flatbread called rieska.

I wasn’t as fond of the trout terrine, a bit bland by comparison; pretty as the central dot of herbs is, the recipe would benefit from a more rustic approach, I think, with the herbs incorporated throughout a fish-heavier mixture.

I was also not as enamored with the portobello fries, a tad thick & clunky, as I thought I’d be; by contrast, I wouldn’t have ordered the salad pal @MO_242 picked, but wound up being delighted she did. Bearing some similarity to the insalata russa so common in the delis of Italy, but gesturing toward the MItteleuropean penchant for sweet-&-sour, it’s a chopped mélange of beets, apples, potatoes, boiled eggs & pickles over greens in just enough sour cream–mayo dressing.

Though grilled beef tenderloin with roasted root veggies is grilled beef tenderloin with roasted root veggies, Leinonen makes it his with the addition of bacon whipped cream & black pepper–brandy caramel—all ingredients used in classic steak preparations, but reconfigured anew.

Better still was the beautifully crusted, juicy pan-roasted chicken over fresh egg noodles in bacon-mustard vinaigrette; IMO, the old adage that chicken is for the birds—specifically the early birds & the bland of palate—is too easily disproven to count for much. Sure, there are a lot of duds out there, but there are also a lot of standouts. This is one of them.

And the carrot cake is truly one of the best I’ve ever had, dense, moist & heavy on the carrots, served with maple ice cream over carrot caramel.

Though the space isn’t to my taste—a little bare & glaring—the staff is lovely (that Linda’s a fittingly-named charmer) &, most important, Leinonen’s food is so winning—& so unlike anything else in town—that I see many visits in my future. 2011′s been a doozy in terms of debuts, but the opening of Trillium marks one of the most solid by far, IMO.

Not to brag—okay, maybe a little—but I have a knack for picking winners, which I should really take to the track sometime. From Boston to Denver I’ve called many an emerging talent, so mark these here words: Will Nolan, chef de cuisine at Eight K—the stunning signature restaurant of the Viceroy Snowmass (whose name refers to the altitude but also approximates the number of calories I consumed there)—is one to watch. Under exec chef Rob Zack, the Louisiana native is bringing downhome, Deep South influences to bear on the contemporary repertoire that defines fine dining in the ski resorts of the Rockies as elsewhere—with exuberant results. Through the standard narrative of urbane delicacies made with local/seasonal ingredients, he’s weaving a thread that’s borderline idiosyncratic.

Having sampled nearly the entire selection of small plates & starters, I’ll single out a few for special mention:

Crispy pork confit crêpe with sweet soy, kimchi, watermelon & arugula

Intricately balanced between the delicate & the finger-licking, tender smoky pork & bright fruit & veggies; the kimchi was only lightly fermented, almost a spicy slaw.

Truffled gnocchi with crab fondue, baby shiitakes & peas

Perfect little puffs of velvet bathed in a warm, thick cream turned deeply sweet with lumb crabmeat.

Crawfish hush puppies with remoulade

Crunchy, chunky, yielding, corny, salty, tangy—yet still juicy with shellfish savor. (Boudin balls weren’t quite as successful, being a little too much ball & not enough boudin.)

Pancetta-wrapped rabbit loin with carrot puree & mustard jus

Striking as it was, the sweet-sharp combo of buttery carrot & spiced mustard didn’t overwhelm the gentle medallions.

Shrimp with BBQ vinaigrette, sweet corn puree, green beans & chanterelles

Zippy vinaigrette in lieu of sticky barbecue sauce was a smart move, keeping the fat, firm shrimp & almost mousse-like corn purée afloat.

Grilled asparagus & crispy poached egg with prosciutto, preserved lemon & frisée in creamy parmesan dressing

Foie gras torchon atop crunchy cinnamon toast with cherry mostarda

Deviled eggs with ham

Word to the waiflike: Nolan’s salads eat like a meal.

8K Salad with crispy prosciutto, white cheddar, cashews & spiced apple puree in balsamic vinaigrette

Cheese, meat, fruit, nuts—it’s like an antipasto platter over lettuce. The prosciutto’s transformed into chips…

Baby romaine with lobster & radishes in mustard vinaigrette

…an idea so satisfying it’s repeated here with capicola. I especially liked the use of ingredients as sharp as mustard & radishes in atypical contrast to lobster, which is usually coddled in complementary flavors. Carefully incorporated, they give it a little zing of a boost.

Heirloom tomato salad with camembert, plums, Marcona almonds & frisée in plum wine vinaigrette

Fruit, cheese & nuts meet again under lighter circumstances; this reminded me of 2 of my favorite salads in Denver, Izakaya Den’s grilled panzanella & Lala PIzzeria + Wine Bar’s Insalata Susina.

Choosing an entrée should’ve been hard: molasses-cured duck confit with dirty farro, agrodolce & garlic kale? Glazed, double-cut Berkshire pork chop with black-eyed peas, grilled savoy cabbage & debris gravy? Seared scallops with crispy pork belly, fried green tomatoes, charred shishito peppers & romesco vinaigrette? The sheer fun Nolan’s clearly having as he richochets from haute to country & back again was, for me, totally infectious.

Still, I knew what I wanted the second I laid eyes on the words “chicken oysters.”

Fresh cavatelli with chicken oysters, morels & microbasil in brandied cream

These little nodes of dark meat on the back of the bird—which do share something of the texture of Rocky Mountain oysters, though they’re named for their shape—are something you almost never see on restaurant menus, & they gave the softly luscious dish a funky backbone (so to speak).

As for dessert, pastry chef Ashley Jenkins absolutely followed Nolan’s hard act.

L to R: vanilla cream-filled doughnuts; malted chocolate layer cake with graham-cracker crumbs, hot fudge & caramelized cocoa puffs; chèvre cheesecake with salted graham crust, pistachio brittle & blueberry fritters

The latter showed particular panache, with its mix of textures & vibrant bursts of flavor.

And now for a giant disclaimer. All of the above was served at a press dinner. That should raise two suspicions in your mind. One, that my opinion was bought & paid for. To that, I’ll say what I always say in these cases: as a media guest rather than an anonymous diner, I don’t bite the hand that feeds me; I just keep my mouth shut if I’m unimpressed by the meal. If I do say something, I mean it. Which still doesn’t mean you should take my word for it, especially given suspicion number two: that the staff, both front & back of the house, was on its very best behavior toward us. To that, I’ll say: undoubtedly. As is true with any review—but especially in these circumstances—there’s only one way to tell if it’s accurate: by judging for yourself.

For what it’s worth, I did return the next night for a light meal al fresco on my own dime. My server, who was not among our servers the previous night & so wouldn’t have recognized me, was lovely—a little slower on the ball, but then, she was busy in a packed house; her attentions had to be evenly spread. Even so she managed to find me 2 cans of soda in a hotel with no vending machines. So no complaints there, & none for the complimentary happy-hour nut mix—warm, tossed with rosemary & brown sugar, olive oil & sea salt.

The flatbread I took back to my room, however, was overbaked, the crust a stale brown cracker. Too bad not least because the topping combo of duck confit, sherried onions, roasted grapes, chèvre & saba (a grape syrup) was great—almost like a modern deconstructed mincemeat.

What does the disappointment reveal? Hard to say, since I’d come straight from the 2nd Annual Snowmass Culinary & Arts Festival up on the mall—where Chefs Zack & Nolan were still manning a booth. Weighing a single miss in the chefs’ absence against a slew of hits in their presence is weighing apples & oranges. It might say something about the line cooks’ level of experience. Or it might simply have been a fluke. Granted, that’s what a mistake had better be at a restaurant this posh. But it doesn’t change the fact that creativity can’t be faked. Nolan’s got it, which means that as long as he’s around Eight K’s got it—something special.

The last time I sat down to a meal at Row 14, it wasn’t even open yet; my sneak peek for Denver Magazine took place smack in the midst of 11th-hour pre-opening chaos. A month later, it’s the magazine that’s closed, while the restaurant’s off to a smooth start. On both occasions, however, the graciousness of co-owner David Schneider & chef-partner Arik Markus proved unwavering. No matter that they’d hardly slept in days on our first meeting. No matter, on our second, that I was now just some goofball as opposed to a goofball listed on a masthead. They had told me during our interview they envisioned Row 14 as a cornerstone for what they hoped was an emerging neighborhood; it showed in their & their staff’s amiably attentive approach to every table (not just mine; I watched).

To be acknowledged, treated with kindness & respect, remembered with kindness & respect. In times of crisis—in the midst of my own midlife chaos, when the past appears a wasteland, the future a void—that means so much. I think of “Late Fragment,” the last recorded poem by Raymond Carver:

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

Of course, I also want to be well-fed & liquored up (so did Carver, for that matter, especially the latter) in the company of dear ones like my friend Mo. Thanks to her, at high noon on a Wednesday I was sipping that superb Spätburgunder (German pinot noir) I’d been so taken with during my tasting. Then, it was paired with classic steak & mashed potatoes in red wine sauce with root vegetables;

this time, it accompanied a side of juicy, almost neon-flavored rapini—buttery & sauteed with pancetta, it still smacked very much of itself, like a cross between broccoli & spinach—which I requested as a starter,

& a salami sandwich, can you beat that? Of course, ’twas a super-fancy salami sandwich, on nice chewy bread with pungent, naturally oily salsiccia con finocchio (fennel sausage), fresh ricotta, chunky tomato marmalade, basil, & what must be the first decent tomatoes of the season.

Mo’s lasagna, meanwhile, was flat-out remarkable, the housemade pasta so thin & delicate that it emerged from the broiler semitranslucent & crackling beneath an unusually light besciamella. Even the pork ragù was relatively delicate.

In short, that sneak preview was no fluke—& thanks to Google Cache, I can partially recreate it here.

***
The materials: reclaimed lodgepole pine, wood-grained porcelain, exposed carpet tiles. The colors: silver and gold, slate and bronze. The focal points: gleaming metallic fixtures on the one hand, a cheeky black-and-white photographic mural of a crowd of workingmen circa 1940s France, whooping it up over bottles of wine, on the other. And the gents overseeing all this—owner David Schneider and chef-partner Arik Markus—blend right in: one dark, the other blond. There’s a yin-yang aspect to Row 14 Bistro & Wine Bar—coolness juxtaposing warmth, sleek lines in the midst of rough edges—that reflects its surroundings perfectly. At once a gritty construction zone and the heart of Denver’s glittering theater district, 14th Street is a site of contrasts, and Row 14, opening in the Spire Building on Tuesday, is in the middle of it all.

“Being part of this renovation, we’re at the 50-yard line of the way this town is moving,” observes Schneider. “We want to become the cornerstone of the neighborhood” for locals and visitors to the convention center and adjacent hotels alike. Adds Markus, “The word that came up from our very first meeting was ‘accessibility.’ It’s all about fun. Nothing on the menu is over $24. My background is in four-star French restaurants in New York”—in fact, the Manhattan native got his start working under Daniel Boulud at Daniel, which he calls “my cooking school”—”but that’s not the experience I want Denverites to have. I want to take familiar experiences and flip them.”

It’s a rare moment of calm reflection for the two men on Saturday night, who have been blowing and going since receiving their certificate of occupancy at 3:45pm the day before. “I literally sprinted out of here down to City Hall” to file the paperwork before closing time, laughs Schneider. Their first deliveries began arriving the next morning, giving them mere hours to prepare for the mock service that’s beginning as we speak. Both new fathers, “we recently went through the process of giving birth,” Markus says, “and now we’re doing it all over again—the tension of labor, the sleeplessness, the exhilaration and anxiety. By the way, do I have food on my face?”

He doesn’t, but I’m about to. In the whirlwind of a wine-paired, nine-course tasting at the bar, I get a clear—and exciting—glimpse of the sensibilities Markus described. The menu is Exhibit A in the case for casual, contemporary American dining: stylish yet comforting, savvy yet simple, its global accents enhancing rather than overwhelming the big picture. Think brandade (salt cod-and-olive oil) fritters with beet relish, roasted chicken pot pie, and cannelloni that showcases housemade sausage and ricotta. Lunch features sandwiches like a pan bagnat with house-cured salmon and griddled smoked turkey with Brie and roasted pear; Sunday brunch offers the likes of horchata French toast and the “Hangover Helper,” a charcuterie-and-cheese sampler accompanied by a bloody mary and a can of PBR. And for dessert, there’s an array of ices, also housemade—honey frozen yogurt, pineapple-serrano sorbet—as well as classic tarte tatin made new with Thai basil crème fraîche and black pepper.

Finally, Schneider’s list of wines by the glass—appropriately enough for a place that bills itself as a wine bar—is even more extensive than the bottle list, and smartly designed to encourage discovery. Offered in both 3- and 6-ounce pours, the selection is rife with choices to pique the interest of the burgeoning oenophile: a South African Chenin Blanc here, a Monastrell from Jumilla, Spain, there, even a Verdelho from cult California winery Scholium Project on tap. If you spring for a bottle, don’t miss Markus’ personal favorite—a wonderful Spätburgunder (a/k/a Pinot Noir) from Pfalz, Germany, redolent of raisins, leather, and earth.

If this has been one of “the hardest days of my life,” as Markus—whose most recent stint was as chef tournant at Frasca Food & Wine— wryly claims, it sure doesn’t show on the plate, nor in the relaxed, polished manner of the bar crew who serves me (some of whom you may recognize from TAG, The Squeaky Bean, and Corridor 44). Schneider may have had “an easier time naming my children” than settling on Row 14, but we think the name will be dropping from locals’ lips for a long time to come.

The signature parsnip-walnut soup’s a winner—a lusciously earthy backdrop against which tart cranberry coulis sparkles, & duck cracklings tease.

I like a thoroughly dressed salad—the sweet spot between dry & drenched—& heirloom chicory salad in a textbook red-wine vinaigrette is just that. Tossed with matchstick-cut apples, raisins & walnuts (“Waldorf relish”) & soft nuggets of blue cheese, it’s at once hearty & refreshing—a neat trick, since those qualities are usually mutually exclusive.

Hiramasa crudo has itself an almost citrusy quality; while a drizzle of lime is a given, vanilla adds a bit of creaminess & fullness to the delicately tangy whole. Pumpkin seeds, of course, add toasty crunch.

Now that’s some pork belly; Markus eschews the usual precious cubes of pure fat to present a full-on bacon filet, no less melt-in-your-mouth for being so meaty alongside nutty braised lentils & a soft-boiled egg.

Of two tomato-based shellfish soups—bisque & bouillabaisse—the former is the one that still resonates with me, elegantly smooth & subtle, each spoonful yielding chunks of sweet lobster & diced, olive-oil-poached fennel & potato.

From a sampler of Colorado cheeses & house charcuterie, I still recall the texture of the chicken liver mousse, one of the airiest I’ve ever had, alongside chunky, funky ciccoli (Italian-style pork rillettes).

As suffused with warmth as the service, this is food to soothe a weary soul.

Be it pictures on the walls or flowers on the tables, a warm greeting from the host or the clatter & chatter of regulars, welcome signs take many forms—any & all of them welcome in turn to the chowhound on the doorstep of a potential discovery. After months of passing El Cuscatleco, a barely-there Salvadoran strip-mall joint on Federal, with a curious eye, I finally crossed its threshold one midday with a willing pal in tow—only to be met by the equivalent of the sound of crickets.

But for a telenovela blaring on the flatscreen TV, the dining room was threadbare & empty, the scent of cleaning products stronger than any cooking aroma. We stood there confused for a moment, wondering if the place was closed at the peak of the lunch hour; when a lone figure emerged from the kitchen, she, too, seemed a little confused by our presence before leading us wordlessly tableward. And though the menus she handed us were filled with terms I didn’t recognize—always a thrill—her inability to define them either to me or to my Spanish-speaking companion struck me as yet another warning rather than welcome sign, especially when she admitted she hadn’t tried much of the food. By the time she started listing all the things they were out of, I was mentally halfway out the door even as I placed my order.

But then she said: “Do you want flour tortillas or homemade corn tortillas with that?” Ah. Finally, my kind of bienvenidos. Long story short: as introductions to Salvadoran cuisine go, El Cuscatleco may not be the smoothest or most obliging. But for the intrepid culinary explorer, it is absolutely worthwhile.

Start with pupusas, the stuffed, thick tortillas that are El Salvador’s signature version of Mexican gorditas &/or Venezuelan arepas. Mine arrived warm & practically oozing with chicharrón—not in this case merely the skin of fried pork but also spiced, shredded meat—alongside a terrific dipping sauce flavored with tomatoes, chiles, garlic, & parsley. (That is in turn accompanied by a bowl of curtido, a traditional cabbage concoction that you might say marks the midpoint between coleslaw & kimchi; El Cuscatleco’s recipe lacked much vinegar tang, though flecks of chile compensated.)

Then move on to the mariscos (seafood): being (like all Central American nations) coastal, El Salvador is blessed with an abundance.

Excited by the menu’s lengthy selection, I zeroed in on what looked like a house specialty—a seafood soup called mariscadas Salvadoreña—until I saw the $20 price tag. Perhaps it was for two or more? Our server assured me it was not. Of course, given her performance thus far, I should have trusted my own instincts: I was soon confronted by a giant bowl chockablock with crab legs, shelled mussels, plump shrimp, & chunks of octopus & whitefish along with potatoes, onions, & carrots. It was a feast not least for the heady broth, based on tomatoes & what the menu calls “sour cream”—more likely the sort of blend of whipping & sour cream known in many south-of-the-border countries as crema.

Ultimately, good food is the only welcome sign that matters; I can’t wait to return for some atole de elote (a milky corn puree)—& many more of those gorgeous tortillas.

El Cuscatleco: 1550 S. Federal Blvd., Denver; 303.936.0866; Lunch and dinner daily; $2.50-$20.

This is how lazy & stupid I am: I’ll wait an extra 15 minutes (at least) & spend an extra $5 (at least) to order delivery from a place I could drive to for take-out in 3 minutes tops. So when I saw that GrubHub, newly launched in Denver, included East Asia Garden—which I fell hard for while covering it for the now-defunct Denver Magazine a few months back—among its options, I promptly got a jones for northeastern Chinese food & set about placing an order, though the joint’s just around the corner. Funny thing, though: the phone number listed was EAG’s own. Confused, I contacted customer service online to ask: if I’m calling the restaurant directly, how do you know what to deliver? Answer: we don’t; they deliver it. In short, GrubHub basically acts as a menu clearinghouse, kinda useless in the case of restaurants that have websites—but helpful with respect to those, like EAG, that don’t.

Anyway, between my visits there, run by an adorably sweet family, & the delivery guy’s visits here, I can count the myriad ways I’m so glad this place is in my hood, & why you should support it too, sketchy appearance along an ugly stretch of South Broadway notwithstanding.

1. Though much of the menu consists of your standardized Chinese-American stuff, there are a few sections boasting regional specialties you’ll rarely if ever find the likes of between the coasts—Cold Dishes, Cross Bridge Noodles, & Traditional Northeast China Flavor (the latter does not appear on the take-out menu, only on the dine-in menu, which luckily is the one shown on GrubHub)—as well as a selection of buns & dumplings (baozi & jiaozi). Here you’ll encounter…

2. An array of “hot & spicy”—more accurately “room temperature & spicy”—preparations including julienned seaweed & potato (aka “silk”), sliced cucumber & tofu skin, alone or in a combo,

as well as beef shank.

Any & all are a must—smeared with chili-reddened & garlic-electric yet lightly sweet-&-sour marinade, they’re nonetheless cooling.

3. EAG’s buns are sometimes superb & sometimes not quite, but the odds are good that you’ll get a heap of tender, gleaming, silky-smooth pouches oozing with the savory juices of the pork/shrimp/cabbage inside, best doused in the accompanying black vinegar.

Though the filling’s every bit as moist & flavorful, EAG’s dumplings aren’t quite as successful. The 1st time I ordered them, they arrived steamed, a surprise since the menu noted “steamed also available,” which led me to assume pan-fried prep was the default. In any case, they were a bit on the thick, sticky side.

The 2nd time, I specified that I wanted them fried, again assuming they’d be pan-fried; instead, they were deep-fried.

Interesting, if a little underdone. Still, I’ll stick with Lao Wang’s potstickers from now on.

4. The traditional homestyle dishes are richly sauced, but not in the gloppy, cloying fashion of so much sweet-&-sour slop; rather, they’re all about a nice umami balance—soy, fermented bean pastes, rice wine, etc.—with the main ingredients that still shine through, from the sliced potatoes, tomatoes & bell peppers in the Three Earth Fresh

to the eggplant braised with onions, carrots & peppers in a soy-based sauce (with cornstarch, clearly, but not too much, lending silkiness)

to more eggplant in broad bean sauce, showing a completely different profile—darker, deeper & funkier,

to hairtail filets (bone-in) braised à la the first eggplant dish—fleshy, pungent, & not for those who don’t like fish that tastes like fish,

to firm yet fluffy, omelet-like wedges of tofu with more onions, peppers & carrots.

Granted, all of the above entrees are fairly similar in the comfort they offer; if you want the hard stuff—though you may have to do a bit of wheedling if you’re pale-faced—there’s fried pig liver, cold pig ear with cucumber & creamy, luscious tofu with black eggs, which cracked my 2010 Top 10 list.

Does EAG really deserve 5 stars? Obviously, the trio of Urbanspoon users who’ve reviewed it as of this writing don’t think so. So let me put it this way: the benefit of the doubt goes to the kitchen for caring & daring to do things a little differently, to broaden the horizons of a neighborhood in which the “ethnic” options are mostly mediocre (with a few exceptions, the Kizaki brothers’ empire included). That despite the odds it succeeds more often than not warms my cockles. And hope, rare as it is for a cynic like me, warrants at least a star or 2.

I couldn’t pick just one; the meal as a whole was so satisfying. When it comes to Rioja, Dish of the Week is a Choose Your Own Adventure–type affair. Only there’s no chance that last step’ll be a doozy; all the possible endings are happy.

It starts, of course, with the best bread basket in town: black olive ficelle, lavender country bread, one I’m forgetting—are they orange-fennel rolls?—&, of course, the famed goat cheese biscuits. To catch the flight of water buffalo cheeses, read on…

Whew! In a stroke of luck, you’ve uncovered a sampler of 4 artisanal slices + accoutrements—going clockwise from top, classic, fresh-as-spring-water mozzarella di bufala with a mini-tomato bruschetta & a fried basil leaf; blu di bufala with adorable, warm, chewy housemade Fig Newtons; my fave, the quadro di bufala with olives, which I can’t find anything about online (quadro means “square,” but that’s not helpful), so can only tell you it’s semisoft & buttery, much like taleggio; & casatica di bufala—the creamiest of the bunch, akin to funky robiola, paired with honey & a slice of pear. To go for the gold, proceed to the saffron-manchego risotto…

Jackpot! This current menu standout plays on the deceptive elegance of risotto—which is, after all, just Italian-style cheesy rice—with a chiffonade of bitter-edged fresh spinach & radicchio, a ring of rich citrus jus & a crown jewel of Medjool date stuffed with a pesto-like mixture of pistachios & pine nuts. I wouldn’t have said no to one more of those, the better to chop up & fold fully into the rice, since the bold contrasts are where the dish is at. Or would you rather run with a roll-up?…

It’s called a roulade, but it’s basically a wrap of grilled flatbread filled with housemade hummus, feta, spinach, tomatoes, arugula, & marinated artichokes with lemon-basil vinaigrette. Simple, straightforward by Rioja standards, & refreshing. Still, the most thrilling adventures don’t end on sandwiches, even with vegetable chips. They end with…

Bingo! Rockin’ pastry chef Eric Dale’s exquisite Whopper torte, a hemisphere of chocolate flan & caramel mousse balanced atop a shortbread crust, topped with malted anglaise & speckled with malted milk balls. Velvety here, crunchy there, a bang to go out on all around.

Reviews of Ondo’s, both pro & amateur, largely agree: the cooking, courtesy of Spanish-trained chef-owners Curt & Deicy Steinbecker, is the real delightful deal; the bland Cherry Creek ambiance is anything but. Well, I’ve got nothing to add to that consensus, but at least I can concur in my own inimitable style.

There’s something about the tradition of tapas that, perhaps more than most cuisines, demands commensurate atmsophere—the leisurely intimacy, I suppose, of sharing small plates over the course of a night of imbibing. Anything other than a rustic, cozy, preferably subterranean or at least windowless space in which candles flicker & a lone guitarist pines for the rugged hills of Andalucia just doesn’t cut it. Ondo’s is below street level, but otherwise it falls jarringly short: the dining room decor looks downright cheap, with flimsy tables & chairs awkwardly spaced—too far apart in the center, leaving swathes of industrial gray carpet, but too close along the wall lined with the usual landscape posters. Granted, the tight seating there makes for juicy eavesdropping—apologies to the clearly frustrated hipster guy whose ladyfriend, professing food allergies, wouldn’t eat anything, glancing at our table from time to time to whine, “I wish I’d known to get that—I don’t understand how to order from this menu!”

Darlin,’ as long as you know how to read English, it ain’t any different than ordering from any other small-plates menu. Even Spanish words like pinxtos & bocadillos are clearly defined as “tapas on toasted bread,” “sandwiches,” etc. How did we “know” to get the cazuelita (clay pot dish) de setas? Because the menu described it as “grilled oyster mushrooms with broiled with garlic & parsley.” It looked good on paper; we ordered it with our mouths. No arcane expertise, innate genius, or mental telepathy required.

And it was good, very. Plump & meaty, oyster mushrooms really do possess something of the sea-gray savor of their namesake, but they also gained a brightness from the garlicky olive oil & parsley, plus a bit of smokiness via paprika.

I’ll give dumb-bunny ladyfriend this: tuna salad on toast might seem like a mistake to anyone unfamiliar with the excellence of Spain’s canned seafood. Years ago, Saveur devoted a whole cover story to the topic; Ondo’s bonito del Norte pinxto provides a clear indication of why.

Atop a crusty baguette slice, this tuna salad was the richest, smoothest, creamiest version I’ve ever tasted; the red pepper–touched shrimp on top added a bit of sweetness it hardly needed (even less so the reduced balsamic vinegar on bottom), though their firm-fleshed texture did enhance the mouthfeel.

Of course, perhaps the most straightforward way to judge a tapas bar is by the quality of its solid-gold standards—most of which, like pan con tomate, patatas bravas, & tortilla española, we skipped. But we did try a surprisingly large order of spinach & pinenut croquettes, wonderfully flavored with what I think was red pepper aioli & a touch of liqueur—I’m guessing some sort of anisette, which wouldn’t be unheard of with spinach & pinenuts in either Italy or Spain.

Classic solomillo in blue cheese sauce was also beautifully done—the tenderloin so tender it was almost all juice, the sauce so silken its funky tang came almost as a surprise. The crisped-to-ribbons side of potato gratin was unnecessary, but lovely just the same.

The highlight of an entirely highlit meal, however, was revelatory for me: huevo escalfaldo (poached egg) with chorizo & mascarpone puree.

The first bite was blinding: it was as though I’d never experienced contrasting textures or complementary flavors before. A bit of luscious, pure egg; a bit of charred, then unctuous sausage; a bit of creamy-sweet creamy cream-cheesy cream. Gorgeous; I don’t know how else to say it.

Next time I go, which will be soon, I’ll sit at the bar with my back to the ugly room; the food will provide all the atmosphere I need.

On that note, happy new year.

Since its stealth opening 2 years ago, I have rarely failed to be enchanted by what is 1 of the most original & exciting restaurants in town if not far beyond. (For my most recent review, see here.) Last night’s Ghosts by Lantern Light Dinner, served in the cellar, was no exception. Needless to say, the exquisitely moody Log Cabin–goth decor borders on spooky come Halloween (as does that of B&W’s freaky sibling, Mario’s Double Daughter’s Salotto); so though poor you are out of luck with respect to this prix-fixe one-off, here’s hoping my play-by-play inspires you to stop in this weekend to soak up some sumptuously eerie atmosphere while snacking from the regular menu. (The crawfish beignets are a must-try, & though I’ve never had the PEI mussels in roasted tomato-fontina broth, fond memories of mussels bathed in robiola at my old haunt in Boston, Neptune Oyster, give me high hopes for the dish. Actually, these 2 personal faves remind me of one another insofar as their chefs have a flair for neo-surf-&-turf—scallops with ham, oysters with beef tongue, shrimp with pork belly & chicharrónes, veal sweetbreads with clams, sturgeon with duck confit, etc. etc.—that makes me keel over swooning.)

With only 12 of us seated around a long table surrounded by increasing darkness—the many candles on the table were extinguished a few at a time after each course, until all that was left was a bit of gas lamplight—much picture-taking would have probably gotten me strung up by the noose hanging on one wall, so may my words do the whole thing justice.

Cobwebs filled the stairwell; smoke spilled from buckets of dry ice (it’d have been cool if it covered the whole floor, but there’s probably some code against that); the table was scattered with gourds (bringing to mind that classic McSweeney’s essay, It’s Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers.)

More about that fine cocktail from B&W’s inexplicably underrated bar in future; let’s start with the “amuse booche.” All of a centimeter, it was an adorable play on candy corn, composed of triangular layers of corn & carrot gelée sprinkled with sherry salt & paired with a revelatory sparkler—Hesketh Proposition blends Shiraz, Chardonnay & Semillon to watermelon-juicy effect.

Next course: chunky white bean soup swirled with savoy cabbage & diced housemade bacon; a thick coin of almost creamy boudin blanc sat on top. Earthy, hearty & a touch fruity—I suspect via a splash of sherry—it indeed ate like a meal rather than 1/5 of a meal. Oof.

Which brings us to the grilled lamb liver & kidney pie with picalilli (of currants, I believe?)

Tearful confession: with the exception of superfatty foie gras & buttery patés, I am not a liver lover. I’ve tried, God knows I’ve tried, & I still try, but there’s something about the tang of iron—smacking of this color—I can’t take. It’s literally bilious. I chewed as much as I could stomach between big forkfuls of the flaky pie, spilling with bits of kidney & root veggies.

Which was just as well, because I polished off every last bite of the final courses, grotesquely full as I was.

Tender braised veal breast & fried sweetbreads came with fingerling hash & two superb sauces that not only thrilled the meats but played off 1 another: caramel-apple on the one hand, a pesto of capers, golden raisins & mint on the other. The whole was as richly colorful as autumn itself.

And then there was mincemeat pie. Oh my. More like a slump or cobbler in that it was just topped with crust, the cooked fruit was threaded with shredded yak—darkly luscious & topped off with freshly whipped cream & what may be the best ice cream I’ve ever had, really, & I’ve had a lot of freaking ice cream in 40 years on this earth: crunchy-smooth sweet potato–toffee. The Errazuriz late-harvest Sauvignon Blanc made for an inspired pairing—while its honeyed quality was a natural complement, it also showed notes of lemon that cut through a bit of the dessert’s richness.

Sheer trick-or-treat kudos.