Cherry Creek makes my bowels shrivel, which is not conducive to appetite. As a teeming microcosm thereof, Cherry Creek Grill should by rights turn my guts to steaming mush.
Turns out not so much. Sure, the ceiling’s low & the seating tight & the cherry creeps gleaming with golden Botox all round. But so too is the lighting dim & the service smooth & the dining fine.
Mostly, anyway. Our grilled artichoke paled in comparison to the 1 we had a ways back at Osteria Marco, the outer leaves still a tad too woody, the stalk already a touch squishy.
But the Director’s sliced leg of lamb, smothered in a smoky if tomato-mellow chile rojo, was tender through & through alongside a snappy cucumber–red onion salad speckled with corn kernels.
Though the below salad oddly & obviously has a Waldorf complex—sharing exactly 1 ingredient with the original recipe for its namesake, only 2 with subsequent versions, respectively apples & walnuts, yet rather more with a Cobb—it was plainly & simply delish. All chopped roast chicken & bacon & egg, shaved manchego & dried cherries, whole cashews & the aforementioned walnuts & julienned green apple plus spinach & mâche, splashed with an assuredly sharp apple-cider vinaigrette, it made for a tumbling heap of surprises like Stevens’ dump & the magical poem thereof.
If comparing it to a masterwork of American lit is ridiculous, so is calling it a Waldorf. But forget it, Jake, it’s Cherry Creek, where glowing insincerity’s a time-honored way of life.*
* Oh, we kid. We kid because we love the willowy young shopgirls & Bluetooth-rigged hostesses & yoga instructors for dogs & the day-trading golfers who love or at least proposition them too.