***UPDATE: South Broadway Grill is now CLOSED.***
The curious little florist-run coffeehouse that is Flower Wraps & the likewise quirky daytime cafe that is its sibling Breakfast on Broadway having rather quickly endeared themselves to me (as you can see here & here), I was tickled to hear the owners had had the gumption & wherewithal to give it a third whirl, opening the
in the old El Ranchito space, just south of Evans on its namesake (303.993.2301).
Whether they’ve got the gumption & wherewithal to keep themselves from spinning right out again remains to be seen.
Sheerly on the strength of the kick we got out of the menu, the Director & I already plan to return: as at Breakfast on Broadway, just about every item exhibits some intriguing little twist. Like if they were girls in the fifties you’d whistle & go, “Say, you’re cute little numbers.” Queso dip made with smoked cheddar & crawfish sausage, green apple–freshened French onion soup, buffalo short ribs stroganoff—it’s all so retro-innovatively yin-yang.
On the strength of what we actually ate, however, we probably wouldn’t bother. Take the Director’s fried chicken & waffles, served with both sausage gravy & syrup—the way they should be but rarely are (it’s usually one or the other, which makes about as much sense to me as eschewing the cherry on top of the sundae like the girl on a diet in the old joke. What part of “chicken & waffles” don’t these people understand that restraint should seem in order?).
If only they’d looked as good as they’d sounded.
They’re like the pale, doughy 98-lb. weakling that, say, M&D’s brawny golden boy
kicks sand in the face of, & you’re actually on the bully’s side. (Not sure why I’m pulling all my metaphors out of the ass of the Eisenhower era here. Must be something I ate.)
To be blunter, the waffles were flat-out cold (hey! Like they really did get punched by the stud!), the chicken flaccid.
The Broadway salad, meanwhile, appeared to have a fighting chance.
But appearances deceived. Except for sufficient date & fig (which nonetheless could’ve used a little maceration), below that topmost sprinkling of grilled chicken chunks, goat cheese & almonds was virtually nothing but barely dressed romaine—along with precisely 1 polenta crouton.
We were finally issued something of a reprieve from our mealancholy, however, by Swedish meatball sliders.
Or, rather, by some things called Swedish meatball sliders. Ground beef patties aren’t meatballs unless you live in Flatland. And Flatland’s out of eggs, breadcrumbs & onions. But the plain old Swedish sliders were a treat nonetheless—the buns very soft & fresh, the sour cream sauce rich & beefy to boot.
Still, seems like it’s been a while since I’ve been wowed by a vittle. Maybe it’s my party-pooper attitude of late. I’m probably cruisin’ for a bruisin.’