A dear old lit professor of mine back at BU, Aaron Fogel, has this poem, “The Man Who Never Heard of Frank Sinatra.” (“Once, just as he was about to hear the name Frank Sinatra / A plane flew overhead.”) If you ask me (& really even if you don’t), it’s about the wonderfully odd knowledge gaps imagination can seep into.

Which doesn’t mean it will. Since, despite a hugely hole-riddled hippocampus, my own capacity for fancy isn’t sufficient—certainly not to have filled in the void created by my ignorance of Peaks Lounge in the Hyatt at 15th & Welton—I’m tickled, kids, to finally be in the know. On the 27th floor, it’s got a panoramic view of downtown & the Rockies only slightly marred by some high-rise construction project (not that you can tell


from the website photo,

but you know what the outdoors looks like, right?). Since it’s also just a block from the convention center, it’s pretty critic-proof. So the fact that it offers a decent—solid if not wildly intriguing—selection of 20 or so wines by the glass is a fine surprise; the fact that your server (any of a bevy of perky bobbed brunettes, giving you a vaguely awkward glimpse into management’s fantasy life) brings little carafes of snack mix with every drink order—not every round but every drink—is finer; & the fact that, of the smattering of items on the bar menu, the 2 dips we had were delicious is finest of all. So often


spinach-artichoke dip

is just a repository for pantry gunk, stringy & clumpy by turns, but this 1 was unusually creamy, yet no less tangy, even pungent, for that. Ditto


the green chile–corn dip that looks like a deviled-egg sculpture,

which contained just enough of its namesake ingredients to have a distinctive kick, not so much that it might as well have been green-chile stew (on the 1 hand) or creamed corn (on the other) with a mayo problem. Both dips were accompanied by warm, soft grilled flatbread with an almost buttery savor.

At least that’s how I remember them. Seeing as how I was on beverage #5, though, for all I can really tell you, they were like glue & cardboard & we used them to build a replica of the skyline for the general entertainment of the equally addled pharmaceutical reps all around us. Although if that’s the case, surely it speaks all the better of the place?

* I originally had “Getting stiff at Peaks,” but apparently “stiff” as an adjective doesn’t mean “drunk,” it only means “a drunk” as a noun. I learned as much from, get this, a glossary of drunken slang compiled by AA members. Probably on cocktail napkins.