If you too are beginning to grieve over Goldengrove unleaving, you may as well do it by crying into a bowl of soup that glows with the very essence of summer. That would be Fruition’s cold consommé of Rocky Ford cantaloupe, honeydew & watermelon, studded with disks of both melon-wrapped crab “cannelloni” & panna cotta made with yogurt from chef-owner Alex Seidel’s own creamery, & scented with finger lime—every spoonful an achingly delicate evocation of the season going by.
Of course, painterly impressions have always been this kitchen’s forte, such that even the homiest of ingredients, the heartiest of dishes get recast in a softly elegant light. After sharing it with the Director as an appetizer, I seriously considered ordering this beef tartare again for my main course,
so I could prolong the sensation of its silkiness against those melting cubes of crusted bone marrow, dollops of intensely tangy trumpet-mushroom conserva, & homegrown potato chips. Oh, if only Fruition had a bar, & at that bar were bowls not of snack mix but marrow squares with mushroom spread. I’d be chief lounge lizard.
Instead I got the pan-seared diver scallops over handmade orecchiette with clams, summer squash (plus blossoms) & chanterelles, garnished tableside with generous shavings of cured foie gras that deliquesced on contact to gently suffuse the whole. (You can go right on ahead & roll your eyes & mentally replace the word “deliquesced” with “dissolved” if you need to prove to yourself how linguistically democratic you are. But you’d be losing the nuance that defines Fruition’s style in the process, if you ask me. So there.)
As for the Director’s fried chicken, forget greasy-fingered gnawing—this was a whole other animal, with a high tender meat-to-crisp skin ratio via cylinders perched atop spoonbread, tomato confit & black lentils bathed in a barbecue sauce whose its lightness was anything but homestyle.
It had been a long time since I’d been to Fruition, & this visit marked the first time I’ve ever been seated in the narrow gallery adjacent to the kitchen rather than the main dining room. I’ll know to ask for a table there from here on out—it’s both cozier & closer to the action. Then I’ll just sit back & soak it all up over a glass of, say, Schiava, aka Vernatsch, a light, easygoing indigenous red from Alto Adige that pairs with just about anything—although the entire selection of wines by the glass here is built both to pique enophiles & to reflect the seasonal cuisine. Seidel once told me he wished people thought of his restaurant primarily as an everyday gathering place rather than a special-occasion destination. In a city less casual than Denver, they might. But here, the level of execution in both the front & back of the house stands out as special indeed—however packaged in warmth, & even though the diners around us appeared perfectly comfortable in tee-shirts & sport sandals.
Look, I’m generally a downright slob, & even I believe that we as a society will come to regret losing all traces of formality, forgetting the difference between an occurrence & an Occasion. No shame in maintaining at least shades of the distinction for as long as possible. On the contrary, kudos.