Ruth Tobias

Yeah, so, I had something to do with this, in case you caught it in the Denver Post today. The Director & I chose the films, the Denver Film Society’s screening ‘em each Tuesday in September, & there are some tasting components & in-person appearances to boot. The schedule follows; click here for tickets.

September 6 – EL BULLI: COOKING IN PROGRESS – 7:00pm

As uncompromisingly detailed as its subject, Gereon Wetzel’s stunning documentary captures the creative process of Ferran Adrià—oft-named the best chef in the world—as the avant-garde master & his team retire to their Barcelona kitchen-laboratory to create the menu for El Bulli’s final season in business.

Preceded by GIVING THANKS IN AWENDAW
Every year on the day before Thanksgiving, members of the Colleton-Green family of Awendaw, South Carolina, head into the woods to hunt squirrels for the holiday table.

Local expert Adrian Miller will appear in person to introduce the vast & glorious topic of Southern food, which is also the subject of all the shorts preceding the features, directed by young-gun documentarian Joe York. 

September 13 – I LIKE KILLING FLIES – 7:00pm

Facing the prospect of closure after decades in New York’s Greenwich Village, Eve & Kenny Shopsin reflect on the past, present, & future of their iconic namesake eatery. While kvetching, swatting pests, & cooking up a storm, the notoriously eccentric Kenny waxes philosophic about everything under the heatlamps in Matt Mahurin’s funny, poignant documentary.

Preceded by GUS
A short profile of Constantine “Gus” Koutroulakis, owner of Pete’s Famous Hot Dogs in Birmingham, Alabama, who passed away on April 5, 2011, at the age of 81.

Steuben’s kick-ass Brandon Biederman will provide some sweet eats.

September 20 – BLOOD INTO WINE – 7:00pm

Hard rock fans know Maynard James Keenan as the frontman of Tool, A Perfect Circle, & Puscifer. But in this intriguing documentary, Christopher Pomerenke & Ryan Page profile Keenan the winemaker as he works to transform an arid stretch of Arizona desert into a lush vineyard.

Preceded by GOAT
Victor “Goat” Lafayette has worked as an oysterman on Bowens Island, South Carolina, for more than 50 years—& he has the words of wisdom to show for it.

A wine tasting will accompany this screening; details TBA. 

September 27 – JIRO DREAMS OF SUSHI – 7:00pm

Filmmaker David Gelb follows 85-year-old master itamae Jiro Ono of Tokyo’s three-star Sukiyabashi Jiro as he bids on tuna at the fishmarket auction, massages octopus, & otherwise exemplifies the intricacies of the art of sushi.

Preceded by CUT/CHOP/COOK
Rodney Scott of Scott’s Bar-B-Q in Hemingway, South Carolina, does three things & three things only: He cuts. He chops. And he cooks.

Jiro director David Gelb will appear in person.

My poor sainted mother. A Jew-Bu through & through (so maybe “sainted” isn’t quite the right adjective), she has to live with the fact that her only daughter would eat pretty much anything given half a chance, excluding turtles but possibly including human (hey, you only live once—unless the Buddhists, Jew- or not, are right, in which case you’ve got some karma-dependent options).

But that means I’ll also do durian & huitlacoche, & that I’m potentially just as happy at a vegetarian haven as I am at a barbecue shack. WaterCourse Foods realizes that potential in many ways, much of the time. Sure, some (not all) of the servers are too cool for school rules like promptness or cheer; & sure, not all protein-based dishes have plant-based equals. There are rough(age) edges. But there’s also plenty of smooth sailing (get it?).

And that, shockingly enough, includes buffalo-style seitan. The menu calls them “wings,” which, come on, isn’t even close. But in & of themselves, the spears of so-called wheat meat are actually tasty. Texturally, they’re more like potato wedges, crisping well, & they do have a vaguely meaty savor that absorbs the buffalo sauce & ranch dressing—both of which are addictive in themselves, of course, so yay.

Of several visits I’ve made recently, one was for dinner to go; the Director’s nachos held up as well to be expected, so while there was no saving the lettuce, a quick trip under the broiler made them good as new. All I ask of vegetarian nachos are crisp corn chips, nice salty cheese (in this case asadero), well-seasoned & moist refried beans, & some spice. The latter was left to pico de gallo (no sign of the advertised green chile), but otherwise they were a-ok, complete with guacamole that was mostly mashed avocado (as well it should be).

Wraps are hard to mess up, but they’re also hard to make interesting. The Juan Wrap is just that, vibrant & hearty with grilled sweet potatoes, sauteed mushrooms & onions, smoked mozzarella & a liberal coating of rich cilantro-pistachio pesto. The tortilla is neither here nor there, of course, but probably the best vehicle for the substantial filling. You get your choice of two among several sides; the quinoa salad with beans & corn had a nice kick, but the sesame-seed-sprinkled, supposedly steamed kale was nearly raw. I get that the frilly-edged, dark green leaves look prettier that way, but uncooked kale is just too tough (& I tried it 3 times, so it wasn’t a fluke).

It went down a little more easily lightly dressed & mixed with steamed squash & carrots as part of the seasonal vegetable mix; compared to the quinoa, however, the amaranth was soggy. Too bad, because the flavors were great, combining chopped sugar snap peas & red pepper, golden raisins & chai-spiced pistachios (think cardamom above all).

They came with the “Reuben,” which, as with the “wings,” is a mighty fine sandwich on its own; no need for it to suffer by comparison to something it’s not. Kinda reminds me of that old Mitch Hedberg joke, “If you go to the grocery store and you stand in front of the lunchmeat section for too long, you start to get pissed off at turkeys. You see, like, turkey ham, turkey pastrami, turkey bologna… Somebody needs to tell the turkeys, ‘Man, just be yourself!’” Speaking of lunchmeat, the classic grilled Reuben features corned beef, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese & 1000 Island dressing on buttered rye; here, the coarse-chopped portobellos that stand in for the beef were happily as smoky as promised, in nice contrast to the “special sauce,” which, tangy & tomatoey, vaguely evoked pizza sauce. Just a touch of red cabbage sauerkraut added a tart note, the Swiss added the salt & the whole thing, in short, came together really well, even if it wasn’t grilled.

You can get cheese on that “burger,” but you can’t get “cheese” on it; since I really wanted to try the housemade vegan options, I asked if I could order one à la carte rather than as a selection of 3 (the current menu lists smoky jalapeño “cheddar,” pistachio-fennel “manouri,” &  lavender-herb “chèvre,” as well as sweet onion pâté). Actually I asked twice, & with little ado the 1st time, rather more the 2nd, my wish was granted.

Loving cheese the way I do, I am no expert on substitutes, so I can’t say whether these fared better or worse than others by comparison. I can say, as I already have, that there’s not much point in comparing them to the real deal, because they’re simply nothing of the kind. Which doesn’t mean they’re not intriguing. In appearance & mouthfeel, the “cheddar” was unnervingly reminiscent of sea urchin, but the flavor was really nice: nutty, indeed smoky & a touch spicy. (The perfect ripe fig was a swell touch too.)

The “manouri” (which I got to go) was more like ricotta, fluffy rather than creamy, but as a mild binder for chopped nuts it grew on me.

These days WaterCourse also sports a small seasonal selection, including the watermelon caprese with (real) buffalo mozzarella, basil oil, balsamic vinegar & smoked salt.

I agreed with the companion who ordered it that shaved melon, while awfully pretty & surely time-intensive, releases too much water. Can’t say I even detected the balsamic. Still, it had its refreshing aspects.

As does WaterCourse as a whole, even for omnivores; like all local institutions, it’s got quirks that become at least tolerable, at best charming, if you let them. I can’t help but have a soft spot for the place, for all its disaffected youth & culinary quotation marks.

As one ex-TAG employee starts to make his mark on Row 14, another’s taking his leave—I’m really sorry to see the talented & totally gracious Tyler French go. But he’s headed east, & tonight’s his grand exit, so stop by to bid adieu—& while you’re at it, order up a plate or 2 of these babies.

I hate it when the word “tempura” is used in glorified lieu of “batter-fried”; they aren’t automatically the same thing. But if anybody would have an excuse to appropriate the term (though he doesn’t), it’d be new chef Jensen D. Cummings; the coating on his fried-avocado appetizer is every bit as light & delicate as its traditional Japanese equivalent, melding right into the ultra-creamy yet herbally tinged flesh of the fruit—which is in turn complemented by the sweet-chili crema; a julienne of lightly pickled carrot & green papaya adds the requisite sharp edge (actually, I could’ve used more of it, but that’s my acrid-toothed dealio; a garnish is a garnish).

As for strawberry–cream cheese gyoza, they’re nothing if not fun fun fun, so long as you bite down with care, because they do squirt hotly. Actually, my favorite part was the silky, bay leaf-tinged crème anglaise sprinkled with Cocoa Pebbles; I could’ve downed a bowl. And speaking of Cocoa Pebbles, if you think anything in the previous 2 sentences sounds obscene, you should read this.

But first meet H, a gal pal newly arrived from Boston, who, like me, lost her heart to a Denver boy & wound up here. As my date to Le Grand Bistro & Oyster Bar for the opening last night, she & I found ourselves on familiar terrain: from its cavernous, high-ceilinged dining room, woody amid twinkling lights & red leather upholstery, to a menu awash in shellfish & charcuterie, we might as well have been back home at Eastern Standard Kitchen & Drinks. For us, the similarities were striking, & while the comparison may not mean much to you Denverites, it’s pertinent as far as the main point: Le Grand is sticking to the straightforward formula of the American brasserie, which in the past decade has become a neoclassic genre in its own right—all big, bustling, glittery spaces, a vintage Belle Époque-era aura, a bar that’s solid on all fronts, & deceptively simple, hearty French plats.

It also happens to employ William, with whom we were both smitten pronto. For whatever reason, he managed to hone in on us as gung-ho eaters, & not only kept the hors d’oeuvres coming but totally hammed it up for snaps. He’s a character, that one, so I’ll be seeking his seating section out.

I should note that we didn’t need the special attention. Grand openings & preview parties are usually shitshows, with a shell-shocked staff getting swarmed at every turn by a crowd for which the kitchen isn’t quite prepared—but not this one: there was plenty of food for everybody, so the pace was relaxed yet efficient, not hectic. Owner Robert Thompson, head chef Sergio Romero & crew have definitely hit the ground running.

Of course, the evidence that Le Grand’s likely gonna be a smash came first & foremost from the sampling of appetizers. While platters of roast bone marrow were comme-il-faut, sweet Kumamotos & creamy Barcats dared to diverge: oyster purists would have been appalled at the dollop of Fumé Blanc Béarnaise, but ’twas a happy surprise when the sauce actually worked with the shellfish, not against it. (Oysters with more complex, delicate flavor profiles might be another matter.)

Other faves included the richly garnished duck confit, the house-smoked salmon—above all for the smooth potato pancake it came on—

the funky, chunky head cheese made with beef as well as pork,

the heady combo of smoked sardines on toast slathered with duck-confit compound butter,

& the judiciously truffled crème fraîche atop frico (basically a parmesan crisp), its mousselike texture melting in the mouth to make new & fresh what on paper seemed passé.

Come to think of it, the only bite that didn’t make H & me do the fried-butter dance was the chicken liver-&-pork butt pâté, which didn’t quite have its seasoning down pat, coming across as a bit muddled & overwhelmed by the shallot compote.

But all in all, Thompson & Romero killed it. I’m already jazzed to return for the ultimate litmus tests: beef tartare & moules frites. If Le Grand passes those, we’re in business. Nice blackberries.

Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines. Deadlines, deadlines. Deadlines.

A striking amuse bouche is tops among the mood-setting stuff fine dining’s made of; like bread-basket service or a champagne cart, it’s an indication that the experience will be no mere transaction of ordering & receiving but a far more intimate & complex (even wordless) matter of call-&-response. (It’s almost unnerving: Is this a flattering & gracious edible gift or an almost eerie insinuation that you are not entirely in control of your desires &/or how they’ll be gratified? Surrender, whispers the mouth-entertainer. Accept that we are not just addressing but correctly anticipating your every wish as our command. I sort of wonder if there are statistics on whether recommendation queries increase after amuses bouches are served; I bet so. You just sort of lusciously slump & say, Okay, you tell me what to do.) Last night at The Broadmoor’s famed Penrose Room, the amuses were as exquisite as anything on the printed menu. Hence this mid-week shout-out: odds are slim I’ll eat anything more memorable before Monday.

On the left is Rocky Ford cantaloupe soup with a bit of chopped shrimp & microherbs, which intriguingly evoked savory-sweet ice cream melted to room temp; on the right, fennel pannacotta, aromatic & pure satin; in the middle, a tiny cracker with an even tinier, salt-walloped dollop of tapenade made with 3 types of olive, including new-to-me Meski.

After that came 3 courses, la di da, of which more later, & then a pre-dessert amuse that I didn’t snap but that may have been my single favorite bite of the evening, a honey-saffron pannacotta that was almost obscenely gelatinous, tartly fruity & richly sugared at the same time. As in sigh.

***Yesterday’s ode to the King Combo at Mecca Grill brought the below post to mind, originally published on the website of Denver Magazine earlier this year.***

On January 31, the USDA revised its dietary guidelines to recommend that Americans up their intake of produce, whole grains, plant-based proteins, & good fats even more while further reducing their intake of meat & saturated fats. In short, duh, but it served as a reminder to yours truly that I should throw vegetarians a bone (so to speak) more often.

While the new food diagram looks a lot like that of the Western Mediterranean diet as popularized in the 1990s, Eastern Mediterranean cuisine is no less vegetarian-friendly & heart-healthy. So I decided to try the meatless combo platters offered by two of Denver’s most beloved Middle Eastern joints—Jerusalem Restaurant & Ya Hala Grill—side by side to see how they stacked up.

Jerusalem

Ya Hala

To start with the items the combos had in common:

Falafel. Jerusalem’s boasted a golden-brown crust as cracklingly thin as the surface of crème brulée—but the interior of these fried, mashed-chickpea croquettes was moist, nutty & smoky with cumin & lots of herbs. Ya Hala’s was too crunchy throughout, on the dry side. Winner: Jerusalem.

Stuffed grape leaves. Expertly rolled, Jerusalem’s were as tight as cigars, packed with aromatic jasmine rice. By contrast, Ya Hala’s rice filling was plain, interesting rather for its texture: almost pudding-like inside remarkably tender, olive oil–slicked grape leaves. Winner: Toss-up. Jerusalem’s are technically correct, but I enjoyed the unusual softness of Ya Hala’s.

Hummus. Compared to Ya Hala’s blandly one-note fluff, Jerusalem’s chickpea purée is textbook—lightly creamy, spiked with lemon juice and tahini in equilibrium. Winner: Jerusalem. (Ya Hala does, however, have a garbanzo-based winner in fatteh.)

Tabbouleh. Proportion was also the key to Jerusalem’s finely chopped, simply dressed parsley-&-bulgur salad with tomatoes & onions, whereas Ya Hala’s was especially lemony. Winner: Another toss-up. Jerusalem’s showed better balance, but Ya Hala’s had more juice, in every sense of the word.

Baba ghanoush. Only after reviewing the menu did I realize that one of the three whitish dips on Ya Hala’s combo was even supposed to be baba ghanoush; none had any eggplant flavor at all. Jerusalem’s was more like it—nice & tangy, with an airy consistency almost like whipped cream. Winner: Definitely Jerusalem.

Ounce for ounce, Jerusalem was coming out way ahead—especially considering that its combo was $4 cheaper than Ya Hala’s ($8.95 versus $12.99), yet offered two falafel & stuffed grape leaves to the latter’s one. But that was only half the battle. In fact, the remaining items on Jerusalem’s platter were less impressive, from the pale, limp french fries to the fattoush, an oily mixture of chopped green pepper, winter tomatoes, onions & herbs that was completely devoid of the key ingredient, toasted pita chips. Ya Hala, meanwhile, offered up starkly pungent garlic dip & soothing cucumber-yogurt sauce in counterbalance; the earthy mixture of lentils & rice known as moujaddara; a well-spiced wedge of spinach-feta pie (though the phyllo was slightly stale); & unfortunately tinny-tasting green beans stewed with tomatoes, as well as a few chunks of decent feta.

Final verdict: Ya Hala’s vegetarian combo was more diverse, but Jerusalem’s was better overall—indicating why the decades-old Denver University hangout is such a mainstay.

Jerusalem Restaurant: 1890 E. Evans Ave.; 303.777.8828; Lunch and dinner daily; $3.50–$12.95.Ya Hala Grill: 2100 S. Colorado Blvd.; 303.758.9376; Lunch and dinner daily; $3.50–$13.99.

Countless times I’ve admitted to the mistake of delivery sushi—antithetical to the organic, immediate, intimate sushi bar experience, hence unfair to both the purveyor & the consumer thereof. Countless times I’ve ordered it anyway, because I’m lazy like that. But after a recent order from Taki Sushi, the Director finally, officially revoked my sushi-delivery privileges—his nigiri & the California roll we got for free (standard with a purchase over $25, mind you, not something we’d ever actively choose) being, he griped, flaccid & tasteless.

I got luckier; my nigiri—spicy scallop, black tobiko (flying fish roe) & wasabi-infused tobiko—were just fine, tightly rolled, eggs a-popping, shellfish firm yet luscious. (I also appreciated the fact that they could be ordered by the piece rather than by the more common pair.)

But what I really dug, she admits sheepishly, was the Pearl Roll (at bottom).

My excuse for snarfing such an abomination of Japanese tradition: look, it’s summer, & I pine for the days I spent traipsing up & down the Massachusetts shoreline to get my fill of breaded, deep-fried bivalves at seasonal landmarks like The Clam Box. And here they were, crispy breaded oysters whose flavor wasn’t totally lost amid the rice & seaweed topped with salmon & avocado in a more-sweet-than-spicy chili mayo. Pretty good for being so bad.

Granted, 1 glance at the loose rice in the Cali roll above it justifies the Director’s complaints—& I wasn’t too keen on the miso eggplant either. Recipes can vary, & a sauce as thick & sweet as this isn’t necessarily wrong. But it seemed to have just been slopped on top, not broiled with the eggplant to integrate the flavors. So it evoked a sort of eggplant-pudding parfait. Rather disconcerting.

Still, there was enough I liked about Taki at a disadvantage to want to try it in the presumably more flattering light of an actual visit.
***

Since the ban on takeout/delivery applies only to Japanese food, I’ve been taking advantage of the Director’s falafel fetish to get my fill of Mecca Grill. It’s actually a cute place, humble but colorful & cozy, in its little strip mall on Downing—but see “lazy like that.” I’m also boozy like that; Mecca’s dry, & my house isn’t.

We’ve ordered 3 King Combos in the past week or so, all of them slightly different—I suspect the kitchen adds whichever meats are at its immediate disposal. We’ve seen chunks of beef, lamb & chicken kebab, chicken shawarma, kofta, &, once, though it’s not even listed as an option, thin coins of the superb, literally melt-in-your-mouth spiced lamb-&-beef sausage otherwise used for sandwiches. To a piece, they’ve been moist & tender—even the chicken!—as well as nicely charred & seasoned.

The vegetarian items haven’t changed: there’s the baba ghanouj I just named Dish of the Week; stuffed grape leaves whose luscious near-gooeyness contrasts with their hyper-lemony tang; tabbouleh with a surprising paprika kick, whether due to its mixture with other items or its own recipe; crunchy, nutty falafel from which the scent of herbs actually wafts; & just-right rice. The uncharacteristically bland hummus isn’t quite up to the rest, & I seriously doubt the claim on the menu that the pita is housemade. But overall the combo rocks.

The same could be said of Mecca Grill in general. The only thing I won’t be ordering again is the fatoush. Though abounding in vividly crisp, ripe veggies, it was also swimming in the oil of a dressing that, given the expert condimenting of everything else, was a disappointment. If it did indeed contain olive rather than vegetable oil, it wasn’t extra or even plain or even born-again virgin, & the advertised flavor of mint went undetected. After a few bites I just picked out all the pita chips before they got soggy & left it at that.

Meanwhile, though they required a bit of knife action (roughage is a bitch), the cabbage rolls—a family recipe, we were told—were wonderfully stuffed with rice & ground lamb cooked in a bit of tomato sauce, redolent of cumin & a touch of cinnamon. So soft & soothingly homey.

You’ll often see the dish below listed as foul moudammas (or some variant spelling thereof); you might also, as here, see the name translated simply as fava beans. Which they are—mature, dried favas that are nothing like the flattish, fresh, green ones you see in their pods at the market in season but rather evoke smoky, meaty pintos.

In any case, the garnish of juicy diced tomatoes & sliced pickle adds a layer of zing to the beans, popping just so in your mouth.

At this point, I’m half-tempted to stop whining about wine & stop in for a feast, washed down with a banana milk “cocktail.”"

Mecca Grill excels at a lot of things (full review to come), but the baba ghanouj in particular is among the best I’ve ever had.

You see how it’s a little granular?

My guess is that’s because they don’t puree it but mash it by hand. And you see how it’s a little grayish? That, I bet, is due to the addition of pomegranate juice or syrup (the menu calls it “sauce”)—just a touch to bring out the sweetness of the eggplant, while lending depth to the tartness of the lemon juice.

A hit of smoke, a hint of garlic, a smack of nutty tahini, a drizzle of olive oil & a sprinkle of what tasted like sumac rather than paprika—it all added up to a strikingly prismatic variant on the classic.

a) So apparently, on August 15, King Soopers—yeah, that King Soopers—is opening a Murray’s Cheese Shop: yeah, that Murray’s Cheese Shop. Word is it’ll serve “more than 175 cheeses” plus an antipasto bar. May the mongers be encyclopedic & meticulous.

b) Drove by Pho Pasta this evening, & either I was hallucinating or it’s been gutted. A phone call didn’t yield a disconnection, but nor did anyone answer at 7pm. Where’s an investigative reporter when you need one?