Rioja: Eating in the Land of "Like" with Deans who text rather than talk to their wives.
Rioja is one of the few places in Denver I could find that was highly rec'd by a friend-colleague that served stuff at Sunday lunch other than the brunch crap I hate. Unfortunately my fellow congressants and a few locals figured that out too and I was seated between a trio of Valley-girl-types who used "like" as punctuation in their high-pitched guggling, grating talk and a Dean-type texting to avoid talking with his wife. You can tell Deans of Medical Schools by their white hair, ties, "undertaker" suits and inability to use their thumbs on their appareils (they never learned to type in training, never learned to use a computer as Chairs but figure they're cool, like their adolescent grandchildren, if they text, however awkwardly).
In any case, this company added to the misery of my meal. The menu was decidedly uninteresting and in a restaurant with dozens of Spanish wines, none was reasonably priced. About the only thing that looked appealing was the skirt steak, which that great resource Wikipedia notes is "prized for its flavor rather than tenderness." They got that right, and wrong. It was, after all the fine steaks I've been eating in France, a disgrace to the great state of Colorado which raises more edible beef than Argentina, Scotland and France combined - I made that up, but it sounds reasonable.
It came with a cloyingly sweet wine sauce and this being the West where everybody imitates Las Vegas and LA, another sauce of a horseraddishy nature along with Brussel spouts, which I've decided after 70 years, I really can live without and croquettes of "mmmmmumble torn." (See, I can hear waiters' fast talk no better in America than France). Actually they were, according to the menu, made from chestnut "fregola" (Yah I had to look it up too and it didn't explain why they were so tasteless.)
My bill, with lovely bread, really, 2 glasses of Rioja, a double espresso served with the dreaded lemon peel and no bottled water, before the tip, was $35,40.
Go? Better you should ask "Can you really judge a supposedly top-notch restaurant based on one dish at lunch on one visit?" And my answer "Betcha patooty."
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Panzano: SNAFU'd* front-room; Weird cooking; Nice service.
Now, I have no one to blame but myself on this one. No friend, no colleague, no website induced me to come. I found it all on my own.
I entered and right away got the message that that all was well in the front of the house. A guy standing chatting, looked like he was waiting for a table, but turned out to be, for all I know is, the maitre d'; one of the two young things at the computer/date-book desk took my name, looked me up and disappeared with someone else without explanation; the other, waking up after a phone-call, asked if she could help me. "No" I said, "your ahhhh, compatriot checked me in." Said comrade-lady #1 returns, after long discussion about empty tables with Lady #2, announces "no room in the inn," I'm 30 minutes early, "how about waiting at the lounge aka boozer/loser bar?" OK.
Lots of people there, order some wine (while it's outrageously expensive, I find a cheapo Chianti by the glass), sitting peacefully reading the NYRB when it occurs to me that I'll bet the bar menu has stuff at a lesser price than up front and it all comes from the same kitchen - Duh. Quick look, it's the same as the full-priced dinner menu I'd seen on the web but at 1/2 the price. Deal. "I'd like to order and can you tell the ladies up front?" "Surely Sir." "And while you're waiting, I'll bring you some bread."
Bread arrives; dull but the Kalamata sauce (Kalamata in an Italian restaurant?) is most excellent.
See calamari for $4.50 and $9 on the bar menus; "Ah, I'd like the $4.50," "But that's the 'Happy Hour' menu, but it's your lucky day because I can bring you half an order." "Excellent." Well, sort of excellent, because it was over-breaded and despite the spicy aoili sauce, filled your mouth with stuffing yuck.
Main course, pizza with sausage, pepperoni, provolone, pomodore, finally, I'm not in France any more, this will be real Italian-Amurican pizza. Ouch. No. Soggy crust, weird tasting sausages, strange taste over all.
At this point, 70 minutes after I'd walked in, Front Lady #2 comes over and says "M. Talbott, your table is ready." Point to my charming waitguy - "Didn't he tell you?" "She says, "Ahhhh." He shrugs. Just then, the presumed Maitre d' comes over to another table on the so-called lounge and says "Your table is ready." They say, "but we told them, we were happy [eating] here." What is this, Ground Hog Day?
PS the next day Open Table send me an email "No-Show Inquiry from Panzano......We missed you at Panzano.....It appears as though you were not checked in...."
My bill, with 2 glasses of wine, 1 glass of tap water (that's a story for another day) returned and no coffee or dessert, was $38.58.
Go? What's going on in Denver? After two meals at top places, I'm thinking of eating at Red Lobster (where my young daughters and I had a fine meal 35 years ago). Now, full disclosure; I loved the food in Downtown Denver in the 1970's, '80's and '90's when I was either to or fro skiing trips and/or teaching and/or in a flirting with a job here. There's something going on; something has happened lately, this food is as bad as in Baltimore.
*For readers born after WWII, you might think Snafu just meant "slight hitch;" its origin suggests deeper problems and emotions experienced by soldiers who often found the "situation normal, all f****d up."
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Ocean Prime - Another Red Lobster? But no, finally somebody knows what the **** he's doing in Denver.
OK there's a back story here. Around 1980, when I was in Denver returning from a ski vacation with my two daughters, then 9 and 16, were staying near the old airport at a motel whose name luckily I cannot recall. I asked the motelresse where to get some great seafood - "Red Lobster," she said. Off we went with the girls signing something in the back seat - "What's that?" "Oh nothing Dad." Little did I know, they knew the chain's song. Anyway.
I entered the
Ocean Prime in the Latimer Square area with some trepidation; I'd been burned all day yesterday, this was a bloody chain restaurant I learned from Google, with branches in Dallas, Miami, Detroit, Phoenix, Orlando and I later learned from the amiable responsible 7 or 8 in Columbus Ohio, where? But one of my wise daughters reminded me that there was a difference between
Red Lobster and
Legal Seafood and a quick look at the menu outside reassured me. Plus a good friend friendly with food advised me that this less-than-a-year-old-place was high on his list of next hits.
The decor is really cool, I mean, really warm and post-modern. A nice place to eat, esp. if seated by the window looking out on the Bobo's, wannabee's and bums. It's also huge with plenty of room and private rooms for parties of 8-12 I guess.
For some reason, despite all the horrid Caesar salads I've had in America, I channeled that Google button, "I feel lucky", and had it - without the croutons supposedly - it was terrific. Not drenched in dressing, not overinfused with parmesan, capers, anchovies, salt, etc., etc., just right. My oh my.
Then I took the plunge - I'd been fantasizing about Legal's seafood soup but there was nonesuch - so how about blackened Colorado bass? Fantastic. I ate it like I eat oysters (i.e., 1. the thing, 2. in its juice, 3. with lemon and 4. with vinegar and shallots): thus I ate the fish 1. plain - terrific, 2. with the cheese runoff of the potatoes gratin - terrific, 3. with the mini-corn-tartare sauce - terrific, and 4. with the slightly blanched spinach leaves with slightly Balsamicized red onion slices - terrific. And who knew American chefs, even CIA-trained ones could make these potatoes? Not me.
So I'm ready to leave a happy man; but waitaminuteBuster (the waitress talked a mileaminute showing once more that I cannot understand rapidwaitpersonspeak in any country), how about dessert? - we've got mmmmmumble sorbet and maplesyrupicecream. OK I'll look.
Ever seen Maple Syrup ice cream on a menu? Not me, not even at Ben and Jerry's, located in the center of the Maple Syrup Kingdom, although they had some revisionist version once on limited sale. It was fab.
My bill with three dishes, 2 glasses of wine, no bottled water, quite nice housemade warm bread and good butter and a very decent coffee, was $66.32.
Go? I think Cameron Mitchell maybe America's new Danny Meyer.
**** Ref: The Onion, Oct 6, 2011 "Last American Who Knew What He The Fuck Was Doing Dies."
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The d Spot: As my friend says "ketchup improves anything."*
The d Spot (not the G spot), is the Marriott City Center's dining/boozing/sports TV watching area that I fell into after realizing that following a filling lunch today and concert tonight I was never going to manage 4 or 6 or whatever courses at Kevin Taylor. I asked what d Spot meant - no one seemed to know. Dining, Denver, dishes, who knows?
In any case, as Garrison Keillor says about Powdermilk Biscuits, it did "what needs to be done," that is, fed me in the midst of freezing Denver with snow on the way. I had one item with several elements: a side-salad with watery oil and watery vinegar and liberal ground pepper and a "Marriott" burger (a cheeseburger with bacon on a huge tasteless roll) but like Jack Nicholson, I asked for the burger terribly, awfully, painfully rare without bacon and they got it 50% correct; so I followed my old friend, the Appelate Court Justice's advice* and drenched it in ketchup; it also came with more lettuce and sliced tomato and a divine sour pickle (in Denver yet?). But the beef in the burger was a disgrace to the great state of Colorado which raises more edible beef than Texas, Canada and Kansas combined - I made that up too, but it sounds reasonable.
Service bordered between slow and awfully slow until a suited Marriott guy (probably the greatgrandson of Pere Marriott) showed up and hustled the tables and - GOSH - allowed one to grind one's own fresh pepper.
My bill with a 1/2 bottle of cheapo California, no bottled water, first or last or coffee, was $25.92.
Go? To a place serving high caloric (not colonic) chow and liquor to the biggest bunch of very, very, very ahhhhh weight-challenged conventioneers I've seen in ages, unh unh.
