Denver on a Spit: A Denver Food Blog

A Filipino Feast at Mesa: Modern(e) Crispchon and Mor(e)

2012-02-19T20:39:00.001-07:00

During my recent trip to the Philippines there wasn't that much time to be a tourist. That was fine, of course, as I was able to spend quality time with not only my father, but the dozens--if not hundreds--of people that we consider our relatives, which is to say most of the occupants of the town in which my father was born and raised. I was also, however, able to slip out one night for a meal with some first cousins, and they whisked me away from the rooted tradition of my ancestral home into the most modern part of Manila, Makati City.

Among all the towering skyscrapers and bustling evening street life we headed to a mall. Of course we did. Malls have replaced plazas, parks and the picturesque waterfront as the gathering place of choice for urban-dwelling Filipinos (but that is another topic altogether). But shopping wasn't on the agenda that night, rather they were taking me to the hip, crowded Mesa restaurant in the admittedly stunning Greenbelt 5 mall (yes it is the fifth mall in the same location-- and yes, the other four are still open).

Even the lights looked good enough to eat

Mesa describes itself as a modern Filipino restaurant (actually technically they use "moderne" but I'll stick with the "e"-less version) and the interior was indeed sleek and minimalist. But then I sat down and opened the extensive menu randomly to this page:

This gorgeous and gleaming young swine centerfold was all I needed to see to know that I would like this nouveau cuisine. (I realize that in the Philippines it is not all that exciting or unusual to see lechón but for us Filipinos and half-Filipinos living in decidedly non-Filipino places like Denver, each pig-on-a-stick sighting triggers more photos than sunset on Manila Bay or posing with Rizal at Luneta Park--combined.)

"You want that?" My cousin astutely inquired, seeing my jittery hands and shit-faced grin as I stared at the picture of "Crispchon"--that is, lechón that instead of being roasted is deep fried to a crisp. He proceeded to order that and so much more, in what would be a disgustingly decadent spread of Filipino flavor.

I just about peed on myself (for joy) when our 17-year-old (at most) server quickly re-appeared with the freshly deep fried hind quarter of a suckling pig. He placed it on a small butcher's block and began to chop it into bite-sized chunks. Its still-steaming meat and hot glistening skin was making me more than a little rabid. Then, suddenly, another server came out and grabbed the whole leg bone and disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Nooooo!" I whispered to myself. From my seat at the wrong end of a six-person booth I was helpless to stop him. I was also physically unable to speed up our young butcher who after chopping for what seemed like hours, was now rolling up pieces of the meat with crackly pig skin, cucumbers, cilantro and leeks into small pandan crepes--basically a fresh lumpia wrapper.

I appreciated the effort and the style of our table side demo but lechón is best when eaten piping hot. So it was with some sadness that I watched the steam dissipate from the sliced meat. And where the hell was that pig leg?

Then I became distracted by the simultaneous arrival all of our food. First to hit the table was a huge plate of grilled meats: skewered and marinated pork, fatty ribs, mussels and plump prawns. And while it was all quite good, my mind was still on that quartered pig.

The next dish I sampled was a creative plate of deep fried tilapia. The fillet was cubed and fried separately from the body so as to be light and crunchy like popcorn--but still wonderfully moist. But the best pieces were on the body itself (the head and cheeks to be specific) which was also fried and presented in a way that looked as if the two fish were still swimming circles in the ocean around each other (as they probably were the day before).

More plates: baby octopus, stir-fried vegetables, a delicate seafood soup and an incredible green mango dish served with diced tomato and onion, garnished with Bagoong Alamang, or Filipino shrimp paste.

Finally our boy-server plopped down our platter of rolled-up lechón in the center of our table.

Although only luke-warm my first bite was entirely satisfying. The skin was still crisp (it was deep fried after all) and the meat was tender like a young pig's flesh should be. The vegetables added another layer of crispy texture but also cut the fatty, fried meat nicely. Three sauces adorned the platter, but I needed none other than the traditional pork liver lechon sauce. Again, it could have been hotter (temperature-wise) and it would have been better, but it was still the best thing I have eaten in a long, long time.

And then I noticed someone had snuck the leg bone back onto our table-- now chopped into hand-sized chunks and stacked rather haphazardly (in contrast to our carefully prepared lechon rolls) on a single small plate. When they were passed my way I gnawed at several crunchy, meaty, fatty pieces and even sucked on the foot itself in homage to my dear wife (she loves her some pig feet) who, unable to come, was at that moment probably just starting to stir in bed to the crescendo-ing cries of two one-year-old babies.

Crying babies? Or fried pig leg? Tough choice.

It was, as I said, an enormous meal-- just the type of indulgence required for a reunion of three cousins (and their families) living on three different continents. I don't get enough Filipino food anymore to distinguish the good from the great, as just the dishes themselves, the flavors even-- rich liver sauce, crisp pork skin, fishy shrimp paste, acidic green mango, fresh seafood-- are enough to get my taste buds giddy and keep me food-happy for weeks, if not months, afterwards. So I'm sure some purists have criticized Mesa, and no, everything was not executed perfectly well, but in the end this is the type of experience-- sharing good food with dear family-- that reinvigorate my passion for all food. And with that inspiration I am back in Denver and looking for my next great meal.

A Culinary Three-Way: Axios, Axios and more Axios

2012-02-12T22:08:00.002-07:00

Years ago, in times when my wife and I could travel freely throughout the world without worries, we spent a week or so visiting some dear friends in Astoria, Queens. Astoria is a great example of New York's incredible diversity, and has always been known as its Greek Oasis.

Needless to say, Greek restaurants abounded in Astoria, but there was one in particular that my wife and I stopped in over and over again during that trip. We would pass by it walking home from the train and on some nights we would stop in for a nightcap of some perfectly executed Greek delicacy--not because we were hungry, but just because it was that good. At the time it made me realize how much I missed well-prepared, fresh Greek food and it made me a little sad to think that back in Denver were mostly diner-style Greek options--some good Gyros--but nothing truly great.

So it was with great anticipation that I awaited a meal at Denver's newest Greek option, Axios Estiatorio, after making plans to eat there with Denveater and the infamous Mantonat--along with all our significant others. What follows is a part one of a two-part post of our three takes on a fun night at Axios. For part two, visit Denveater's blog. Ready, set, go!

Dish 1: Kalamari

Mantonat: I haven't eaten calamari in a restaurant in ages, mostly because of the lack of variety and originality in the presentation: flavorless, chewy deep-fried rings with a dipping sauce just have limited appeal. These were delicious though; tender and tasting of the ocean and covered in a beautifully complex broth rather than a layer of oily breading.

Denveater: I could've slurped down that broth even without the squid; containing both white wine and sherry, olives and capers, garlic and onions (as well as tomatoes and spinach), it had unusual vibrancy depth of flavor.

DOAS: My wife loves calamari almost as much as she loves pickled pig’s feet (I'm happy to say that I make her top five most days, depending on her mood). I wasn't all that excited to see it drenched in so much broth, but although it was too salty in my opinion, it did have a nice, rich flavor, and the calamari was well cooked.

Dish 2: Kolokithikeftedes

Denveater: From the description, "zucchini and feta fritters," I expected pungent little breaded and deep-fried orbs, not light, tender mini-latke-like objects that were all about their vegetal flavor, enhanced by tzatziki that was especially chunky with cucumber. In short, what I thought would be guilty pleasures turned out to be borderline healthful, which actually made them that much more pleasurable.

Mantonat: Yes, this was another dish I expected to be deep-fried. Instead, they were delicate pancakes with a tangy yogurt sauce. A nice appetizer with a starting beer—but I wish restaurants would just skip the pale winter tomatoes.

DOAS As you both commented, this was a pleasant surprise for not being a deep-fried greasy patty—although when I write that, I think to myself: "A deep-fried patty dripping with oil sounds pretty damn good." I agree that they were fresh and light—borderline healthy with all that vegetable flavor.

Dish 3: Dolmades

DOAS: This was my favorite. Dolmades of any kind are one of my many food loves. There is something about those slimy, slippery green leaves that I can't get enough of. These were the two biggest dolmades that I have ever eaten, which is something noteworthy in my personal stuffed-grape-leaf-eating life, but they were also excellent—both on their own and with the creamy, velvety lemon sauce.

Denveater: Agreed—a distinctive, elegant variation on the traditional version, thanks both to the wine-steeped and pinenut-studded rice filling and that rich splash of lemon cream.

Dish 4: Lamb Giouvetsi

DOAS: I don't say this too often about lamb dishes, but I didn't like this plate very much at all. The tomato sauce was way too much for me and overall it just wasn't, well, all that good. It was too bad as the orzo was nice, the lamb was falling off the bone and luscious, but that sauce literally drowned it all out.

Denveater: I only tasted the orzo in roasted tomato sauce enriched with lamb drippings, and for me it was just right—robust, tangy, nutty from the grain. The Director sided with you completely, however.

So there you have it, half of our meal from Axios. I must say that I had some wildly high hopes for Axios, and while it wasn't a perfect meal for me, it was still very good and the service was excellent, the atmosphere welcoming and there was Greek wine aplenty. For more on all that, read part two of this post on Denveater's blog.

Press "1" For Awesome: Food of the Philippines

2012-02-05T20:57:00.001-07:00

Besides all my usual reasons, I have been very tardy in posting recently because of a whirlwind trip to the Philippines. The premise was a sad one, as a dear, dear loved one has passed, but the result was gathering together with family at our ancestral home just outside of Manila in Cavite. And as I learned during my first Filipino wake, times of Filipino mourning are just as filled with food as times of celebration.

The food in this house has been prepared by a woman named Rita who has worked for the family for as long as many of us can remember--at least the last twenty years. She is a masterful cook and she was in top form for the entire week, whipping up meal after elaborate meal for dozens of hungry neighbors, distant cousins and travel-weary visitors at a time.

Press "1"! Press it!

My favorite time was breakfast, when it was usually just a handful of us immediate family-- and maybe a few faithful churchgoers, stopping by after mass to continue the devotions. A typical morning meal that week looked a lot like this:

I always started by getting my hands on some quesillo (which I saw spelled Kaysilo at a local market). Quesillo is Cavite's version of Kesong Puti. It is a fresh, unpasturized and glorious cheese made from the milk of a carabao.

Philippine Pictures

The carabao, if you don't know is the Asian Water Buffalo and native to Southeast Asia. It is an enormous and cumbersome beast while the cheese, in contrast, is delicate and light. It is just firm enough to stay together when sliding out of the banana leaf in which it is wrapped, but soft enough to fall apart with the gentle tug of a spoon.

Its creamy texture and fresh taste make it the perfect spread for a freshly baked pandesal (the Filipino salty bread roll) though it is even better with a bite of a sweet, sticky longganisa sausage dripping with fat.

Also on that plate above with both a sweet and a garlic-laden longganisa is a subtly sweet tube of sticky rice, Sumang Malagkit. It too came wrapped in a banana leaf.

And another version of it was flavored (and colored) with ube, the ubiquitous purple tuber of the Philippines. Everything is better with ube.

Despite how I talked up Rita at the beginning of the post, in retrospect much of this particular meal was bought at the local market. But just so it's clear that she is an awesome cook (press "1"), here is a picture of lunch later in the week. Her version of Arroz a la Cubana.

This Latin-inspired Filipino dish consists of ground pork, peas, carrots, potatoes and raisins all mixed up in a red sweet-but-savory tomato sauce. That sounds good enough as is, but also thrown in there are big chunks of fried banana--Saba to be specific. Saba is a small cooking banana with a taste not unlike a plantain, though it is sweeter. The dish is typically served with a fried egg, but Rita--who was cooking buffet-style and had no time to be frying eggs to order--instead hard-boiled quail eggs and tossed them in with everything else. Brilliant.

That is a taste (or at least a look) of what I've been up to lately. It's too bad Denver doesn't have Filipino food this good but then again the Philippilines doesn't have good Greek or Salvadorean cuisine either--just two of the themes of upcoming posts I'm working on now-- if I can just find the time to get it all done.

From Russia (and Arvada) With Pastries (and Sausage)

2012-01-15T10:09:00.001-07:00

Life with babies is one random adventure after another. Such it was that we were in Arvada a few weeks ago with the goal of buying used children's clothing (nothing's too good for my little guys). As we pulled up to another mostly-empty suburban strip mall parking lot in our station wagon that every day looks alarmingly more and more like the Griswold's Wagon Queen Family Truckster, I killed the engine and we felt instantly odd. It took a minute to process the unfamiliar vibe we were sensing. It was silence. Both boys were fast asleep in the back. As my wife ventured in to shop I was charged with staying in the car, as apparently, unlike their canine counterparts, it's not considered kosher (or legal) to leave human babies alone in the car--even if you crack the window a bit and leave them some water.

You think you hate it now? Wait 'til you drive it.

So I stayed put, as I am not your ordinary, everyday fool. I fumbled with the radio and mostly twiddled my thumbs, then started noticing that most of the traffic in this lonely out-of-the-way shopping strip was funneling in and out of the business next door. I craned my neck to see what lucky business was able to maintain a steady flow of clientele in this location. It was a Russian grocery store.

When all the clothes were bought and the babies awake we wandered into the small store to browse the unfamiliar aisles of undecipherable but familiar enough sodas, candies and canned goods. The friendly proprietor of European Delicious motioned us up to the counter and showed us his dazzling array of smoked and cured meats behind the glass where he stood. He talked me into buying a 3lb link of Keilbasa. It wasn't all that hard.

As far as I know (I don't really know) much of Denver's Russian community is concentrated in Southeast Denver and neighboring Aurora, but as I learned from the proprietor of European Delicious there are a handful of Russian churches in Arvada that keep his aisles bustling with expats.

I also grabbed some peach pastries off the counter. He warned me that I might find them a little dry (by design apparently), and that just a few doors down there was a great Russian bakery owned by two young women. We thanked him and headed immediately over there.

Kavkaz Bakery turned out to be a pleasant little shop featuring loads of fresh-baked Russian and Eastern European delights. It was hard to resist choosing from their dazzling selection of expertly decorated cakes, but I restrained myself and stuck with the smaller sweets.

The flaky, empanada-like sweet pastry stuffed with a sweet ricotta-like cheese filling was my absolute favorite. The friendly young lady who co-owns the bakery told me its name--at least three times--but being over a month later it escapes me.

Another highlight was this crunchy donut-shaped cookie covered in shaved almonds. It was a delicious dunk into my morning brew and I only wish I had brought home several more.

Also delightful was this strudel-like fruit-filled pastry. The layered dough was buttery and flaky; and the filling was sweet--but not overly so--letting the fruit flavor really stand out.

The next morning I polished off what was left of the pastries from Kavkaz Bakery with mug of black coffee. I picked at the peach pies all week--they were indeed dry--but good enough with morning coffee. Also lasting at least a week was that lovely Keilbasa. It felt like I had it at almost every meal: Sliced cold with mustard on sourdough, pan fried with eggs, grilled on a bun with sauerkraut. It was a little much, but I'm not complaining.

Thanks to my babies, I found a wonderful slice of Russia in a far-away pocket of Arvada. Here's to many more new experiences in the year to come.

Happy Holidays With Al's Beef: Christmas In Chicago

2012-01-01T12:57:00.000-07:00

I've written before that Chicagoans are known for their ability to eat. Imagine then, if you will, how it goes down during the most gluttonous time of the year. Yes, no trip to Chicago around the holidays would be complete without stuffing one's face, and while I did it in many ways--from our traditional Filipino Feast festivities to sickening amounts of shawarma--I can think of few better ways for the Chicago ex-pat to get in the spirit of the season than by eating a beef with hot.

It was Christmas Eve Eve, and the family and I were wading through the hoards of last minute shoppers and camera-toting tourists, surrounded by the sounds of Salvation Army bells, the howling Loop wind and the incessant, rhythmic pounding of some Chicago Bucket Boys. We had just finished checking out some pathetic Christmas windows at the State Street Macy's (formerly Marshall Fields) and needing some serious cheering up. Luckily right around the corner--on Wabash and Jackson to be exact--is a much lovelier window:

Yes, after staring at "Christmas" windows that were just product placements for mostly evil celebrities, it was a relief to see the window of Al's Beef , which didn't need to disguise itself behind glitter and Christmas lights. We stepped out of the frigid winds and in to the welcoming warmth of Al's. The air heavy with the aroma of steamy beef: Think roasting chestnuts but with beef juice and hot peppers. In the spirit of the holidays I up-sized to a large Italian beef with hot peppers though my wife stuck with a regular. Also in the name of Christmas and all things holy, I got us a large order cheddar fries.

Downstairs in the downtown location is all stand-up counter dining--complete with a life-size photo (and detailed instructions) of a fat guy demonstrating how Al's wants you to eat your beef. This is all well and good, but not possible while shouldering a squirming infant, so we headed up to sit and dine like the tourists that we now are.

Eat too many beefs the right or wrong way,

you will end up looking like this guy

If you have been chronicling my beef adventures (OK, I know you haven't so I'll catch you up) then you will know that while I've had some decent beefs over the years I haven't had a really good one. Al's Beef, in case you are wondering, is a really good one.

The large seemed just right as one whiff of that steaming shaved beef--one look at those lovely hot peppers--made me imagine that I would not be able to get enough beef that day (I was wrong--I got enough). I twisted my baby off to one side and went in with one hand. I managed to get most of what I wanted in my mouth, and while fending off very determined baby hands I did my best to savor each tender, juicy and spicy bite.

After several overly enthusiastic mouthfuls I turned my attention to the copious cheddar cheese sauce slopped all over Al's excellent fries. It was insanely rich and just the type of holiday overindulgence that I was hoping to get into on this trip.

And overindulge I did. This meal marked the start of six days of frenzied and non-stop eating. And while my stomach was not exactly pleased by about day four, I am hoping this marks the start of a new holiday tradition: Al's Christmas Beef.

Happy New Year, and thanks for reading.

Leaving the House Without Kids: Fast Times at Euclid Hall

2011-12-18T14:29:00.000-07:00

When I sat down to start writing about Euclid Hall, it hardly seemed worth it--not because I didn't like it--but rather because I spent all of thirty-five minutes inside its retrofitted Larimer-Square-worthy space. You see my wife and I, in another rare evening out without babies, visited a few weeks ago before catching a film at this year's Denver Film Festival. By the time we finally got out of the house, down to the Auraria Campus and had picked up our tickets we had exactly 45 minutes before show time. We decided to make the most of our time and made a mad dash to the closest restaurant that we could find.

On 14th St just across Cherry Creek, Euclid Hall's glowing, giant-sized beer-tap-sign appeared like a beacon (again, excuse the photo quality, I'm in the market for a new camera). We hesitated for a moment before heading in, briefly contemplating whether or not it was possible to dine so quickly in one of the Jasinski Empire restaurants. It crossed our minds that we might have better luck with our quick meal at the media-mogul-owned-burger-factory next door. But this was once-a-month-at-best date night and we had been wanting to try Euclid Hall for a while--so we crossed our fingers and headed in.

I checked my phone for the time as we leaped up the entrance stairs: Just about 40 minutes until the lights would dim and the film would start. I interrupted the hostess as politely as I could to exaplin our time crunch as she started her welcome shpeal. (Yes, I was going to be that guy tonight.) She took it wonderfully in stride and steered us away from the Chef's table at the entrance to the bar upstairs where she thought it would be faster.

After hustling up the stairs we sidled up to the bar and were greeted by a barkeep with a museum-worthy handlebar mustache. He started another shpeal that I could tell was going to be much, much longer than the hostess' as he began flipping through pages of drinks and food. When I cut him off (and this time apologized for being that guy) and asked him, "Do you think you can get us fed and out of here in 30 minutes?" He closed the menus, stepped back, and without missing a beat or seeming annoyed in the least he confidently told me that yes, he could--and maybe sensing the troubled decision-maker that I am, he added that it would, of course, "Depend on how fast I could decide what to order."

"Touche, young barman," I thought to myself. If I had a dueling glove and we both had ten-gallon cowboy hats to match his mustache (and I could grow facial hair) we could have had faced off like true gentlemen at ten paces. I glanced the menu over and in a decision-making out-of-body-experience I rattled off: "Mushroom poutine, sausage sampler and the pickle plate." Outside of ordering a hot-dog from a hot-dog stand, that was the fastest ordering I have ever done.

Photo source here

We then got a couple beers from the relatively pretentious but well-endowed beer menu, toasted to our efficiency up until now and took big, satisfying sips--then a quick breath, a few laughs and suddenly our food started rolling out.

All ribbing aside, our barman was a consummate professional. He checked in just enough to make us feel looked after, but without interrupting or being bothersome. He thoughtfully made the point of putting our orders in separately so that each item would be delivered when ready. When all the clutter of our meal arrived and we were about to dig in hastily, he took a minute to arrange the plates and drinks in a much more ascetically pleasing way. "Even in a hurry," he was telling us wordlessly, "take the time to enjoy it the right way." After our plates were just right, we took another breath--our second or third of the night I believe--and went to work.

The pickled vegetable platter was full of a variety of house-pickled foodstuffs. There were of course pickled cucumbers of at least two kinds, as well as nice fat cauliflower and carrots.

The sausages were the star of our back-bar dining night. The veal sausage was light and was spiced with orange or another citrus. The subtle sweetness and delicate veal flavor was a good place to start. The Kielbasa was much heavier. It was a great version of this Eastern European classic: bold, simple and meaty. The bratwurst was stuffed with cheddar, which I normally don't love--I prefer my brats straight-up, so to speak, but it was still a worthy brat.

The best of the best hands down was the blood sausage. This dark, slightly sweet, richly flavored tube of meat was absolutely fantastic. If I make it back to Euclid Hall I will skip all the other sausages and double-up on this congealed wonder. It was that good.

I forgot to mention that when each dish was served to us it was done with the obligatory Euclid Hall shpeal. Our poutine was no exception, and after her relatively lengthy and formal explanation (remember, this is poutine we are talking about) our server almost bowed in retreat as she backed away from the bar. I bet in Canada they would never believe that this much formality could be given to their ubiquitous hangover-curing poutine.

The Euclid Hall version was good. It is, after all, gravy and cheese on top of fries. The mushrooms did add a nice earthy flavor that complimented the rich gravy and starchy fries very well.

I settled our tab, left what I hope was considered a generous gratuity and we rushed out the door. In sum: good food and phenomenal service. We still had to jog a little to make it back to our film in time. (Note: jogging--much less after eating poutine-- is not something I recommend.) Sadly, this was the only film we were able to see at Film Fest. It was a stirring, bittersweet story; a nice film for our night out made all the better with a full stomach of sausage, potatoes, pickles and gravy thanks to the professionals working at Euclid Hall.

Going Out With Babies: Ernie's Bar and Pizza

2011-12-04T17:19:00.000-07:00

As those of you with kids know, having them completely changes the way you do certain things--and has you doing things you have never done before. For example: I regularly wake up at 5am, I spend endless hours and copious amounts of money in stores that I barely even knew existed a year ago, and when trying to make the crying stop (theirs not mine) I find myself jumping up and down like a chimpanzee. One thing, however, that my wife and I have tried hard not to change is going out to eat.

If I were writing a blog about Denver's hippest and fanciest dining, I would have long ago shut down (not just because the public would have demanded it) because I wouldn't feel right rolling into a new opening (not that I would be invited anyway) with two infants that at any moment could scream bloody murder.

Luckily, however, the places my wife and I tend to frequent serve food from cultures where, for lack of a better phrase, babies rule. Take for example the many Mexican taquerias that we patronize: One couldn't feel more welcome with two babies in his arms. In fact, when was the last time you went to a crowded taqueria and didn't have some being under three years old screaming and/or running and/or crying and/or causing general mayhem?

So when I received a text from a few of our baby-less friends one Saturday afternoon asking if we would be joining them at Ernie's Bar. I was hesitant. I had never been to this somewhat new establishment that replaced Three Son's on Federal and 44th so I wasn't sure how welcoming they would be of two 10-month old infants who though generally quite well-behaved have been known to, well, act like 10-month old babies. But we were out that evening anyway so decided to drive by and check it out.

Immediately the hostess and staff made us feel extremely welcome. They hurried to rearrange chairs and tables so that we could fit at our friends' table. They asked over and over again if we were comfortable and if we needed anything for the boys. We settled in as comfortably as you can "settle in" with infant twins, and it was only then that I looked around I noticed that despite the "Bar" in the name "Ernie's Bar", this was very much a family place.

And the food? It almost doesn't matter, because to be in a restaurant with table service, big screen TVs and a full bar was pleasure enough for us. To sip on a freshly pulled draught beer from a cold pint glass while hearing the din of bar-room conversations in the background was a very good feeling. I could see a sporting event on the television from where I sat. I was ecstatic.

It is with this considerable bias that I say that I really enjoyed the food. We started with buffalo wings. They were well-cooked and spicy. The sauce was classic.

The pizza special for that night was a white clam pie. I had already sampled a friend's chicken and caramelized onion pizza with Fontina cheese. The crust was incredibly thin, but didn't fall apart or flop around as you might expect. It was crispy but with enough heft to have a little softness to it. The edges were light and fluffy without being dry. I remember thinking that it was excellent. The toppings were fine, but I didn't love this particular combination.

When I got my white clam pizza I was equally as smitten with the crust, but also just as neutral on the toppings. I did like it, but I guess I prefer pizza toppings like basil, tomato sauce and the like. (Again, the bliss of this bar-experience was clouding my judgment.) I will withhold final take on Ernie's until I am able to go back and try a more simple and traditional pizza, but based solely on this crust I would expect very good things.

This review of mine was clearly clouded by my I'm-back-in-a-bar glasses, but from what I could tell Ernie's Bar serves solid pizza and wings. I don't want to dissuade those without kids from going to Ernie's either. I bet after eight or nine some good old adult drinking goes on in there, and being on the corner of 44th and Federal means that you just never know what excitement might be awaiting you.

Maria Empanada: Buenos Aires Comes to Lakewood

2011-11-27T12:47:00.001-07:00

A couple weeks ago my wife and I (and babies) went to a party hosted by our friend of Cuban descent. We arrived late--extremely so-- as is our custom (or flaw depending on how you look at it), so our ropa vieja and other Cuban delights had to be re-heated in the microwave. While I was waiting for my plate to heat, I espied on other guests' plates the uneaten edges and leftover bits of Argentino-style empanadas withering away in the afternoon sun.

In other eras of my life, half-eaten empanadas would have been a step up from my usual meal, and it did cross my mind to reach over onto my neighbor's plate and sample his cold, already-been-chewed-on pastry. But I didn't really know too many people at this party, and I try not to embarrass my wife in front of her friends when I can help it, so I restrained myself and let it be.

A plateful of Cuban food later I was content and had just about forgotten those empanadas, but as we were leaving I saw a black-white menu on the counter; it read: Maria Empanada. I proceeded to stuff it in my pocket only to get a glare from my wife that read: "We don't take things from other people's homes without asking." Point taken, and since our hostess was busy with goodbyes, and all the hugging and kissing that goes along with that, I made the questionable call to try and remember to check out Maria Empanada as soon as possible.

Luckily my memory for eating potentially great food is better than my memory for the rest of life's more mundane tasks, and a few weeks later we made the trip to Lakewood to check it out.

Maria Empanada is an inviting little building that Buenos Aires native Lorena Cantarovici recently opened on Mississippi just East of Sheridan. Made to look like a rustic log cabin (it used to be a BBQ joint), it practically glows with welcoming warmth on an otherwise grungy street ripe with strip mall storefronts and half-empty parking lots. The inside is cozy and has a simple elegance that will make you want to stay all day, but the small space only has two tables and four chairs so the preferred method of ordering is take-out.

The empanada spread was thin when we entered, but it was an hour from closing and Lorena gladly offered to make us anything we wanted if we were willing to wait about seven minutes. With both babies asleep in their car seats on the floor we couldn't think of anything better than to catch our collective breath and sniff at the aroma of baking dough as it wafted from the kitchen.

In addition to the empanadas, there is also a lovely display of Spanish Tortillas and Argentine Tartas. After about three minutes of staring at these savory cakes, we decided we definitely needed to take home a couple slices.

Soon after the empanadas started to appear, and the very attentive man at the register arranged the dozen in a box, painstakingly labeling each on the lid above.

He then asked us if we would like any dipping sauce. From the four options we picked the chimichurri and the hot red salsa. We loaded it all up in our arms, excited to get home and enjoy our Argentine feast.

As is my wife's custom (a product of being raised in a big city where being cheated is the norm), on the way to the car she scrutinized the receipt and pointed out that we were charged for the sauces. That's like having to pay more for the salsa on your tacos, or for a packet of mustard for your hot dog. Sure it was only 70 cents on top of a 30-some dollar tab, but as they say, it's the principle of the thing.

70 cents worth of chimichurri and a mild hot sauce

Seconds later, however, I forgot all about being nickel-and-dimed for my chimichurri as I was biting into a spicy beef empanada and loving it. Still hot from the oven, the dough was flaky and slightly crisp. It was delicate but just hardy enough that the juicy fillings didn't leak all over my lap. The beef was not spicy in the least when you eat as many tacos as I do, but we are talking Argentina, Che, and if I closed my eyes and concentrated, I think I could taste that Porteño "kick".

Upon arriving home and re-warming our haul in the oven, I dug into a traditional beef, which has raisins on top of the spicy beef ingredients of olives, onions, peppers and eggs. This Argentine classic is what I had been hoping for when I first espied that menu and it did not disappoint. Even reheated it did not lose any of its crisp, flaky allure, and the subtle sweetness of the occasional raisin rounded out the strong, savory olives.

The only one I didn't love was the Blue Cheese that also came stuffed with melted queso fresco, walnuts olives and eggs. All the flavors, even the fresh-baked excellent dough got lost in an abyss of pungent cheese. The earthy Mushroom empanada, however, had just the right amount of cheese, and with plenty of simply seasoned sauteed mushrooms, this was one of my favorites.

The classic Ham and Cheese along with the Tango (ham, cheese, bell peppers, onions) were also excellent as the simple flavors let the dough shine.

My absolute favorite of the night was the Spinach. In the middle of this sauteed-spinach-and-onion-filled empanada was a hard boiled egg yolk. The meaty yolk and the gooey spinach were perfect together, and once again, the flavors were enhanced by the wonderful dough.

Cantarovici also makes Argentine Tartas, essentially a large pie with a flaky, empanada-like crust. We chose the Vegetable tarta. It was densely packed with finely julienned veggies (carrots, zucchini, bell pepper, onion) and a ton of fresh flavor. It was delicious.

And finally we tried a simple Tortilla Española. The layers of thin potatoes were perfectly cooked, as was the egg holding it all together. Bits of red and green bell peppers rounded out this well-executed, tasty tortilla.

The good of paying money for miniscule amounts of sauce is that it teaches one conservation. Maybe that was the point. In a move true to my Midwestern upbringing that would make my mother (and mother-in-law) proud, instead of throwing out the remains as I might have with free salsa, I put both almost-empty containers back in the fridge. It was only yesterday, almost two weeks after our empanada run that I felt compelled to finally throw them out.

There is still 7 or 8 cents of sauce left in there!

Cantarovici's empanadas have that home-cooked feel, and they should, as each is hand rolled and baked fresh continuously throughout the day. All in all I was impressed. Having spent a bit of time in the Capital Federal de Argentina, I would say it is well worth a trip to visit for a taste of a Porteña-made empanada right here in Denver. I only hope she is able to expand the seating options at some point, as it is such a great space.

Tacos y Salsas y Zombies: A Denver Taco Institution Opens Downtown

2011-11-13T21:51:00.006-07:00

Saturday, October 22nd I found myself with my family and our friends on an evening stroll through the surreal and rather impressive gathering of zombies in the Denver Zombie Crawl on the 16th Street Mall. The Mall was literally packed with walking-dead look-a-likes, many head-to-toe in incredibly detailed costumes and make-up jobs. I imagine an entire evening of zombie impersonation requires one to be well-fed and more than a little drunk, and the surrounding bars and restaurants were overflowing with the undead. Hungry ourselves after our saunter, we decided to check out the newest of the Tacos y Salsas branches (the eighth if you are counting) on Stout Street just off the Mall.

In contrast to the zombie mania just steps away, we walked into Tacos y Salsas and were greeted by a nice young lady who escorted us to a booth. But before we could sit down we were intercepted by an absolutely crazy--albeit friendly--employee who shook all of our hands and insisted that he knew me--get this-- from television. Although I can't say that this has happened ever before, I wasn't all that surprised, as I've always thought that my uncanny resemblance to the great LDP (or more likely, as I have confessed in another post, an older, creepier version of Cory Haim as Lucas) has potential to create confusion. Whatever the reason, after our initial greeting, each time he passed our table, he gave me several exaggerated winks and excited points, or winkpoints, and laughed in a half-maniacal, half-nervous manner.

I start every morning like this, too.
Photo Source

Since Tacos y Salsas opened its downtown location earlier this year, I have been extremely happy to see what I view as a legitimate taqueria move to the Mall. Despite this, I have also been concerned that they would, for lack of a better expression, "gringo-up" the place, including the food. Our server, though he might have scared off both Mexicans and non-Mexicans alike, was case in point that Tacos y Salsas was not out to pander to what can be a mundane mix of tourists and business folk that frequent the Mall.

Guys on the back of the booth, hard at work.

The decorations were another story. Many restaurants that market their food and services to those not accustomed to Mexican food with spice, depth or flavor often go overboard on the "Mexican" decor in order to presumably make up for their otherwise lack of Mexican-ness. In that vein, your first impression of the newest Tacos y Salsas branch might lead you to believe that they had gone this route in anticipation of a more bland clientele. But this place is beyond the typical Mexican-kitsch, and whoever was in charge of designing it went absolutely over the top. Every booth, table, chair and other adornment you can think of was a faux-ceramic creation featuring some "typical" scene from some "typical" pueblo in Mexico.

Lady on the table: elated with my salsa

If nothing else the visual impact was in itself stunning for the sheer assault of bright color, sombreros and serapes. And if that weren't enough (it was), along one wall running the entire length of the long space was a mural in the grandest of forms featuring as its centerpiece a lovely airbrushed woman under a Tacos y Salsas canopy tent.

The Tacos y Salsas Matron

If this were a conversation instead of a platform for me to endlessly rant and rave as I see fit, this would be where you, dear reader, might say something to the effect of: "Shut up and tell me about the food." Decoration and staff insanity levels can only tell one so much about a place, and what we all really want to know about the new downtown Tacos y Salsas location is: Did they change anything about their food?

I ordered pastor like I always do from Tacos y Salsas though I'm never sure why. It does come from a spit in their Federal and Colfax locations (though I didn't see one here), but it is chunky, not crisp and has a decidedly "adobada" flavor to it. Nevertheless the words just roll off my tongue when I am there (as they do in many other situations in my life, some less appropriate than others). Its taste and texture was the same as the other locations as far as I could tell which is OK, but still nothing all that special.

I also tried the barbacoa taco (beef not goat) and at first bite wished everything I ordered that night had this luscious, tender beef in, on or all over it. Although I can't compare it to the other locations (as for some reason I had never ordered this before), the barbacoa that night was phenomenal.

Although now usurped by the barbacoa, carnitas was one of my Tacos y Salsas staple meats. This night I ordered them in gordita form. It was slightly over-fried and was stuffed New Mexican-style with chopped lettuce, onions, tomatoes and a yellow-white mix of cheese. Not what I was expecting and not my favorite toppings for a gordita, but nonetheless it was good and--no surprise-- I ate it all.

By the end of our meal, the crazy man who knew me from television ended up being pretty much just another nice and mostly attentive server--that is, until it came time to pay. In classic Mexican market-stall fashion, when my friend and I started to hand him our cash to settle our $24 tab, he insisted that he didn't have change for our two twenties. In fact, when he spied the ones in my wallet (yes he was trying to look in my wallet) he asked me to hand them over. We explained that we were splitting the bill so would also have to split the change, but he just gave us a loud sigh and an exasperated look. Knowing this game all too well I shoved the two twenties into his hand, and though still annoyed, he pulled out an unwiedly wad of ones, fives and tens; and proceeded to count off our change with a look like he was doing us a favor. Ridiculous, but classic.

It is good to see from my small sampling that night that Tacos y Salsas has seemingly stayed true to the Mexican food (and its taco-stand anti-change-making roots) it is known for--even on the 16th Street Mall. It isn't the best taqueria around but it is all-round solid in its tacos and for a late-night joint downtown it simply can't be beat.

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After the meal we were lured back out onto the street to parade around in the growing madness of what seemed like even more zombies, by now all the drunker and more, well, zombie-like than before. It was pleasantly chaotic. From everywhere zombies were lurching, wrestling, moaning and--much to the displeasure of several tourists I saw (but not to our children)--jumping out from behind corners and startling whoever happened to be walking by.

Tarasco's New Latino Cuisine: Masterful Mole and More

2011-11-06T12:11:00.003-07:00

Many, many weeks ago my wife and I met some friends in what was a rare but much-needed rest during my frenetically-paced September. Completely wired and simultaneously tired from a month-long toxic mix of caffeine, a computer screen, and squealing infants all through the wee hours of the night, I decided it was time to finally check out a place that had been at the top of my list for a while now. I am referring to Tarasco's Nuevo Latino Restaurant which was recommended to me at least two years ago by the knowledgeable Examiner reporter Thomas Spahr for its made-from-scratch mole.

Mr. Spahr

Mole is something that is hard to find done right. There are good moles around town to be sure (El Diablo, Laughing Ladies, Chili Verde, El Paraiso to name a few), but the best I have had Stateside have been those I have made in my own kitchen using Patricia Quintana's Mulli recipe book as a guide. When Mr. Spahr touted Tarasco's as Denver's best, I knew I had to go. I just didn't plan on taking two years to get there.

If you have ever arrived at Tarasco's and ordered mole from its menu without an explicit recommendation from someone else then I commend you. Located just South of the busy Alameda and Federal intersection, it is understandable that you would drive right past it on the way to one of your other favorite taquerias, pho shops, Banh Mi bakeries or other "ethnic" eateries. If you originally set out to find Tarasco's, it would be no fault of yours if you missed it, as it is hidden at the end of a narrow parking lot, and there doesn't seem to have been any concerted effort to advertise its presence closer to the street. If you did manage to get as far as the parking lot, you would have had to push your way through the thick plumes of smoke coming from the dispensary next door and fight off your sudden growing sense of apathy.

One-stop shopping

Next, as you pondered whether or not you should open the door and step inside for some Mexican food, you would not be alone in having second thoughts, as the outside walls are plastered with signs touting the great--indeed "los mejores perros calientes"-- hot dogs. If you decided to enter, you were greeted with even more signs tempting you to try the hot dogs (I didn't have any, but even a bacon-wrapped Mexican hot dog can't beat a good mole). If by now you hadn't already ordered a hot dog (because you now had the munchies), you sat down to open a busy menu full of many typical Mexican platters. If you made your way past the first page and onto the second, there was a small section of "Especialidades". Here were your two mole options. If you ordered them, well done.

The hot dog sign is bigger than the restaurant sign

To be fair I have not sampled the hot dogs or many other dishes from the Tarasco menu, but for your first visit here there are really only three places you need to look for ordering options: One is the "Specials" board on the back wall, the second is the aforementioned "Especialidades" section of the menu and third are the items highlighted with an "*". It is not really clear what the asterisk refers to, but take it as a subtle hint (versus the explicit hot dog signs) that will take you down a path of great Mexican food.

From the asterisk-ed menu items we started with the guacamole. A mash of avocado with any combination of cilantro, onion, tomato, garlic and chiles is bound to be good, but the Tarasco's version was truly great. It was full of big chunky onions, copious amounts of cilantro and healthy portions of both tomatoes and jalapenos. I believe it was even mixed and molcajete-d to order.

The nopales were my wife's favorite, as this Mexican cactus is not often on Mexican restaurant menus in our city--much less done two ways. She chose the nopales asados over the ensalada and we were not disappointed. The grilled nopales were perfectly cooked so as not to be rubbery nor particularly slimy, and simply seasoned with salt. A generous squeeze of lime and a few dabs of a hot red salsa made for one of the better nopales I have had on either side of the border.

Tamales de elote might seem like a redundant choice: corn masa filled with corn--but the corn filling inside of these steamed corn masa appetizers was creamy and sweet; and over the top was drizzled that typical and fabulous Mexican crema, which is much more like crème fraîche than your usual sour cream.

For the mole there were two options, a red "siete chiles" mole and a green tomatillo-based one. Each (I preferred red, my wife green) is the the kind of plate where you may very well find yourself "mmmm-ing" out loud as you savor every rich, complex flavor. As you feel the chile's heat slowly build in your mouth after layers of sesame, garlic, cumin (and too many more to even guess at or list) you may smile or even burst into spontaneous laughter that you could have a mole this good in a place this far from Mexico. In fact I have eaten my fair share of moles in Mexico, and besides a few experiences of very literal mole nirvana--one at a table with Chef Quintana herself, the others during a homestay in college with a family in Morelia--Tarasco's was better than most of them.

The siete chiles: dark and rich; bitter, nutty, sweet and then pleasantly spicy. I got mine with shredded pork carnitas. Absolutely incredible.

The green mole: lighter and more acidic likely from the tomatillo base. Also a rich and complex mix of flavors but without as many layers as the red siete chiles. Still it was an excellent mole and reason enough to make a trip out here.

Other menu items sampled at our table that night were impressive as well. A highlight was this house-made huarache piled high with among other things thick cuts of nopales and smothered in the excellent red mole.

I could go on and on about the great food we had. In fact I will for just a bit. It is worth mentioning that Tarasco's also has an impressive assortment of fresh made liquados (shakes) and jugos. There are more combinations of fruit and vegetable drinks than would seem necessary, and the health benefits of many are found lining the walls of the restaurant along with Mexicanismos, or dichos (sayings), that are always good for a laugh. My favorite, loosely translated, read: "Guns are loaded by the devil, and fired by pendejos."

One last menu item I need to cram in here are the churros. For whatever reason I have had the hardest time finding a good churro in this town, and Tarasco's has one of the better ones I have tried. It was nothing special; just perfectly fried, sweetened and served piping hot. A fitting way to end one of the best Mexican meals I have had in Denver.

I am kicking myself (which is a step up from the usual: other people kicking me) for taking my sweet time to eat at Tarasco's Nuevo Latino Cuisine. The crew and owners of Tarasco's clearly take pride in their food and take the time to do things the right way. The result of their careful efforts was for us a most memorable Mexican meal. I would urge you not to make the same mistake I did and get to Tarasco's as soon as you are able. And maybe next time I'll get around to trying that hot dog, but only if it's covered in mole.

Greetings From Boulder: Pupusas Sabor Hispano

2011-10-30T10:52:00.001-06:00

In my meager two years of blog-existence, I've yet to write anything about Boulder. I know Boulder is considered an important city when it comes to eating one's way around the Front Range, but for whatever reason--while not exactly avoiding it--it never seems to make it into my eating plans. Boulder is beautiful, of course, with panoramic views of the Flatirons and picture-perfect tree-lined streets. The people too are radiant, each seeming trimmer and younger than the one prior.

In fact it is so idyllic in this foothill fantasy-land that it has been given any number of silly labels and rankings from various media outlets, claiming tops in everything from America's "Happiest" City to its "Foodiest"; and of course it is everyone's favorite "Triathlon-running-ist" town. And if all that isn't sickening enough for anyone outside of its fit, contented borders it is also one of the "Brainiest" and "Healthiest" cities according to one magazine or another--meaning even with all that good food the average Boulderite is intelligent enough to enjoy it in moderation--or at least wake up early and do calisthenics.

I'm sure by now I've managed to piss off just about everyone in Boulder--or at least those without any sense of humor--but I digress (deeply and possibly regrettably so), because what I set out to write about is a speck of color and flavor in the otherwise snow white town (88% by last count) where once landed Mork. What I am referring to is Pupusas Sabor Hispano, that I manged to fortuitously find while driving back from a wedding in Niwot.

Leaving said wedding (of my friend who conceived the name of this blog) and heading South on Highway 36, I joked to my wife that I was going to stop in Boulder--I believe these were my exact words: "To look for some tacos." I turned South on Boulder's Broadway despite her almost taunting laughter and within several blocks came to a screeching halt in front of Pupusas Sabor Hispano.

Granted, Pupusas are not tacos, but this I figured, was close enough. As the saying goes, when in Boulder, taco-seekers can't be choosers.

I have to say that I was not expecting great things. Again, we were on Broadway in Boulder not E. Colfax in Denver, and this part-Mexican, part-Salvadoreño restaurant was fully catered to the local population, replete with gaudy parrots, Diego Rivera replicas and even a mini-sized version of a yellow casa serving as entrance to another dining area that was intended, I imagine, to give one the pleasant illusion of dining in some idyllic tourist town like San Miguel de Allende.

But I will say that the staff was incredibly friendly (something harder to find at times on Colfax) and Spanish-speaking. And they did not roll their eyes given that we strolled in at five minutes to closing.

We ordered two pupusas with chicharron. Of course. The chicharron in a typical pupusa is pressed and grilled in a way that it becomes a delectable paste of twice-fried, smashed pork skin. (Those words sound so delicious that they merit re-writing: "Twice-fried, smashed pork skin.") It is amazing and undoubtedly the best way to enjoy pupusas, although at Sabor Hispano there was too little of it--either that or it was overwhelmed with the queso. Nevertheless it was a respectable pupusa, and I savored every bite, still smiling at my dumb luck in finding this place.

The rajas con queso also was heavy on the queso, and the rajas, or thin strips of green chile (or bell pepper of some sort) were not spicy in the least. Even doused in the traditional Salvadorean slaw and sweet tomato salsa, this was least favorite of the pupusas we had that night.

The calabaza, or zucchini pupusa was completely overrun with cheese flavor, but of the three was cooked the best, with bits of browned cheese on the edges and more crispy, browned spots on the masa itself. The over-cheesing, which seemed to run rampant that late night at Sabor Hispano, was especially unfortunate in this case because it completely drowned out the delicate flavor of the calabaza.

Calabaza in the top left corner. Apologies for the bad pictures.

I know the Boulder food craze is centered around its award-winning fancy foodie fare, but to me restaurants like Pupusas Sabor Hispano are at the heart of any town claiming a "food scene". And although these cheese-heavy pupusas were not the best I've had around Denver, it was at least a pupusa, which in the grand scheme of eating is in itself a good thing. I can't wait to see what I happen across next time I find myself wandering aimlessly (that is how I usually wander) again through the dark streets of Boulder.

Cafe La Habana of Mexico City: No Hype, Just Motuleños

2011-10-23T17:47:00.003-06:00

During my recent trip to Mexico City my wife and I had a remarkable amount of free time. This was mostly thanks to not working, but also to our family who was more than happy to snatch my squirming boys from our weary arms. On one day I ventured out for a stroll around the city's centro and happened upon an old favorite of mine: Cafe La Habana.

Located on the corner of Morelos and Bucareli just blocks from Reforma after it leaves the Parque Alameda and heads diagonally to Chapultapec Park, Cafe La Habana has been serving locals and ex-pats alike since 1952. There is undoubtedly a feeling of stepping back in time when one enters this relic of a restaurant. The space is large, open, sparse, utilitarian; while the high ceilings and bright lighting make the room seem even more vast. The clientele is diverse in both age and dress, but what stands out to me every time are the old, solitary men sipping their cafes, reading their papers or maybe just staring out the large glass windows on to the bustling streets, seemingly frozen in time, as much a part of the restaurant as the antique wooden bar or the vintage pump handle espresso machines. The faded sepia photos of old Havana complete the fantastically dated feel of the cafe. It even inspired me to sepia-tone my own photo that I took there just last week.

Any restaurant this old in the center of a city as cosmopolitan as Mexico City is bound to have many, many stories. The most famous of these as far as I know is that Ernesto Guevara and Fidel Castro met here over coffee in the time leading up to the Cuban revolution.

I am well aware of how charged a topic this is for many Cuban-Americans. Regardless of where you are on the spectrum of Castro-loving or hating, I think it is fair to say that it is sad that the Revolution turned into yet another dictatorship and more than a little ironic that Che's likeness is now found on decidedly non-revolutionary and wholly entrepreneurial capitalist garb the world over. Despite this, there is no denying the enormous historical significance of this event and it adds an aura of intrigue to an already enchanting cafe.

Cafe La Habana, to its credit, does not exploit this purported story in any way. It is mentioned nowhere on their menu nor anywhere in the cafe. Another restaurant with that type of lore would have long ago covered its walls in Che paraphernalia and--of course-- have a entire gift shop with sickening amounts of Che-branded merchandise. Cafe La Habana, on the other hand, in contrast to its historic building, has a sleek and modern menu. And on said menu, despite the name and legendary connections to Cuba (at least for the ten-plus years I have dined there) they don't really even offer any Cuban food. What it does still offer despite this new menu look is a wide variety of Mexican breakfast staples.

It was for this reason I was here: To eat a big fat Mexican breakfast and sip on strong old-school espresso. In particular, having sated my need for properly prepared chilaquiles the day prior, I was craving a steaming plate of Motuleños.

Motuleños start a bit like huevos rancheros, and there are many different ways to prepare them but I like them best when done the way Cafe La Habana and so many other Mexico City cafeterias make them. It starts with a pair of fried corn tortillas upon which is spread a healthy offering of refried beans. Over each bean-covered tortilla is laid a fried egg--perfectly fried in the Mexican style in that the yolk is just hot--wonderfully runny so that it mixes in with the mildly spicy red tomato-chile sauce. Over that are sprinkled peas and somewhere in the middle is sliced ham. The final treat are the fried plantains placed around the edges of the plate.

It is an incredible and unique blend of sweet and savory. It is hearty and sloppy like so many good breakfast dishes, and one of the best parts--besides the perfect plantains--is sopping up the yolk-y tomato-y remains with big chunks of freshly baked Mexican bread.

As for the espresso? It was gritty, tar-black and would grow hair on a rock if you let it soak long enough. But it also had in the midst of its undeniable concentrated strength a delicate flavor, and on top a wonderful creamy head. It did leave me a little jittery--although that could have been the fact that it was my third coffee of the morning--all the better to continue my walk around the city center.

It was yet another great meal in Mexico City. There were once again many this trip but being that this blog is supposedly about food one can eat in and around Denver, I should probably get back to those places I ate at before I left for Mexico. Stay tuned as I return with great gusto to what I hope is more regular posting as my up-and-down life settles back to a manageable pace--that is as much as that is possible with a pair of nine month-old boys--oh, hark, I think I hear them squealing now.

Dispatch From Mexico City: A Taco al Pastor Plea

2011-10-17T18:21:00.002-06:00

In my frequent trips to Mexico City it should come as no surprise that I always stop somewhere for tacos al pastor. In contrast to Denver (and the rest of the US), in Mexico's Federal District there are towering spits of marinated pork properly outfitted with pineapple very literally everywhere; and while some are better than others, for the most part one really can't go wrong.

In fact a few minutes ago I just polished off the last of several satisfying tacos--this time from Mexico's largest taco al pastor chain restaurant, El Tizoncito. I was going to write about some more out-of-the-way places that we oft visit down here, but I figured there wasn't much point. My wife's family lives way South in Mexico City and even for those of you that will travel to the DF, it is unlikely you would want to detour down to those parts just for tacos that you could get just as good just about anywhere else.

El Tizoncito, despite being the Wack Arnold's of pastor for its omnipresence in this city, serves a good taco al pastor that in Denver would be at the top of my pastor list every year without question.

That brings me to my idea. El Tizoncito, who makes the bold claim of "inventing" tacos al pastor when they opened in Mexico's Condesa neighborhood over 40 years ago, offers franchise opportunities. And despite some knock-offs, as far as I know, no original El Tizoncito has ever been opened in the US. Seems like an easy concept for those with entrepreneurial drive and a bunch of investment capital. The hardest part would be that you would need to get a solid pastorero too, one that can deftly flip that pineapple onto the tortilla with a flick of his knife.

I have no drive for things like that. And I say with confidence that I couldn't possibly find the time. But any potential El Tizoncito restauranteur should contact me. Although I have no real capital to speak of, I would more than make up for it in time (and money) spent in your taqueria. And while I like to pride myself in not whoring out my blog to advertisements and whatever place offers me a free meal, unless you really screwed it up, my whole moral schema would be open to restructuring in exchange for free tacos from a place like El Tizoncito.

I jest of course. About the whoring that is. My food-blogging legs will stay forever crossed. But I am serious in hoping that someone does do this and that it first happens in Denver.

I imagine, though, that you don't want to hear more about far-fetched business plans from a man with as little economic know-how as the 112th United States Congress. What you are probably wondering now if you made it this far is: how were those tacos?

They were average for what I have had recently in Mexico City, which is to say they were fantastic. The taquero, or pastorero, was a little green, and he flipped a couple pineapple slices onto the floor, but we all need to learn somewhere. It was also a slow time of the day, so the pastor was ever-so-slightly dry, but the charcoal-flamed meat was deeply smoky on top of the spicy and sweet overtones of the marinade. It was yet another solid round of tacos al pastor in Mexico City, and although I am fading to sleep and groaning a little more than usual, I am all smiles on the inside.

As you can see, below average taquero.

It's worth another look. At least this taquero had the skills to slice my meat paper thin:

This ends my plea for some angelic investor to bring a slice of Mexican corporate taco flavor to Denver. Although I will say one last thing in defense of this particular mega-chain: There could be worse things than a business that hangs signs explicitly stating that it doesn't discriminate based on race, sex or religion.

Although on second thought, signs like that get hung precisely because there was discrimination in the first place. Regardless, let's hope for the good of all the pastor-loving public that this smiling animated spit of pastor--or in the tradition of the streets of Mexico City a knock-off just as good--shows up on the streets of Denver soon.

And now, while my in-laws happily entertain my babies in the next room, I am going to push aside my computer at which I am prone and typing on a bed; and take a much-needed though seldom-had opportune siesta.

Respite

2011-10-09T22:48:00.002-06:00

Over the years of writing this blog I have not taken a break from posting like this. It has now been going on three weeks since I have sat down in front of the computer to write. Write about food, that is-- because in fact I have spent an ungodly amount of time writing on this high-tech typewriter over the past 30 days. In addition to my normal nine-to-five (or better, eight or six) and a pair of boys that have learned how to crawl and find the most life-threatening objects in any room with remarkable speed, I took on even more work that had me hunched over a keyboard for hours and hours on each weekday and up to twelve hours on the weekends.

Suffice to say, I very literally had no time to post, and now even after the proverbial dust has settled (mostly on me), the simple act of powering on this portable computing device has me queasy. At night I close my weary, bloodshot eyes, and burned into my still twitching eyelids is black text on white screen framed by Microsoft blue. The slow, incessant clack of my hunt-and-peck typing plays like a soundtrack in my dreams.

It has been three days now since I have touched this keyboard and stared into the familiar, hypnotizing glow of the monitor above. I'm finding it difficult to type at all, much less type original thoughts. That being said I have a list of restaurants at which I ate before this madness began, and fragments in a notebook (yes, I still write on paper when I can) that I am eager to put together into complete sentences to the best of my ability.

So, to the handful of you besides my wife and mother that were wondering where I have been, I thought I would explain my virtual absence and let you know that I am still eating--it just might take a few more days to get back at writing.

Denver al Pastor Take 13: Finally! A Taqueria El Fogon in Denver (and Ice Cream Next Door)

2011-09-19T22:30:00.001-06:00

El Fogon. It is a classic name for a taqueria. It is strong, bold and simply classic. Depending on where you are it can mean "campfire", or "wood burning stove", or "stove burner", or any number of flame-related nouns, so its name on a restaurant sign is often accompanied by a logo of fire. It rolls off the tongue beautifully in its native Spanish (there is an accent on the second "o") and at the same time is hard to butcher too badly in English. Every town in Mexico (maybe even every neighborhood) has a restaurant named "El Fogon" (this one in Playa del Carmen is where my fantastic pastor recipe comes from)--hell, almost every city in the US with any respectable amount of Mexican fare has one too (a quick google search even finds one in Cuyahoga Falls, OH).

Denver, on the other hand has only had one for a little less than a year. Maybe there was one before, and you old-timer Denverites please let me know, but it is about time there is a taco shop here named El Fogon. It is appropriate that El Fogon opened up its doors on South Federal. I've said before that in this economy it takes some cojones to open up a taco shop in the middle of Denver's tacolandia, but if anyone can do it, it will be a restaurant with a name like Fogon. And even with the plethora of Mexican restaurants lining this boulevard of tacos, it somehow seems all-the-more complete with a sign sporting a flame and the words: El Fogon.

I was tipped to Fogon just after the publication of this year's Pastor list by the savvy Examiner reporter Mark Antonation. Well, it didn't take me long to get myself over there (it has taken me a while to write about it) after I got word, because as I mentioned in the aforementioned list, there are just not enough spits of meat serving pastor in this town.

El Fogon, besides its unforgettable name and spit of pastor, looks about like any other taqueria you might have walked into in your life: Simple decorations; sparse, utilitarian tables and chairs; brightly painted walls; bootleg CDs and DVDs for sale; and a menu on the wall with all the usual suspects. It may be a little cleaner than the average taqueria, maybe because of its newness, and unfortunately despite being Friday night, it was empty.

I think El Fogon had been around since about March of this year, so it is a little sad to see it empty on a weekend. Although for my wife and I, who now travel with two babies and all the bags of gear that go along with that, it was nice, as we were able to spread out over two tables and six chairs without feeling even a bit bad.

The spit of meat was there behind the counter although it looked nothing like it does in this Westword picture (above). I suppose when Westword comes you break out the good stuff. (When I come, however, you try to lock the door and flip the sign over to "Closed" when you see me pull up to the curb.) Tonight's was shorter--much, much shorter--a little lopsided and not nearly as well-charred as that lovely picture. But of course we all know that it is not the size of the spit that matters.

We ordered some pastor and some tacos de Birria. I'll start with the birria because it was different from other birria I've had. What I am used to as birria is a rich stew full of tender chunks of goat. This was simply a taco of shredded beef. But the beef had a wonderful and rich flavor that was slow-cooked in I imagine some sort of broth or marinade similar to what goes into the goat stew I am accustomed to. They were incredible: soft and tender, rich with flavor.

The pastor was a little chunky (versus the preferable thin slices) but it was well-charred from its second cooking on the grill and not too overdone as many are in the US. The flavor was good and the pineapples were real, although they too were grilled in grease and I prefer them fresh or just lightly charred with flame only.

They were served con copia, or that is, with two tortillas, but they weren't exactly overflowing with meat, so I ditched the second tortilla in the end. Overall I really liked the pastor here. It was a lot like the Carboncitos pastor, which for a Denver-area pastor, is pretty good. Here is a close-up:

For some reason we also ordered a gigantic smothered steak burrito. Besides being slightly taken aback by its intimidating size, my first impression was that of awe, as it came out smothered not only in green chile but in freshly fried chicarrones.

So fresh were they fried, in fact, that they were still popping grease from their bubbly, crackling skin.

Excited from the excellent birria and above-average pastor, we dug in with a fury. The green chile was decent and the chicarrones were exquisite, but the contents of overcooked chopped steak, greasy beans and sticky rice were bland and old-tasting. It was really bad. It was still meat and cheese and beans for the most part, and we ate a lot of it, but the flavor was off. We ended up picking away at the chicarrones and going back in for a scoop of burrito-fill, but it never got any better. Not sure what happened and I probably don't want to know.

Chicharrones? Yes. Rest of it? Ick.

After leaving with the nasty burrito taste in our mouths, we were persuaded to get some ice cream next door by a friendly man who opened the door for us and almost pushed us inside. Luckily it was hot and dry out, because according to the sign on the door, the good folks at Paleteria Chihuahua shorten up their hours some on cold days, and even more on rainy ones.

We scanned the wide array of cold and sweet treats while my poor twins sat happily on the floor in their car seats, still oblivious to the pleasures of ice cream. More compelling than the ice cream and paletas, however, were the multitude of frozen fruits and candies dipped in chocolate. I ended up with a couple of balls of frozen yogurt dipped in chocalate--with sprinkles. They were a wonderful way to erase the gustatory gaffe that was that burrito.

They don't even care.

I'm not keeping count, but South Federal really must have the largest concentration of taquerias in Denver, so to be new and survive one really needs to stand out. Good pastor on a spit, in my opinion, is the perfect place to start, and Fogon seems to have that. In fact, with the other spits that I've had around there: Tacos y Salsas, Los Gallitos and Tijuana, it is clearly the standout. And with the draw of ice cream (and random frozen treats dipped in chocolate) next door, it is a tempting stop on the street where tacos reign. Let's hope it can stay open.

Park Burger on a Bench Across From Park Burger

2011-09-12T12:24:00.000-06:00

Despite the unfortunate closing of Deluxe Burger last month, there are, thanks to the mini-boom of burger joints in our fair city over the last few years, many other options for the burger-seeking general public. The other day my family and I found ourselves (read: I dragged them along on an errand) in the Platte Park area--hungry, but with a short window of eating opportunity. To me a meal of burger and fries is the definition of a quick meal, and I figured that any place that serves burgers exclusively would be perfect given our time constraints.

Hence, we ended up at Park Burger, which as it turns out is not in any way a fast option—at least not on a beautiful summer Friday evening. Located on the southern end of the South Pearl business district in this family-filled, foot-friendly neighborhood, the crowds there tell me that the folks behind Park Burger filled a long-standing neighborhood need: a casual, family friendly restaurant with an accessible menu of regular food at regular prices (either that or you can’t pack enough restaurants into this neighborhood).

The short of it was that Park Burger was packed. Forty-five minutes for a table? Good for the Park Burger investors, but even if we had the time, waiting that long with twin infants in the densely packed atrium would have been like dragging nails across the proverbial chalkboard for the duration. But we were really hungry, and going through the rest of our plans for that night (while trying to look after our twins) without proper nourishment (read: fatty meat and greasy carbs) would have been just as painful. Partly from my new-parent mindset and partly from my true vagabond nature, a light bulb went off when I spied a few empty benches across the street: I quickly placed an order to go.

The hostess was friendly and relatively collected amongst the chaos of waiting customers clogging the entrance, orders going in and out, phones ringing and all the other hubbub of a busy operation. Within fifteen minutes I placed and received my order. I walked across the street, baby in one arm and in the other a white paper bag, partially see-through with grease spots and surprisingly heavy with only two burgers and an order of fries. (The only thing missing was another brown paper bag with a cold bottle of beer inside.)

What was so heavy was the extra order of fries that she had mistakenly included in my order (and that I paid for-- I checked) likely because it was hard to hear much over the din of diners and drinkers. My wife and I are not ones to complain about extra fried potatoes, but if I was going to get two orders, I would have made one regular fries instead of two sweet potatoes.

Oh well. We were here for the burgers anyway. I ordered the Chef's special: a green chile burger, medium rare. Unlike other burger joints (Deluxe), Park burger lets one choose the doneness of one’s burger, something I appreciate. My burger was cooked just as I ordered and had a wonderful kick from the surprisingly spicy chiles that was well-balanced by the creamy, cheesy sauce. I'm not sure how a Denver burger joint doesn't have a green chile burger on the menu all the time, but I was glad to be here when it was.

I almost always get sweet potato fries over regular fries when I can. At Park Burger, the sweet potato fries were pretty standard, which is to say I ravenously devoured mine. Thin cut, salted, a little crispy-- but a little floppy with grease-- they were solid fries to go along with my stand-up burger.

For my wife I ordered a Chilango burger. Chilango is of course a word used to describe those from Mexico City. In retrospect, neither my Chilanga wife nor I are aware of any particular requirements that need to be fufilled in order for a burger to carry the name Chilango, but either way I thought she should have it. They only thing that made it really all that Mexican were jalapeños and guacamole. The cheddar cheese? Not so much.

My wife didn’t love it. She felt like the guacamole wasn't all that great and did not go well with the other, more "traditional" burger adornments. I liked it fine, and she liked it enough that she finished it all herself rather than accepting my offer to eat the rest of it for her. I might be mistaken, but I think Park Burger won the Denver Burger Battle in 2010 with this burger. A winner is a winner, but from my sampling, I think they would be better off swapping out the Chilango for my green chile burger on both the menu and the next Burger Battle.

In the end it was a thoroughly enjoyable meal on the bench across the street from Park Burger. I’m actually surprised that no one else had thought to do the same. Next to the patio of Park Burger itself, this was probably the best place to enjoy a burger on the corner of Pearl and Jewell on that pleasant summer evening. And with a squirming twin in each of our respective arms, it was certainly better for us and the rest of the Park Burger faithful.

From my very small sample, Park Burger makes some average to very good burgers but is nothing spectacular. That being said, I suppose I am not really a "burger guy" and very rarely is a burger spectacular in my opinion. Regardless of that, however, I do think that every neighborhood would be a little better with a burger joint like this (and Mayfair is a little worse off for losing Deluxe). But Park Burger is not so much of a “joint” as it is a restaurant. With this in mind you can choose to have your burger cooked in something other than well-done-- and get table service; but you have to wait to be seated and it is not the best option for grabbing a quick bite—unless you are willing to grab a seat on the bench across the street.

More Bubbles Burst: Deluxe Burger... and Leobardo's Too?

2011-09-09T11:12:00.002-06:00

Bad News Part 1--Pop!
While nothing like the food truck boom, over the past several years--much like the cupcake-- burger joints have been popping up all over Denver to sate-then-eventually-flood burger fans with options. On the same day I wrote about the closing of their portable food vending service, I was informed of the unfortunate news that Deluxe Burger itself has shuttered its East Colfax doors (and I assume its annexing doors to Mod Living furniture store).

I really liked Deluxe Burger. It was a great, greasy burger shop in a part of town that actually seemed to need a burger shop. What a month or two for Chef Dylan Moore: losing an orange truck and an orange burger joint. Bye-bye Deluxe Burger, you will be missed.

More Bad News:
A new taqueria on South Federal is not exactly part of any bubble, but opening one in this area where for years the streets have been practically running with taco grease takes some cojones, as they say. That or you better have something no one else has and do it well. Leobardo's taco shop had the latter for sure, and I was originally drawn to it because of its signs advertising tortas de tamal--the only place I have seen in Denver offering this Mexico City specialty. Unfortunately it has been dark for at least several weeks now--ominously so on a recent Friday evening that I was driving by. I will have to stop in again and confirm, but it's not looking good for this tamal-slinging taqueria.

The Almost Masterful Masterpiece Delicatessen Cuban Sandwich

2011-09-05T17:00:00.000-06:00

It is likely that more than enough good has been said about the Masterpiece Delicatessen in the Highlands, and in the grand scheme of things that is the Denver food world, what I am about to write probably matters very little (although that could be said about everything I write). But in revisiting one of my ongoing quests in Denver to find the "best of" certain dishes, I found myself at the Masterpiece Deli one summer afternoon not too long ago-- and in front of me was a Cuban sandwich.

The Cuban sandwich, like the Italian beef, is a minor obsession of mine (my foremost fetish, of course being the taco al pastor). The Cuban, with its succulent layers of ham and pork layered between buttery, grilled-pressed bread is one of the world's finer sandwiches, and done right it is nothing short of, well, a masterpiece.

It was a hot Saturday afternoon at Masterpiece and the place was packed. Even the boiling hot sun-drenched parts of the patio had people chowing down on their breakfast bagels and sandwiches, seemingly undaunted by the intense summer sun. And although half of them were looking thoroughly hungover, they all seemed to manage a smile when their sandwich came-- and continue smiling while eating.

Good sign I noted, not that it would have mattered. My wife's entire family was already inside ordering while I tried to maneuver the stroller onto the patio. It wouldn't fit in any reasonable way, so taking a lesson learned earlier this summer, I parked it out front. But there was no way my babies were going to sit in that hot sun, so I hovered over a table in the shade that seemed like it was finishing up--and the three of us tried not to drool too much over their breakfast (with somewhat limited success).

The Cuban I ordered was stuffed with a thick and tender slow-roasted slice of pork and on that were stacked layers of Black Forest ham. The roasted pork was wonderfully moist and worthy of a proper Cuban. Also in the tradition of the Cuban was the yellow mustard and sliced pickles. Apparently there was also a garlic aioli as well, and although I didn't really notice it, I suppose for that reason it worked. The bread was the only thing holding this Cuban back from being a great:

For an otherwise wonderful sandwich, the thin, airy hamburger-bun-like roll was just not right. Fair enough, as nowhere does Masterpiece purport anything about trying to replicate every last detail of a proper Cuban. At the same time, given how good everything else was that I tried, if they decided to replicate the lard-filled white bread that traditionally adorns a Cuban, I bet they could do it well.

What I also tried included a version of another classic: the Mexican Torta. Served on a baguette (which as far as substitute bread choices go is a good one--even this Mexican place does it), it was stuffed with a carnita-like pork filling and gobs of avocado. It had melted cheese, mayo, tomatoes and all the other usual torta suspects. It was a worthy take on its Mexican counterpart.

Another sandwich worth mentioning from that day was the fantastic Italian stuffed with copious layers of cured and spiced meats (from NYC's famous Salumeria Biellese); zingy, fresh arugula and surrounded on both sides with light, airy ciabatta.

I wasn't looking for an "authentic" Cuban that day (although who even knows what "authentic" means anymore) and I didn't find one-- though I did have a great sandwich. After all, we all know you don't have to be Cuban to make a Cuban sandwich (although being from South Florida certainly helps). I'm not sure where the masterminds behind Masterpiece hail from, but they just about nailed this classic. Almost.

It is always good to see that a place that could easily live on it's reputation and prior accolades--especially one that seems to turn over customers and tables at the rate they do here-- still puts out a bunch of good, well-crafted sandwiches. It took me far too long to get here, and while I might not be back just for the Cuban, I will definitely be back.

Willy's Buffalo Style Hot Wings in Morrison

2011-08-28T11:38:00.000-06:00

My mom was born and raised in Buffalo, NY. Just like being born in South Florida makes one versed in all aspects of the Cuban sandwich (no matter what nationality you are), being born in Buffalo makes my mom a de facto expert on Buffalo wings. Never mind that she hates spicy food, or that she probably hasn't a Buffalo wing in Buffalo in at least thirty years--that is just the way it goes.

During my formative years I spent countless summers in the Queen City (OK, maybe two or three, but one summer in Buffalo is plenty for any kid), but I am far from an authority on their wings. In fact, even though I like them just fine, I don't go seeking out Buffalo wings much, and at the moment I can't recall any memorable wings I have had in recent years.

Likely for any Buffalo-nian, any wing from any place outside of Eire County-- or maybe upstate New York-- will never be good enough. I, for one (no offense Uncles, I am mostly kidding--it's a great city), will take the trade-off of living many thousands of miles away from New York's second most populous city for living in Denver and eating wings at which Buffalo natives would almost certainly turn up their noses.

(Excuse the photo quality, camera died and this is what our phone can do)

It is with that long and rambling disclaimer that I introduce Willy's Buffalo Style Hot Wings in Morrison, Colorado. The first things one is likely to notice about Willy's are the things I adore about it: the lovely patio under the rocky crags of Morrison as well as the no-nonsense service, decor and all-fried menu. And every time I go to the mountains to do something that burns calories (this time it was walking in the woods while carrying babies on back), I love to go somewhere that can not only replace those calories, but add on some extra for all the effort it takes to get there in the first place--and for the babies.

I hadn't been to Willy's in at least five years so I was interested to see how it was doing. Everything looked exactly the same although I imagine the layers of grease coating the walls and haphazardly framed sports posters was just a little bit thicker. We ordered 20 wings-- "X-hot", a family order of fries and two big Cokes.

The wings came out drenched in the customary bright-red Buffalo sauce. Putting the "X" in "X-Hot" were the chile seeds, coating everything and floating in all the spaces in between. One bite and everything came back to me. These are great wings. They were big, meaty and fried until the skin had a subtle crisp. Inside they mostly stayed juicy although there were a few that were a little overcooked, a common problem in the Buffalo wing world as far as I know.

The sauce is in the tradition of its Buffalo roots: it is tangy, buttery, runny, simple and in the "X-Hot" version, just enough spice to gather up a few beads of sweat on the neck and have a lingering burn on the lips. They were served with the traditional cooling side of celery and ranch dressing.

The fries were good enough to run through the copious amount of extra sauce that was left over in the bottom of our wing basket. Towards the end of the meal my mouth had a hard time distinguishing flavors other than hot sauce or cool ranch, so just the fact that the fries were another vehicle for more Buffalo sauce was good enough.

We sat back for a few minutes after inhaling our order and sipped on our extra large Styrofoam cups each full of a individualized soda medley from the fountain. We both looked up and each met the respective gaze of one of the twins, who were still in their car seats staring back at us with a look that made it clear they had never seen two people eat quite so ravenously. Actually I wouldn't be surprised if they didn't even recognize the act of gluttony they just witnessed eating at all. But true to their thankfully mellow nature, they eventually just started to smile.

I can say without hesitation that Willy's Wings is my favorite wing-stop in the Denver area but as I mentioned above, I don't eat wings all that often and haven't really tried wings from any other Denver-area restaurant that prides itself on wing-making. I'm not sure where Willy's lies when held up to the gold-standard of Buffalo wings. I won't even pretend to know if they're the best in Denver, but it is a classic wing with a great sauce that ought to satisfy most--and maybe even a few Buffalo ex-pats.

The 2011 Pastor List

2011-08-16T20:23:00.000-06:00

In preparation for my two year anniversary and the 2011 list, I spent the summer re-visiting many of my favorite taco al pastor restaurants. As you may well know (whether you care or not is another thing altogether) finding tacos al pastor roasted on a spit is still much more difficult than it should be in Denver. Because of this I travel any and everywhere around the metro area in order to satiate my longing for this marinated meat. In doing so I have had some great and some borderline terrible tacos, and if nothing else I have learned that Denver's small taco al pastor world is littered with inconsistency.

Take for example my number one pick for last year: Taco Veloz. I went here a few times before I branded it number one in 2010 yet a friend of mine with a refined pastor palate had been there before and was not as impressed. Then a few months ago he told me how right I was. I went back shortly after that and I didn't even finish my taco it was so bad.

I feel like a schmuck (more than usual) that someone might have gone to Taco Veloz and ate a crappy taco because I brazenly wrote that my top picks from last year "serve an amazing taco al pastor". So into this year's rankings has now entered the idea of consistency. I will still judge everything on overall taste-- and I still think that my top five will not disappoint-- but I suppose that you never know what can happen on any given night in the tumultuous world that is the taco al pastor in Denver.

As a reminder, to make this list the meat must be cooked on and carved from a spit. I also finally have a top ten list (although as a spoiler I wouldn't really recommend that last two) so it feels much more like an official list this year. Here it is.

1. Toluca Mexican Restaurant
I have written three posts about Toluca just this summer so that should give you an idea of how much I like it. Besides the very good marinade, what sets Toluca apart are the final slices and presentation. Each slice is paper-thin and broad; both juicy and well-charred. With the fresh chunks of pineapple on top it is as close to Mexico-city style as one can find in Denver as far as I know. And what's more, they have a catering service called El Divino where they serve their awesome pastor curbside like it was meant to be (most notably outside the Museo de las Americas on First Fridays). How is the consistency? This summer has been flawless, but as the business is new it is hard to say. For the moment they are getting everything so right that it is worthy of a number one ranking.

2. (The tent next to) La Flor de Michoacan
When you approach the tent next to the Carniceria y Taqueria La Flor de Michoacan on it's quiet and lonely corner in Thornton after dark you would not be crazy to think for a few moments you were at the entrance to some incredible (albeit slightly sketchy) night market in Mexico. La Flor serves a good taco al pastor carved from a beautiful spit (although sliced too thick for my taste) and topped with fresh pineapple. The consistency of both taste and presentation is decent. What gives it the two-spot, however, is the ambiance.

3. Tacos Junior
I have always really liked Tacos Junior although I still think that the pastor marinade is a little sweet. That being said it is sliced relatively thin (not paper) and cooked perfectly to be both at once juicy and crispy. It is also one of the only places in Denver where you can get a taco Arabe-- a thin pita-like flour tortilla tightly rolled around a thick filling of pastor meat. And as a bonus the tables and floors are usually spotless for those out there that care about those things. But what really bumps them up this year is its consistency. Although there are just three Denver locations, it has the operational feel of a professionally managed chain restaurant--albeit one that serves a great taco al pastor from the spit with fresh pineapple.

4. Carboncitos
Carboncitos on 38th and Pecos has been around for a while and every single time gets it right. In addition to the taco, they pay proper homage to their Mexico City roots with incredible huaraches de pastor. They do slice their meat from a spit in the kitchen but in small little chunks that get a little too cooked on the grill. The taste, however, is still excellent, the tortillas are house-made and it is one of the most accessible taquerias on my list for the non-Spanish speaking. The downer is that the pineapple is canned.

5. Acapulco Tacos y Pupusas

It's easy to love Acapulco Tacos y Pupusas for it's amazing pupusas, but these Salvadoreños also serve a mean taco al pastor from a spit. I have been here on days when the pineapple looked like hardened hummus (at least it wasn't canned) and others when the pastor was overcooked (hence the drop from #2) but for the most part they stay relatively consistent.

6. Taco Mex
What's not to like about Taco Mex? This was the first place I came to in Denver for off-the-spit pastor and I fell in love. I imagine just the act of finding such a place outside of Mexico enamored me too much because in subsequent trips I was never as impressed with the pastor. Like many places they grill a little too much after slicing it from the spit, and the taqueros don't seem to have any good strategy for their slicing-- alternating big chunks with tiny ones-- hardly ever getting them perfectly thin. Also a negative is the big vat of canned pineapple next to the grill. That being said I still come here quite a bit and the consistency is acceptable. It is also a great place for the first-time pastor eater because of the friendly staff and the excellent outdoor eating experience.

7. Taco Veloz
This was my number one last year, but after my last experience I left with a feeling not dissimilar to discovering your girlfriend has been cheating on you with your best friend: really bummed out. My taco was almost inedible last time I went: dripping with grease, big chunks of overcooked meat, minuscule bits of pineapple (although still fresh). And it tasted as if it had been sitting out for hours and re-heated even though I saw them come out and slice it from the spit. The great salsa bar was still there and the taste of the marinade left me with some flashbacks to the tacos I used to love getting here, but it just wasn't that good. That being said, chances are next time it might be great again but simply for that inconsistency they don't deserve to be at the top.

8. Tacos y Salsas
I have never been a big fan of the pastor from Tacos y Salsas even though I usually get and eat one every time I am there. It is a good taco of some chunky, spit-roasted pork in some sort of red marinade-- and consistent as it is, it just doesn't taste that much like pastor to me. That being said, most everything else I have had from there is very good. Of its several locations I recommend avoiding the East Colfax one and heading down to South Federal instead. Also look for my review of their new 16th Street Mall outlet in the coming months.

9. Los Gallitos
This was my most recent review and likely my most disappointing as well. The spit outside looks so good I could have cried. Then I almost did cry when they brought the lovely meat into the kitchen and grilled it until it lost all of its flavor. The thing that kept them out of the last spot was that last week by chance I ate at another of their outlets on Wadsworth near Mississippi and although it was not great, it was quite a bit better than the central Alameda location. As far as consistency? I probably won't go back enough to find out, but being inconsistent (like forgetting to take it into the kitchen) might be this taqueria's only chance of getting it right.

10. Tacos Tijuana
It is a little unfair to keep Tijuana on the bottom because my first experience there with pastor was so disappointing that I never went back. Not only did the marinade not have a lot of flavor and the taquero over-cooked my large chunks on his grill, but they didn't have any pineapple--and then they looked at me like I was crazy when I asked for some. Apart from that though, everything else I had there was pretty good including an excellent alambre.

That is the list. Thanks for checking in again on what is two years to the day of me babbling on about the food I eat. Hopefully you will continue to read as I search for more pastor and whatever lies in between.

All Bubbles Burst: Denver's Deluxe Truck is Dead

2011-08-09T22:30:00.001-06:00

The time has come when Denver's food truck boom has hit critical mass, and as I alluded to in my original post about the self-proclaimed Orange Rocket, it was only a matter of time before some of these trucks had to go. What I was wrong about was that the boom would be complete by the end of last summer. Clearly, however, the excess of portable food was only just getting started and all winter long chefs and entrepreneurs alike were working very hard to usher in an unprecedented number of mobile eateries for the summer of 2011.

As reported by Lori Midson in the Westword, the Deluxe food truck is dead. I liked the Deluxe-mobile OK. Not nearly as much as its stationary alter-ego burger joint on Colfax, but it served pretty decent grub at relatively reasonable prices. I suppose now that the newly "discovered" act ("discovered" in the way that Columbus "discovered" America) of eating good food curbside (most of the rest of the world has been doing it for centuries) has worn off on the Denver "food scene" and as a result I would expect more casualties in the food truck world soon.

I think I read somewhere on Westword that there were eighty-some food trucks circulating Denver's streets. I long ago stopped (or better I never started) trying to track the happenings of this new food truck world, partly because I can barely stay current on things like who is president or what country we are at war with, much less the dozens upon dozens of truck launches that have occurred over the past year. Plus, I prefer the original Denver food trucks much more, and when the dust settles I have confidence that the tried and true food trucks, AKA the loncherias, will remain rolling.

In the meantime, good luck to the rest of you mobile eateries, as yours is a fine cause. In spite of what may come across as cynicism towards the newfound trendiness of eating food while standing in the street, I think it is decidedly a good thing and I do it often. On the upside, if you are a bold business entrepreneur and maybe even a little nuts, then I think there is a going to be a growing market of decked-out kitchens on wheels (really there is--check here) with owners that are desperate to sell. Good Luck!

A Picture's Worth At Least a Few More Words: Another Afternoon at Toluca

2011-08-07T11:12:00.002-06:00

I realize that the high concentration of posts about Toluca Mexican Restaurant is unusual, if not just plain silly. Starting my blog almost two years ago was an opportunity for my wife and I to break our happy-though-stagnant restaurant routine and get out and explore Denver's relatively diverse restaurant world. Since then it has become rare to find myself in the same restaurant twice, much less three times in three months as has been the case with Toluca.

Besides having maybe the best taco al pastor in Denver, Toluca has another attractive quality to me now that I am a proud father of two baby boys: location. You see, Toluca Mexican Restaurant is located just a few blocks from the Babies R Us that is closest to my house. I tried to fight shopping at this mega-chain baby warehouse but I must admit, if not inevitable, it is truly very hard to avoid once babies come. And since shopping and/ or doing anything with twins means forgetting to do other things like eat, it is a minor miracle in my life that Toluca is so close to said baby store. It is a wonderful, convenient and delicious excuse to chow down on some tacos al pastor while en route to spend the rest of my paycheck on diapers, formula and extraneous--but admittedly cute--baby miscellany.

This time around I was in the mood for something other than tacos for some reason and was tempted by the numerous images on the pictorial menu at Toluca. When thinking of good and bad signs, I would venture to say that more than half of the time places with pictures of food on the menu don't serve great food (the next level of that being plastic versions of the dishes in display cases but that is a whole other post altogether). They may serve reliable and acceptable fare, but rarely is it carefully prepared, feature unique variations or have any touch of creativity.

Gladly at Toluca the latter applies, and at once a testimony to the washed-out, unappetizing menu photos and to the quality of the presentation of the actual food-- the plates look nothing like the pictures.

Take, for instance, the chilaquiles. In laminated, ageing photo-form they gave the appearance of a moldy blob of something not unlike a regurgitated burrito. Actually I'm not even sure if it was on the menu, but if it was, you can imagine how a pile of fried tortillas covered in salsa, cheese, eggs and onions would look like a vomited burrito in a discolored, vintage-style menu picture.

Instead what came out of the kitchen was a stack of freshly fried, thick-cut tortilla strips smothered in a deep red, smoky guajillo salsa with big chunks of white onion, fresh avocado and grated queso cotija. Also mixed in were scrambled eggs instead of the preferable egg over easy (that runs gooey yolk over it all). Despite this unfortunate oversight it was an excellent plate of chilaquiles of which the absolute star was the insanely good salsa.

The filet of grilled fish on the other hand did look alarmingly like its Technicolor menu representation, and although I didn't try it and so can't make a comment, my father-in-law thought it was moist, fresh and gave it the thumbs up despite the grated cheddar-jack that was sprinkled over everything.

I've commented before on molcajetes, and I do generally think that things served in culinary vessels that they were not made in are pretty stupid. But this molcajete was the absolute highlight of my day (remember I was on my way to the baby store). Like a good molcajete, it was so damn hot (to temperature) that it acted as second cooking vessel.

It came out, as I was saying, sizzling hot and literally hopping with fresh-grilled steak, chorizo and shrimp. Also in the hot, bubbling cauldron were big luxurious chunks of nopales and fresh radishes. The brothy salsa base was not unlike my chilaquile salsa, but that was fine by all of us as I doubt I would tire from it's smoky, rich, spicy and tangy flavor if it came out of my faucets as drinking water.

Being that it was only 3 pm on a Saturday the kitchen was especially sharp. It was nothing less than an excellent meal (though I can't vouch for that fish); a testament perhaps, to the high standard of quality at Toluca imparted by the passionate owner, Victor (whom I wrote about in another post). And as they continue to grow their spit-catering business as Victor has alluded to, hopefully it will remain that way.

It's hard not to stop at Toluca when nearby, which for better or worse is my reality these days, so I would expect to have another dispatch sometime soon.

Denver al Pastor Take 12: Los Gallitos

2011-07-31T16:58:00.001-06:00

However much I love the smell of taco grease after it has saturated my clothing, hair and wife; I learned not too long ago that there is something simply wrong about having two babies that smell like the stale grease of a taco meal past. And although my aversion to baby taco-stench is strong, it certainly is not enough to dissuade me from dragging my babies along on more family taco adventures. And that brings us to the next installment of my adventures with taco al pastor.

It was approaching dusk but the late afternoon light only intensified the radiance of the loud yellow paint covering Los Gallitos on West Alameda. The spit of pastor curbside was so big and lovely that when approaching from the East it was almost easier to spot (and certainly more pleasant to gaze upon) than the bright, almost glowing building itself. I pulled a sharp left and wheeled into the parking lot, eyes fixed on the wonderful stacks of pork loins shimmering in the late-day sun.

The taquero manning the spit was proud and gleaming, like any good taquero should be. And why not? Under his control was an enormous and well-manicured dark-red spit of carefully stacked-then-shaped pork loins. We approached his post before entering to snap some photos and admire the meat. He posed and smiled , probably wondering to himself why more people didn't stop by just to take his picture next to this magnificent spinning top of pork.

Also before entering we checked out the backside of the restaurant, drawn by the signs touting 99 cent tacos available from a drive-thru service window. The drive-thru taqueriais rarer than it should be in our town, and coupled with the pastor spit, needless to say my early impression of Los Gallitos was favorable. (Although the restaurant could have been burning to the ground and shooting flames while people screamed and ran in every direction and I would have still had a positive outlook as long as that lovely hunk of meat was out front.)

When we finally entered we ordered immediately from the pretty standard taqueria menu full of the usual suspects. In addition to the pastor, we also ordered between us a pair of gorditas, one with chorizo, the other with chicharron. They didn't give us a ticket to take outside, so we sat by the window and I kept alternating my gaze between the kitchen and the spit outside, waiting to see when someone was going to get my taco from the taquero who was surely making it now. I didn't want to miss a thing. And I didn't.

I am sad to say that Los Gallitos is an example of tacos al pastor in the US gone wrong. Outside is a brilliant, well-groomed and lovely (I said that already) spit of meat under the careful watch of a seaseond taquero. It looks divine as it rotates, smells perfect as it cooks and sounds like a sweet lullaby when it is sliced off (pff, pff, pff). Then the nightmare begins. Instead of being served al fresco, it is all stacked in a large container, dragged back into the kitchen and then fried in old grease until it resembles nothing more than withered, defeated, broken meat.

OK, it still looks pretty good, even if not like pastor

OK, it wasn't quite as bad as I just made it sound, but it is just so tragic that it might as well be. In the end it was a greasy taco of grilled pork and there is a certain saving grace to that fact. There was a very faint hint of sweetness but any complexity the original marinade may have had was grilled into submission on the flat-top. There were even small chunks of (canned) pineapple in there that were identifiable only by sight (and foraging) and not by taste, as they too had soaked up more grease than Squeaky-Voiced Teen after working a double shift at Krusty Burger.

It is of course another sad story that results from the hyper-hygienic health regulators that legislate raw outdoor meats and cooking. This might seem like a good thing, what protecting us from the occasional bit of raw pork flesh, but since admittedly bad things like trichinosis are virtually eradicated now in the US by hygienic pig-farming and trendy restaurants all over town serve there pork pink in the middle, it is sad that these taco places feel the need to over-cook their pastor.

The good news is everything else we had was pretty good. It wasn't the freshest, or the most original. In fact it wasn't that special in any way (expect that spit outside), but it was another decent taqueria with 99 cent tacos that would satisfy a simple taco urge. And it has a drive thru. And while I may never, ever (really, never) make use of their drive-thru service, somehow the world seems a little better just knowing it is there.

Moving on. Here is a steak taco (with cheese) had by my sister-in-law.

And a very good sope that my suegra ate:

My suegro was completely satisfied with his assortment of tacos, especially the lengua, which I did not get a picture of; but here is one of our gorditas, all sloppy and greasy in a good way:

We left Los Gallitos as an entire extended family thoroughly coated--almost visibly so-- with taco grease. But it is not this that had me disheartened, no it was what they did to those tacos al pastor. In Denver (and most of the US) where finding an outdoor taco spit rotating with pastor meat is rare (although becoming more common) there is nothing as disappointing as finding a place that messes it up so badly.

And while I have found some real gems over the years, my search to thoroughly scour the metro area for pastor continues. If you have any suggestions not on my blog please let me know. And if you are extra-bored this August, then prepare yourself for some mild amusement as my annual taco al pastor rankings are due out soon.

Leaving the House Without Kids: A Perfect Two-and-a-Half Hours at Denver's Domo

2011-07-24T18:09:00.000-06:00

In our still relatively new life with twin boys, my wife and I have reached for the time being a tenuous homeostasis between fatigue, love, sleep, shit on our clothes, smiles, crying, going crazy and having fun. In that time I have somehow managed to work full time, be as fatherly (and husband-ly) as I can and still find time to eat and then write about one restaurant per week on average. Eating at this many places usually means dragging along two sometimes happy and other times not-so-happy little boys which makes most of our going-out-to-eat experiences if nothing else, not boring.

The other night, however, thanks to family that is in town, my wife and I finally were able to leave the house without our babies in order to dine in a restaurant like we used to so many months-that-seem-like-years-ago. And of all the myriad options we had before us in Denver's continually burgeoning restaurant world, we chose one that has years and years on the scene yet still manages to be one of Denver's most unique, romantic and inspiring eating experiences: Domo.

Just the fact that we chose Domo for our first date in six months should tell you how fond I am of the place, and most of you reading this post are probably quite familiar with this Japanese-Denver institution. For those of you that are not, Domo is the definition of a hidden gem. Sandwiched between a construction company and an empty lot just south of Colfax, and across the street from DHA housing, crossing the threshold of Domo one very literally enters a completely different world. While the outside has touches of Japanese decor, the mostly non-descript square white building and gravel lot is in stark contrast to the wonderfully warm, intimate and traditionally decorated Japanese interior.

Domo is not only a restaurant serving incredible country-style Japanese cuisine, but it is also houses a small museum, an Aikido dojo and a Japanese garden. Every square inch of the place, from the thatched ceilings, to the slab tables to the pristine garden is carefully decorated and meticulously cared for.

Most of you likely know a lot about Domo, so I won't say much more except that if you don't know Domo then I hope you decide to go sometime soon. Otherwise let me share some more photos and tell you a little about what we ate. Enjoy.

We started out with a small plate of gyoza. These garlic-laden steamed-then-pan-fried dumplings were certainly not the star of the night, but they were a good way to line my stomach with some booze-absorbing starch for my potent tea-based cocktails.

We then chose an assortment of Wanko Sushi, named for the small plates they are served on (and then Trademarked which is pretty silly I must admit) according to the Domo website . They have ten different kinds of fish and the selection as far as I can tell never changes.

The sushi is served sliced over rice and with the sauce or "topping" of your choice. You are then given clear and direct instructions as to how you are expected to eat said sushi: pick up the bowl, scoop in mouth and don't even think about adding any soy sauce (which you won't find on your table anyway).

Of course, being told how to eat your food is usually always a good sign, and for even more information
on Western society's overuse of soy sauce (which I liken to our overuse of ketchup) you can explore Domo's website to see just how deep the passion of anti-soy-sauce-excess runs.

Of all the pieces we ordered, my absolute favorite was the Ika (squid) covered in smelt roe. The bright orange roe copiously covered the delectable slices of squid. The intense flavors were just what we were craving in our first sushi meal since my wife was pregnant over a year ago.

Also a close second was the Unagi (freshwater eel) covered with chopped avocado.

The rest of the sushi was of course good as well: a simple Maguro and Saba along with a beautifully steamed surf clam with grated ginger.

We also picked at a large plate of teriyaki with grilled calamari, scallops and shrimp tempura. It was simple and delicately seasoned so that the subtle notes of the scallop and calamari were not lost. The tempura was perfectly battered and fried--crisp, light and wonderful.

And of course no night is complete at Domo without sampling the seven sides that are served to each table. Tonight there was everything from a light, cold bean salad and airy tempura vegetables to a more hearty pork stew and small meatballs.

Domo is a wonderful, reassuring constant in the ever-changing restaurant world. And with the latest trends of chefs trying there hardest to be seasonal and local (both good things no doubt) Domo is refreshingly non-seasonal and exotic. And despite the relatively stagnant menu, it continues to execute well, take great care in its ingredients, value the aesthetic of its presentation and simply be one of Denver's great restaurant experiences.

Domo doesn't take reservations so if you want to eat in their stunning, tranquil garden get there early or be prepared to wait. While you wait (you will almost definitely wait) you can see if you can verify what we first noticed this night after dining at Domo now regularly for years: All the female servers have name tags with names of flowers. (I haven't see a coincidence like that since the end of a long night at a bachelor party in Reno.) But however mildly creepy that is, there is nothing but good still coming from the Domo kitchen, and that is what matters in the end.

Amira Middle Eastern Bakery: Sweets, Pizza and Shawarma

2011-07-17T15:40:00.000-06:00

I like to imagine that after the discovery of fire several 100,000 years ago or so, man (and woman) was quick to recognize the delicious benefits of spit-roasting his meats. It seems only natural after stalking then impaling the likes of saber-toothed tigers and woolly mammoths with long wooden spears that our Paleolithic predecessors would take that same stick, prop it up on some other sticks and slowly rotate it as it roasted over an open flame.

Although well-documented on the Flintstones, I imagine the debate over when humans started spit roasting meat is a hotly contested archaeological topic. I'm not aware of any published studies that lean one way or another on the matter, so I'm not sure we'll ever know for sure, but as always television and/ or my vivid imagination are both much more historically fun-- if not factual-- than any archaeological dig.

What I do know without a doubt is that in the Middle East they have been vertically roasting their meats with an open flame for a long time, and their culinary innovation has inspired a world-over of spit-cooked meats including my first love, tacos al pastor. And whenever I get a chance I absolutely love to get in touch with the roots of this marinated Mexican meat and therefore make my way to any number of area Middle Eastern joints.

But let's face it; while we have a number of respectable Middle Eastern restaurants in Denver it is hard to find a truly great one. It is also harder than it should be to come across a worthy shawarma sandwich.

Amira bakery has been slinging shawarma for some time now, but only recently have they moved from the obscurity of southeast Aurora into the part of town that showcases the most Middle Eastern restaurants per capita in our city: Colorado and Evans.

The new location, however more central it may be, is still somewhat obscure. It is located in a lonely East Evans strip mall next to the Park-and-Ride lot in what I think used to be (ironically I might add, depending on your point of view of Middle East politics) the Jerusalem Market.

Whatever the case, Amira is open for business in Denver and that is a very good thing. Being a bakery, they feature all sorts of Middle Eastern sweets, most of which are unknown to me. I did end up sampling a piece of Baklava while I waited for my tab to be counted up, and it was good, but I was not here to satiate my sweet tooth, but rather chow down on some spit roasted meat.

Another reason I had very little taste for anything sweet by the end of the meal is because I decided it would be fun to try the English-made super-sweet soda that has apparently become very popular all over the Middle East: Vimto. Purportedly there are some raspberries and currants in there but it is all overwhelmed by the intense, sugary syrup that dominates the drink. Still, I was thirsty so I drank it, but every lip-puckering sip was unbelievably sweet that I think it even out-does its Venezuelan bubble-gum counterpart, Frescolita.

But of course I was not there to taste the carbonated fruit beverages either. No, my eyes and stomach were set on the vertically roasting spits of meat that sat just behind the back wall of the counter. My pictures of the spits all came out poorly thanks to a slowly dying camera with a lens that only partially opens at times. Here is a "Where's Waldo?" picture of the beef spit, delicately framed in the faux-stone arch in the sparsely decorated bakery.

"Where's the Spit?" is much more fun than finding Waldo

What I did get pictures of is the all-important end-product: a freshly baked thin tortilla-like pita surrounding charred chunks of beautifully cooked beef and chicken. In it as well were copious amounts of chopped fresh parsley, tomatoes, a pair of pickles and a thin but flavorful tahini sauce.

The beef was excellent: well-charred, relatively tender and not at all dry. I have never had a shawarma with such a tortilla-like pita, but I liked the taco-like feel of the sandwich and can see the direct influence of the Middle East on such dishes as the Pueblan taco arabe.

I rarely say this about restaurants but here it comes: the chicken was better than the beef. The chicken had even more char-flavor than the beef and was particularly juicy that day. It was absolutely the best shawarma I have had in the Denver-area.

Although the Shawarma will not disappoint, my favorite dish of the day was the Lebanese pizza. I ordered a Lambahjeen pizza (with cheese) to go: a mix of ground lamb, tomatoes, onions and a sweet-savory spice mix (think Allspice, cloves, cinnamon and black pepper among others). I watched as they quickly fired this traditional Lebanese delight in their open-flame oven. As is the case with most of my to-go food, it smelled and looked so good that I couldn't bear to wait until later. I ate most of it right there in the parking lot.

The dough was fantastic and would make any Italian pizza traditionalist think twice about the perfect slice. It was thin and crispy but not dry-- and had that subtle yeasty undertone yet was strong with the aromas and flavors of the Middle Eastern spices.

Amira Bakery is a standout in the cluttered Denver's Middle Eastern restaurant world surrounding Colorado and Evans. From the spit-roasted shawarma to the unique, carefully prepared pizza and, of course, the dozens of freshly baked sweets that I didn't even have time or room for, Amira Bakery is a must-visit for anyone searching for a great Middle Eastern meal in this town.