Down and Out in Denver

This weekend was a whirlwind of eating out.  (Bear with us, dear reader, this is one long post.)  I know, I know, loyal readers probably think that every weekend with Alastair and Blake is nothing but eating out, and those readers wouldn’t be far off the mark, but this was extreme.  My brother and sister-in-law were in town visiting for the weekend and so we went out to dinners and lunches. (When asked what they would like to be called on the blog, my brother wanted to know if it was necessary that he pick proper nouns.  When I said no, he opted for Rutabaga and Clementine, so that is what I shall call them.)

Rutabaga

Clementine

Restaurant-going began with a late – and very filling – lunch at Steuben’s on Friday afternoon after the airport pickup.  Clementine and I began by splitting the iceberg wedge.  I think it might be my very favorite iceberg wedge.  Ever.  The dressing is thick and cheesy, I like the onions, but perhaps my favorite part is that the bacon is spicy.  It’s big enough (though smaller of late?) that it’s great to split before moving on to the main course. We both also got the chili lime grilled chicken sandwich, which comes with pickled red onions and some sort of queso fresco.  It’s a messy sandwich, but plenty tasty.  Rutabaga opted for the full on fried chicken dinner and even he couldn’t finish it: four pieces of perfectly cooked chicken, mashed potatoes, biscuit, and gravy.  Clementine and I helped out with some of the skin.

After a little recovery nap, Alastair came over to meet Clementine and Rutabaga and we all split a bottle of Soave and had cheese and crackers and pistachios before heading out to for our reservation at Fruition.  I had been once before and Alastair and I had been meaning to go back for at least a year but every time we thought about it, they’d be all booked up.   This time I was organized!  And so was the hostess.  Upon walking in the door, she asked if I was Blake and then told us that it would just be a minute.  Her name is Patience.  How fantastic and seventeenth-century is that? How perfect is it for a restaurant hostess?

Fruition's Front Door on Sixth Avenue

Two things are worth discussing about Fruition: the food and the service.  The former was very good.  Clementine and Alastair began with the French Onion Soup, which comes with braised short ribs and Gruyere melted over a large crouton.  Both were very impressed.  Rutabaga had the oysters Rockefeller, which are wrapped in fried potato and come with lardons.  And I went for the seared yellow fin tuna, served with a bell pepper escabeche (no, I have no idea what that means; it was like a little salad) and warm potato salad.  Hearty approval all about the table for Round One.  Round Two was not as universally adored.   Clementine ordered the confit pork shoulder, served with a sweet potato polenta.  Rutabaga and Alastair had the duck breast, which came with a carnaroli risotto.  And I had the pan-roasted lamb strip loin with osso bucco and a saffron potato “risotto.”  If there was one complaint from my dining companions, it was that everything was very rich, so much so that they all had difficulty finishing.  My concern was more that there was precious little lamb in my entrée and that the saffron “risotto” was slightly undercooked.  All that said, the food was quite tasty, the appetizers particularly.

Smurfette

The service was another matter.  Our waiter was very jokey the whole time, which seemed to be an attempt to put us at ease but had the opposite effect.  When Clementine ordered the soup, he told her they were out, only to admit that this was just a joke.  Not a very funny joke, but one he “couldn’t resist.”  Later one of us asked a question and he responded with, “Absosmurfly!”  Really?  Everyone at that table remembered Papa Smurf and Gargamel and Smurfette (whose only “personality trait” was her femaleness) but none of us had heard that particular word in at least twenty years, especially spoken in seeming seriousness.  Our waiter also had the unfortunate habit of approaching our table and standing about a foot away just watching us until we realized he was there and turned toward him.  It was totally unnerving.  Though not unnerving enough to distract us from good food, of course.  What is distracting is the constantly flashing “Open” sign across the street at Pho on Sixth.  Or the Christmas lights that are still on the shrubs at Fruition’s front door.  Or the slightly fussy burgundy shirts with tucked-in ties that the waitstaff are all required to wear.  We could do without all those.   And so with our dinner completed we left them and retired for the evening.

Blackboards at Boulder's The Kitchen

The next day was a trip to Boulder to see friends of Clementine and Rutabaga’s.  They had made us a reservation for brunch at The Kitchen.  And what a great choice it was.  Located in the heart of downtown Boulder on Pearl Street, The Kitchen is well designed without being pretentious.  White tablecloths at brunch are a nice touch, but they didn’t make it seem overly fussy.  The high ceilings and great lighting also made the space modern and inviting.  And the food was great, to boot.  My companions all had different breakfast options: strata, French toast, poached eggs and ham, and Rutabaga ordered the Full English Breakfast.  Clementine was particularly impressed by the potatoes that came with her meal and her freshly squeezed grapefruit juice.  I loved my lamb burger.  It came with a red pepper relish, salad, and fries, which were thick-cut (not usually my preference) but really nicely crisped and salted.  It being Boulder we were not surprised to see signs advertising their patronage of local growers and the fact that their kitchen is completely powered by wind energy. It’s not the practice itself that’s problematic, of course, but rather the somewhat ostentatious advertisement of The Kitchen’s good gastronomical politics that’s a little tiresome. But when the food is this tasty, we’re happy to overlook minor affectations.

But, dear reader, we were not done.  After a full day of exploring all the Front Range has to offer, we were hungry again.  For dinner, it was off to our perennial favorite, Potager.  The menu has changed (as it does regularly) since our last visit and this time the food was just stellar.  Potager doesn’t take reservations and it was quite busy when we arrived.  But the hostess does such a good job of checking in with you that you feel totally reassured about your place in line and the fact that you’ll be seated quite soon. And indeed we were.  I will not describe every dish we had, but just give a couple highlights.  Rutabaga and I began with the shrimp ceviche: shrimp, grapefruit, cilantro, shaved baby radishes, and celery.  It was pretty much perfect.  Clementine had a warm carrot salad that she described as just right: not too much food and great flavor combinations.  The standouts among the entrees were the thin-crust pizza (mascarpone, pancetta, arugula, and garlic oil) and I had the bacon-wrapped roast pork with a chard, onion, and fontina panade (like a tart).  The pork was perfectly cooked.

I can think of only one complaint and it’s minor: they were out of a number of things, including the dessert we ordered.  We were there on the late side but as our server admitted, they were low on almost all the desserts, so much so that there was no point in even seeing the printed menu.  But the service, once again, was fantastic.  In contrast to the silliness of the night before, our server was personable and attentive without being on top of us.  She’s also really funny, and in a way that worked.  I admit it: I wanted her to hang out with us more just because it made the whole experience so much fun.

If I was slightly disappointed in my last visit to Potager, they more than redeemed themselves this time around.  The food, the ambiance, and the service: all top notch.  It remains the favorite restaurant of the DOD boys.