Great Wall: Oh my gravy!

The final third of the Asian food trilogy on this section of Colfax found me wishfully and wistfully remembering certain clichés: "first is worst, last is best", "third time's a charm", "bad things come in threes". I pushed these phrases from my mind, wanting to treat Great Wall like every other eatery on Colfax, with the respect and curiosity that each of these places deserves, like I've never tasted food like this before, especially not two other times in the last two weeks. Great Wall is different I tell myself, anyway they have a website (http://greatwalldenver.net/) and myriad reviews, most of them favorable, and I have seen with my own eyes people entering the establishment. Clearly it's not the mysterious hole-in-the-wall that is China Kitchen. Mostly I ignore the restaurant reviews, especially ones from a certain website named after something an anthropomorphized dog might cry out, but I couldn't help but notice the neighborhood depictions, always prefacing the meal itself, using words like "shady location" and "grubby". Why yes it is rather shady right now, locusts and beeches leaf-filled and filtering the sunlight on the avenue, and why don't I take this moment to create a new definition for the word grubby. Grubby (adj.): pertaining to grub, i.e. food. I get defensive easily you see. 

Walking in you get a full view of the kitchen, a young lady is poking at some raw meat with tongs, meat so red it must be dyed. Another woman notices us but continues to ferociously scrub down a metal rack. Oh they'll wait, she thinks, this grease mark has priority, which gives us time to check out the now-expected full color photos of the meals. Must try something new I muse. Like some of you reading this, I too was raised on the excitement of Friday night Chinese take-out, so my options for first-time-ever are limited. Egg Foo Young, there we go. For whatever reason my parents never thought it was good enough for their little princess. It appears to be a pancake of sorts, chicken fried rice and an egg roll. With an orange Fanta, $6.45. We sit at a booth that looks like it was mauled by a dog, albeit clean. Above the booth, another gigantic photo, country scene this time, a lake ringed by rock cliffs and a traditional Chinese boat propelled by peasants. I'm facing the door and see the oddest thing: on top of the trash can, a cardboard box once containing frozen french fries is propping up an electric heater. A permanent fixture apparently, as any need for heat right now would come straight from the kitchen. Something about the cardboard box/electric heater combo makes me yearn for the Taki's fire extinguisher. 

The food is delivered on paper plates, plastic forks and spoons are already sur la table in a plastic cup, next to another plastic cup containing the condiment packets. No ramekins here, not even plastic. My Egg Foo Young looks disturbingly unlike the photo, and for a second I assume there's been a mistake. Wait no, there's the pancake, 2 actually, underneath an immensely heaping pile of brown gravy. Brown gravy? Again? The food is steamy piping hot, but as I push my utensil around the gravy to get a better look at what's underneath, it's already starting to get that cooling gelatinous look. Better dig in. The pancake is actually an omelet with white onions, lots and lots of white onions. Each time I bring the fork away from the plate a very thin filament of gravy comes with it, bringing to mind things I would rather not see while eating. Still, it's tasty. The chicken in the fried rice is ever so tiny, I wouldn't have even noticed it but for the astonishingly red color, not raw chicken pink but FD&C red #40 red, clearly my food has not escaped the touch of the tongs. The egg roll is amazing. It's crispy and crunchy and I could eat a whole plate of them. The only sadness comes from having to drizzle on a measly amount of sweet and sour from the packet, instead of dunking it like a proper egg roll. 

We tear open our fortune cookies mid-meal, this is not my parents dinner table after all, why wait? Kristin's is truly Coloradoan: "It's your attitude, not your aptitude, that determines your altitude." It brings to mind our state's recent economic stimulus (dispensaries) or perhaps a disaster on Mount Everest. Mine is definitely more Chinese and somewhat anachronistic, which is actually how I like my fortunes --old school.

China Kitchen ($1.25 Scoop) Act 2: Surprise!

So as to not leave you hanging, the surprise is not that the food didn’t completely suck, nor that it was decently clean. The surprise is that it’s popular! 6pm on a Monday night and that place is hoppin’. In the approximately 15 minutes I was inside, China Kitchen had 13 customers.  Well okay, now for the details.

To follow up on my previous post, I first decided to see if I could score some sweet greeting cards or find out what’s so cold at the Denver Grocery and Liquor.  It’s tall and open and sunny inside, but lest you think I’m comparing it to an atrium, I’m not. It’s more like warehouse meets alleyway meets foreign country convenience store. There is a chain-link fence running down the middle, not reaching quite to the ceiling, but close, separating the Grocery from the Liquor. I stick to the grocery side. The goods are mostly flavored, sweetened  water of the bubbly and non-bubbly varieties, and various starchy salty snacks, all of which are still in their cardboard cases, partially wrapped in dusty plastic. Why unwrap and stock? What a waste of time, the customer can complete the process themselves, dust be damned.  The end cap has a bin of potatoes, the only produce I see.  

Of course it’s potatoes, they don’t need water, they keep for awhile, they’re starchy, they taste good with salt. The counter guy sees me take a picture and I get really self-conscious. Now I’m on a mission, this is not a place for browsing and I don’t want him to think I just stuffed half a dozen russets in my purse. Forgetting entirely about the greeting cards, I get a pack of smokes (cheaper than most places).  He cards me. Nice. I’m drawn to the immense amount of incense at the front counter, bins and bins of incense, but none of it smells, maybe it’s been baking in the sunny window for years and it’s lost of all of its scent.  Was anything about that place particularly cold? Hardly. But on my way out I glanced down the other side of the fence, the liquor side, and sure enough, cold beer as far back as I could see, the fridge doors frosty and fluorescent and humming, as if each case had a base of dry ice inside, keeping it cold as can be.

Outside is the normal hoi polloi of the block. Five steps to the restaurant, the open sign is on, the door is unlocked, there is no going back now.  It’s well lit and the staff is friendly and there are people dining. Good signs all around. I see the trough of scoops. Hmm. A group of 4 comes in behind me and I let them go ahead, they have clearly been here before and know what they want. The woman behind the counter points me to the menu. Yes they have a regular Chinese food menu, dishes available in pints or quarts. Normally food made to order is the natural choice for me, but this is the scoop place and I’m gettin’ me some scoops. The options: vegetable lo mein, vegetable fried rice, chicken, beef, or pork with broccoli, sesame chicken, some sort of waffly-potato product, wings, meatballs, egg rolls,  and whole fish.

Whole fish! I’m not feeling that brave tonight, don’t feel like picking scales out of my teeth later. How many scoops could a whole fish be worth I wonder. I get the veggie lo mein, chicken and broccoli, 2 meatballs, and a can of root beer for 4 dollars and 50 cents. The popularity is starting to make sense.

I sit under a gigantic photo of Hong Kong. All this time other customers are coming and going. There are three other groups of people sitting and eating, others getting food to go. I had no idea. In fact, the other diners are really digging into their plates like it’s their last meal,  heads down, forks quickly dipping and rising, not a lot of talking. It’s oddly and awkwardly quiet, the only sound coming from the owner’s 4- year- old daughter playing with a kiddie laptop. No music, no tv (yay!).  The only utensil I received was a very flimsy plastic fork. It’s troublesome with the broccoli, long stems and all. The food is. . .well, when you have very low expectations you can be pleasantly surprised. Like I said it doesn’t suck. It’s mild, blandish, sweet. The meatballs are actually the best part, although I couldn’t identify the meat, a combo of pork and beef probably and stuffed with herbs and spices, drenched in a Korean BBQ style sauce.  After a few bites I douse the plate in the packet of soy sauce, it really does need more flavor. Where's the MSG? My main concern is that the food really isn’t that hot, certainly not the 140 degrees it should be at by law, and now I know what I’ll be thinking about at work tomorrow. Better get my thermometer out. And strangely, the root beer isn’t that cold. Ah well, shovel it in iron stomach lady.

The décor is pleasant enough, the walls are painted in a yellowish green spongy tree pattern, and up toward the ceiling some decorative molding. Toward the ceiling, not at the ceiling. There’s a 10 inch gap between where the walls stop and the ceiling itself, this seems to be a pattern on the block. The dust in the Grocery and Liquor’s got nothing on the China Kitchen hiding spots no doubt. And three hours later, as I type this, my fingers show no puffy traces of MSG. 

China Kitchen ($1.25 Scoop), in two acts. Act 1: Welcome to the 400’s aka My Notions as I Conceive Them

Groggily forcing myself out of bed after an hour of Lost-inspired, snooze-induced dreams, only to discover there was nary a drop of hot water left in my apartment pipes, I then had a most redeemable walk-to-work down Colfax in the sunshine. I was open. And by open I mean I was making furitve upward glances in the guise of eye-contact, giving the Sarah-when-she-was-10 lips disappeared mouth corners turned upward cheeks poofed out a bit smile, like when you’re looking at an old person with a mixture of compassion and pity. But really, that’s how I smile when I’m a little uncomfortable but trying. After the chains, after the venues, heading toward my now familiar and entirely eaten-at block, things actually become comfortable. I am forming bonafide and well qualified feelings for this place, this Colfax, western east-end. I approach the hulking mass of constuction going up on the north side of the street at Pearl, still wholy convinced it’s not going to be anything pretty. I wish for a mixed-use, Leed-certified, hip retail/progressive business/low-income housing-type space, but I know it’s just going to be a another bank or something akin.  Here I go under the blue tunnel walkway, did someone actually paint it blue and did that happen before or after it was erected? The best part, the end of the tunnel, the sign and the cathedral behind it: 

There’s no one behind me today and it’s sunny so the color contrast will be acceptable so out comes the camera and I get the perfect shot. Then emerging into the glorious morning, the church courtyard and garden on my right, an elderly lady, a middle-aged lady, and a teenage girl all linked-in-arms behind the wrought iron.  And here it is, the 400 block, directly across from the cathedral. It is the saddest block on Colfax I think.

It contains: an empty space, Hub Cap Annie, China Kitchen ($1.25 Scoop) and the Denver Drug and Liquor, apartments above. And here is something new and the best part of the walk, the reason I am doing this project, seeing something old for the first time: COLDEST BE ON THE HILL. You know what I’m talking about. The marquee above the liquor store and haven’t we all just said the word BEER in our minds, surely that’s what it’s supposed to say. Obviously. But for the first time I read it for what it says. Let me help you out: (The) coldest (are) on the hill. COLDEST BE ON THE HILL. There is so much unexplored territory here I am giddy. The coldest what or who? I will find out. My legs keep moving, got to get to work and here I am across from the Red Room (defunct) and what do I see on its window but two banners proclaiming the future: Uptown Brother’s Brewing Company. Alright! I will have to make a geographic exception no doubt and check it out when it’s ready. A man behind me is following right along and proclaims “Opening Sooner or Later, ha ha!”. Oh yeah that is what the banners say, I look at him and give a chuckle, he with coffee and cigarette and red eyes and a been-up-all-night swagger. Ahh, a moment.  This block is rich and ripe and all of you scared to check out the eatery with me don’t know what you’ll be missing.

Taki's: The Good, The Bad, The Creepy

Taki's, the last restaurant on the first block of Eat Colfax. Good bye 300's!  I don't think the eateries will ever be that densely packed, although we'll see what Pete has to say about that.  Six restaurants, the first 5 being decent, hard-working (if you could say that), and mostly appetizing restaurants. And then there was Taki's. 

You can't miss Taki's. At 341 E. Colfax, with the brightest, biggest awning on Colfax, perhaps in all of Denver, it occupies prime lunchtime restaurant territory. "Healthy Japanese Food" is what that canary colored billboard of signs advertises. Hmm. Then there's "Edamame --The Green Vegetable Soybeans" Who doesn't just love that sign? The best part of Taki's is what you see on the outside, reminding me you can't judge a restaurant by its signage. Which is really too bad, because if things don't change, these signs will surely be lost forever when Taki's patrons' tastebuds finally wake up from their stupor. I'll be at the auction to get the edamame sign. 

It's half full at 2pm on a rainy cold Wednesday, the last day of this year's legislative session. Are these guys getting some last minute tempura before heading back to their mountain retreats? The inside is typical Asian kitsch, which I mistake as a promising sign. Japanese artwork on the walls, a slitted curtain leading to the bathroom, scrolls with koi and angry Japanese gods with swords. The ubiquitous Asian food restaurant menu in pictures. A glass case with kombu and wasabi flavored dried peas and edamame. A digital fishtank. Yeah, a digital fishtank. It's smaller than my laptop screen and is hanging, illogically, distractingly, right above a fire extinguisher. So if there's a fire, make sure you determine if it's digital or not.  

I order the special of the day, a bento box, the perfect opportunity to try a variety of foods. Kristin gets the Chicken Yakisoba platter, which as far as I can tell is chicken and noodles. She loves her noodles. And 2 Saporos, which means the cash register girl, who is bedecked in Mardi Gras beads, has to come around from behind the counter and grab the bottles out of a mini fridge that is sitting next to the register, facing the customers. I also notice single serving sake in glass jars with spring top lids, oh that would have been better I think. Until, that is, she also grabs 2 glasses out of the case, chilled glasses not frosty mugs and these glasses look like they came from my grandparents house. Mine is octagonal. Have you ever drank from an octagonal glass? It is somehow easier to drink from, one side of the octagon fitting perfectly against my bottom lip, the liquid perhaps spreading out more in my mouth. Try it sometime. 

We wait for the food and drink our beers and give each knowing looks, because for some reason  we both know what is coming. We both know this will not be the edible highlight of our week. Why and how we know this is for these two reasons: Number one, because my only other experience here involved semi-cooked carrots and zucchini and white rice that was so bad I swore to never return; and number two, the fact that the opinions I heard of Taki's before coming here ranged from "I love that place" to a pitied look of disgust and a wince. Hearing both ends of the spectrum really say a lot about a place and the people that eat there and whether they know a damn thing about decent food. Out the meal comes, delivered by the only non-Asian in the house, an obsequiously friendly middle-aged guy, two heads taller than the rest of the staff, the manager no doubt. 

The first thing I notice is the mystery meat. Mystery meat! This is what I've been waiting for in this project, something I expected more of, the hesitation and worry that comes with knowing you're going to bite into something you'd really rather not. It's chicken Kristin says. Well, it looks like pieces of turkey thighs drenched in gravy from a tv dinner. In fact the bento box has a decidedly tv dinner look to it. I guess that's the point of the box, each food item separated into its own space, ostensibly to showcase how awesome each thing is on its own. The meat gets the 12 o'clock spot in the box, moving clockwise we have the gyozas. Hard-to-fuck-up and always the crowd-pleaser, these are limp and oily, slipping from my chopsticks like an anchovy. Down to the 4 o'clock position, the tempura. It was recommended to me to get the tempura. Two shrimp (god I hope they're not from the Gulf) are hiding within the tempura batter somewhere, oh there they are, the texture of shrimp unmistakable but utterly flavorless, then some of the aforementioned carrots and zucchini, and one broccoli floret. The sauce for the tempura appears to be the same gravy-like substance and has a distant flavor of soy sauce. Next, a dollop of wasabi. Ticking over to 7 o'clock is the salad. The salad is actually okay, the iceberg lettuce is crispy anyway. Shredded carrots and cucumber and zucchini again. I didn't know zucchini was so popular in Asian food. The ginger miso dressing is thick but tasty. Rounding out the clock is a california roll, 4 pieces of rice and Krab and seaweed that fell completely apart when I picked them up. Outside the box is a bowl of miso. Again, hard to fuck up, right? Well no it turns out. Lukewarm and tasting not of sea veggies but more like it came from a gigantic pot with fish heads floating in it. Fishy. After sampling everything I am full. Full. I let out a beer belch and I am still full. This is strange because my stomach really is connected to my eyes. I get full when the plate is empty, and then I can still usually eat more. 

Knowing now that a trip to the bathroom with the camera is essential on this project, I duck under the curtain (it's strangely ends at neck height). Well, it has a table and a lamp with upholstered lampshade and this lovely frame without any pictures in it. Creepy. 

Sayonara Taki's, my first negative review was more troublesome to write than I imagined. 

P.S. Since you've all been asking, there are 51 restaurants, give or take a couple. The perfect year-long project. 

Joey, Honey

There I am on a sunny Tuesday evening, walking my bike down Colfax, confidently, competently checking out the restaurants I've been to, feeling really overly proud of myself, and lo and behold, there is Joey's Pizza, right in between CityGrille and Wolfe's. Curses! I missed one!  Perhaps I'm making a bigger deal than I should about going in strict addressical order, but part of the fun is not knowing what comes next, not having expectations, going with the Colfax flow. And I've totally blown it. I didn't even know it was there! Well it's not like I'm going to get fired for it. 

So the following week I go to Joey's as soon as I can, feeling like my omission of it, or rather just delay, will somehow taint my experience (they know and they will spit in my food) so I am therefore putting all the faith in the world in Joey's to be the paragon of eatcolfax experiences (thus far). Maybe that's an exaggeration, but I was alone this time, and hence prone to the wilds of my imagination as there was no one with me to temper it. Not to mention it was also apres-wine and tequila tasting, but before "dinner", so I was amped and hungry and excited for some bread-meat-tomato combo to soak it up and tide me over.

It’s the Italian mirror image of Wolfe’s, which makes sense, sharing a wall, a block, clientele, but mostly a certain sense of neighborly service, sharing the same funcion for the same people in the same price range. The walls are all sports banners and posters from New York, the Yankees, Mets, Brooklyn Bridge at twilight. Suddenly I’m disappointed I didn’t bring along an NY transplant for company and commentary. Middle-aged toothy blond guy greets me at the register with the most genuine smile I have seen on Colfax, he called me “dear” and he was so friendly looking I could have offered to be his nanny or something even though I’m not a kid person, this is the effect he had on me. Like this guy should totally play Santa Claus when he’s of that age. I give the smile right back, somewhat distracted by the slices of pizza behind the glass, suddenly self-conscious of not having any clue what I should get, I mean it’s Joey’s New York Pizza! and I should get a slice but they look kinda dry and like I said, I want this experience to be a good one. The menu is on a chalkboard to my right, kinda high up, it’s pretty simple and standard: pizza toppings, the calzone, the salad, 2 spaghettis, 1 baked ziti, desserts. When it comes to pizza I am the new-age hippie veggie-lover that I am sure New Yorkers loathe. Well hey, I like vegetables. On my pizza. My ideal pizza has broccoli on it, I’m serious. (May I give a quick shout-out to the Pizza Research Institute in Eugene, Oregon). So here’s the toppings: pepperoni, onions, meatballs (not ground beef mind you), mushrooms, black olives, tomatoes, ham, green peppers, sausage, jalapenos. That last one is a surprise, but it’s the Southwest/wild-west Denver so they have to adapt I guess, appease the locals. Anyway pizza just isn’t doing it for me at the moment and then my eyes fall on something that looks just right, a sausage roll. What’s the sausage roll I ask, even though I already know, I just want him to explain it so I can hear him talk in his accent and be all friendly and uncle-like. It’s like a pig-in-a-blanket with sausage and green peppers and onions, it takes 12 minutes. Aww, I really like this guy now, warning me it takes 12 minutes and thinking that that will deter me. Great! I gleam. There’s nothing more I would like than to wait 12 minutes for a delicous sausage roll made fresh, enough time to think and write and soak in the surroundings. A soda too, in a 20oz styrofoam cup. ah well.

Sitting at the table, black and white vinyl tablecloth, again the New York pizza joint version of Wolfe’s.  Oh and there it is, the din I heard when I walked in now becoming recognizable as a TV in the corner. It’s the local news, being all dramatic and panic-y, let’s scare the masses with “Osama Bin Laden’s whereabouts!” and “Children’s meds recall!” and “John Hickenlooper: raising taxes and loosing jobs!” . I heard about that recall on NPR and let me tell you it really does sound more ominous on the TV news, especially a right-leaning TV news. Fortunately for me Jeopardy! starts next, but I’m kind of appalled by how much that staple of my childhood has changed. Okay so it’s Star Jeopardy! but still. At least Alex Trebec is hanging on and it’s just as exciting and engaging, engaging in that way that no matter what your age or demographic you’re still gonna be shouting at the TV, asking those question-answers. We all think we could be on Jeopardy!, right?

11 and a half minutes later my sausage roll arrives, on a standard dingy cream and olive color ringed diner plate and marinara in a plastic ramekin with lid on. The propensity for to-go flat- and silverware has surprised me on this project so far. Is it that dishes break and you have to wash them? Can it really be cheaper in the long run? Anyway, I dive right in to the roll, the dough is buttery bubbly crispy and herbed, the best part of the roll actually. More Italian bread than pizza dough. The sausage is standard, neither spicy nor bland. The least good part is the green peppers and onions, they are chopped up small and taste like they’ve been in the fridge too long, definitely not bursting with freshness or even sauteed and was I not perhaps expecting them to be in one long strip, cradling the sausage in veggie juice and spice?  The plastic-encased sauce did not last as long as the roll. Overall though, quite satisfying.

Somewhere in the midst of this I make a trip to the bathroom to relieve my wine and tequila and sprite-laden bladder. What a bathroom! This is my favorite part: 

Yeah I really like that. It’s so, thoughtful, in a way.  Like they were really proud of themselves for thinking of it, hey we have this random hook let’s put it in the wall for the ladies!, instead of buying a proper coat hook. And it’s a unisex bathroom, by that I mean not only is it the only bathroom in the place, but it has both toilet and urinal. Maybe it’s a New York thing. I’m not used to seeing urinals. There is a bird’s-eye-view map of Denver circa 1980, and a full-length mirror, next to the toilet, which makes me laugh and of course I have to take some mirror self-shots, omitted here. 

Emilio's Mexican Restaurant: Still Super To Me

First, an apology:

Dear Joey,

I am really really sorry I missed you. I honestly don't know how it happened. Wait! That's not true, I know exactly how it happened. I didn't know you existed in the first place and I got caught up with my expectations, and you know what that leads to. I was unmindful and unseeing, which are not qualities I am trying to improve, especially during this project. The funny thing is, in the space of half a city block, I never even passed you. I got to my other destinations just shy of seeing you, tucked back in there, angled front window, dirty and dusty, red and white lettering spattered and lonely. Hang in there Joey, I'll be there next week, I promise. 

Okay. The first thing I notice about Emilio's is that it is no longer called Emilio's Super Chef Mexican Restaruant. What? Emilio is no longer a super chef? Were they ashamed of false advertising and decided to go humble and true? Hopefully the name change is not a portent of the meal to come. The Super Chef logo, which is still visible on their website http://www.emiliosmexicanrestaurant.com/, was a gorgeous little piece of art deco lit up by a spotlight and all the glow of mexican restaurant neon. It’s the kind of sign that makes me wish I knew more about the location of sign graveyards.  It kind of looked like this: SUPER CHEF , italics, then bigger, try to say that out loud, I dare you.

It’s a sunny evening and there is a patio and a bike rack next to the patio, tulips sprouting next to the rack. Score. Michael Jackson is singing about the way I make him feel. Even better. The sign on the door says Please Wait To Be Seated, which forces me to endure an awkward moment as I wait just inside for the one waiter to take the order of the one other customer. I’m such a sign-abider. Anywhere is good he says. I’m meeting my friend Seth and two fine ladies, Amanda and Megan, but they’re not here yet. I sit at the four-top next to the open door leading out to the patio.  It’s like a Mexican diner, complete with the requisite red and green and white paper doll style cut-outs of sombreros and donkeys and beer bottles hanging from the ceiling, water color prints of desert landscapes, and your typical Mexican-Catholic iconography. And neon.

My friends old and new arrive, sit down, and hail and regale the waiter Tony. They love Tony and they love Emilio’s and I’m glad they are my companions. Seth immediately takes charge of beverage ordering. He had warned me before that their margs come out of a gun. Perfect! What an efficient way to get some tequila into my system. Okay so it’s a soda gun, but the effect is similar. Seth gets the Mexican Tour Beer Bucket. Hmm, whatever could that be? Of course I picture a bucket of beer, with a little divet on the lip of the bucket for easier flow into the mug or mouth. Oh ha ha no, it’s a metal pail of ice with 5 lovely bottles of Pacifico sticking out, a table top cooler if there ever was one, containing a perfect star of beer bottles with limes and golden liquid below just waiting to become spinning fuegos artificiales at the fiesta in my mind. Oh wait that must be the first sip of my marg talking. Sure enough, it is deceptively strong and delicious and tastes nothing like the coin-styles I’ve been fancying lately. This is a gulping marg. We all draw out a beer, leaving one in the bucket. 5 beers for 4 people, it’s like the way they package hot dogs and hot dogs buns in different numbers, a sure way to get you to buy more so it evens out.

I like the menu. It has more focus on a la carte items than on combo platos. All the better for trying a variety of my own choosing, who needs rice and beans anyway? I order: 1 chile relleno, 1 barbacoa taco, 1 chicken enchilada, and chicharonnes. I have never had chicharonnes before , I spy them on the menu almost immediately and think that I will impress my friends but I give away my ignorance and ask what exactly they are. Fried pig skin, like pork rinds. Okay, I can handle that. Now that every chef in the nation is on board the porky pig train I’ve had myself a fair amount of that animal, including those cuts that I had never heard of 2 years ago. So why not the skin? Can the skin be considered a “cut”? Maybe somewhere in the world but I’m guessing not at Emilio’s. But hell, if it’s deep fried it’s edible and probably, maybe, hopefully tasty. At least these were my thoughts upon ordering the chicharonnes, although I couldn’t help but notice the wince on Amanda’s face when I ordered them.  

The food comes out, was it in a basket or on a plate? I can’t remember, I’m on my second marg now and while I thought I was taking copious notes it turns out they weren’t all legible. While I’d like to start with how well proportioned the sauce and cheese was to my trio of tex-mex goodness, I have to get right to the point: The chicharonnes, which mind you cost $2, the cheapest thing I ordered, are taking up half the plate and something tells me I know my friends aren’t going to help me out. They are small and somewhat pyramid-shaped, various shades of brown, they look like they spent too much time in the fryer. I do the deed. Uck. Totally gross. Wow! I’m actually grossed out, this rarely happens. I try another, the fryer grease gooshing out, the flavor is rancid, there is nothing good about this cut of pig. I douse another in tomatilla sauce, thinking that might be the magic ingredient, the cheese to the macaroni, but no. I stare helplessly at the looming pile left on my plate, I wonder if the cook gave me a double amount just to fuck with me, pinche gringa. Moving on to the edible portion of my dinner, it is just what I wanted. The barbacoa perhaps a little dry and tough, but drown that in sauce and you’re good to go. The relleno, one of my all-time favorite tex-mex foods, is nice and crispy (go fryer go!) and the ratio of cheese to chile pepper is perfect. It’s hard to fuck up a chicken enchilada, and this one does not disappoint.

Emilio’s is the kind of place you get drunk and put hot cheesy Mexican food on top of the alcohol and talk a lot about whatever. And we did. In case you were wondering the glowing eyes on the giant blue stallion outside DIA look even scarier at 5 in the morning when you’re grogilly taking your acupuncturist to the airport. Montevideo is the capital of Uruguay. What does Montevideo mean anyway we wonder. Mountain video, definitely. Denver was named after John Denver for sure. The soundtrack is absolutely amazing at this point, we are singing and dancing in our seats and if they had karaoke you know we’d be all over it. The Boss, Olivia Newton John, Owner of a Lonely Heart, You Can Do Magic, you get the idea. We ended the meal on the patio, smoked a cigarette, the final third of the perfect meal pie: eat, drink, smoke.