Let me clear this matter up right away. The name Pete, when talking about Denver restaurants, conjures up one man and one man only. The Pete. Pete Contos, who owns 8 eateries in Denver, 6 of which are on the Eat Colfax stretch. A chain of restaurants perhaps? Well, I believe they all cater to mostly different needs, and they reside in different neighborhoods. In any case, that information can and should all be saved for another blog entry, because this week's Eat Colfax eatery is not owned by Pete Contos. Yes, another Pete eponymously named his diner in Denver. Pete Gasteos as a matter of fact.
At 514 E. Colfax, situated ever-so-snuggly between La Abeja and Martha's Beauty Salon, Pete's Steak House is a little known gem. When I told my friends what this week's eatery was, they looked at me quizically. Yup it's there, I promise. About the size of a train car, with modular-type, corrugated, gleaming white walls, I can suddenly imagine a time when the first floor of the building was just one long open space, bazaar-style, vendors scrambling to get their wares and fares set up, erecting cheap walls to keep out the fragrant savory aromas. Okay back to the moment. Perry is waiting for me inside and she's chosen the perfect table. Not that there's a not-so-perfect table, it's so small you can see the entire place without having to move your head much. The kitchen is completely open and right up front by the door, like a beacon of beckoning greasy sizzles to the hungry, morning passersby. There's only a handful of people inside, it's refreshing not to wait an hour for the Saturday morning brunch that seems to be Denver's favorite meal. I order a coffee and it's surprisingly amazing, unexpectedly not-burnt, rich and flavorful (yes I have my stereotypes). Quickly glancing at the menu, it's 50% breakfast and 50% steaks and pork chops. You can get 2 pork chops, 2 eggs, hash browns and toast for 10 bucks. Perry goes for the one chop and egg deal, still a massive amount of food for $7.99. I order the gyro omelette, not really sure what it will look like, but those are two foods I pretty much love, gyros and omelettes. And you know, when in Rome. Or Greece.
Soft country music gently wafts down from a boom box near the ceiling, there are so many of these walls-that-don't-go-all-the-way-up on Eat Colfax. Family photos and mass-produced landscapes and cheesy, pithy sayings about coffee adorn the walls. It's homey and diner-y and impeccably clean. Pete brings out our breakfast. They say that the more colorful your food is, the healthier it is. Screw those people. Screw those people when it comes to breakfast anyway.
Perry's plate is several shades of brown, with a dollop of white and yellow in the center that is her over-easy egg. My plate is mostly yellow and brown, the omelette flanked by two pepperoncinis, the hash browns the perfect crispiness-on-the-outside, soft and potato-y on the inside. A gyro omelette, it turns out, is an omelette with a juicy, flat, length of lamb and the salty goodness that is feta sandwiched by the eggs, with a side of pita and tzatziki (in a plastic ramekin). With the exception of the anemic-looking tomato chunks and not-so-finely diced white onions on top of the omelette, it is the perfect food. I almost wish I had a hangover. Almost. The pita, traditionally called Olga bread --there's no slit in the middle and it's soft and a little spongy, having been basted with olive oil and grilled-- is imbued with the flavors of everything else being cooked on the grill and begs to cradle the egg-lamb-feta. Having the option of eating the pita and tzatziki separately is nice, but I wouldn't mind seeing this dish in true gyro form, a sandwich, a grinder that can be picked up and scarfed down with my hands. That's a suggestion for ya Pete. There are no complaints from Perry's side of the table, and she is a true connoisseur of pork products. Her chop is succulent, even without any sauce that I perhaps expect with a pork chop.
Post-meal potty break. Wow. Pete's Steak House wins the prize for creepiest bathroom so far. I mean, I didn't see a dead body, but it was damn dark down there so you never know. Allow me to expound: in the back, past the dishwasher, you make a sharp right and are faced with a narrow wooden staircase descending into darkness. Today the staircase was littered with newspapers. It looked a little sketchy, a little. . . "slippy", to quote my favorite British world-adventurer, but I managed to make it down with nary a totter. The ceiling of the basement is low, really low, and it is seriously dark down there, the only light coming from the restaurant above. I make out a white utility sink, a leaky drain, a door. Hmm, should I open the door? Yes. Ah ha. The water closet. It's the size of a phone booth, I practically hit my head on the exposed pipes by the ceiling, and I'm not tall. Well, it's clean, sort-of. I mean it's not filthy. It's just, creepy. There's dark orange sealant unsuccessfully trying to cover all the cracks and holes, and the exposed bulb seems dubiously too dim for the space. It's a fast pee. Washing my hands at the utility sink, I catch the surprised look of the basement's next unsuspecting visitor. I smile and nod, it's completely normal to me at this point, I adapt quickly.
Perry and I talk about restaurants, hers and mine, mid-range and fine-dining, crazy owners, farm-to-table, mimosas with a 450% mark-up, Denver vs. New York. In walks a local business owner, Perry points him out saying "there's that terrible guy", someone who I've clashed with in the past, but it makes me feel good that he's there anyway, reminds me of how keen this project is and how daunting it would be to do this in New York. I'm definitely starting to feel more at home on Colfax, with all of it's personalities, and the relative anonymity I experienced at the beginning is starting to dissipate, in a good way.
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