Pita Grill and Hookah Bar

The Pita Grill is definitely one of those places I have quickly glanced inside and wondered "who goes there?" Perhaps the strip mall encompassing the block can answer that question, Pita Grill shares it with a payday loan place, Green Werkz dispensary, "Liz" Gift Shop (smoking accessories), Cricket Phones, Paris Nails, and Capitol Cigars. For as much hustle as I see of the passersby, myself included, I rarely see anyone inside these shops, apart from old men at the cigar shop late at night. This block doesn't have the same "hang out" vibe as say, the Roslyn block. I wonder about the struggle of these businesses to stay in the black, maybe the Pita Grill is the exception and foundation that keeps the others afloat. Grill aside, I like the idea of hookah bars, I picture a relaxed setting with cushions and rugs and soft, ethnic music wafting among the smoke, perhaps a belly dancer or two. I've never been one for flavored tobacco, hell I've never even tried it, but I'm certainly going to live up this experience. One thing that perplexed me: do you eat and smoke in the same room and isn't that kind of bothersome? Yes, says Kristin, who's been here once before, but it's not like you think. No, it is definitely not like I think. 

No cushions or rugs or soft, ethnic music. To be sure, there are 3 large black leather couches at the front of the shop, for those just there to puff, but that's where the comfort level ends. It's composed of two adjacent rooms, one just for eating, one for smoking or smoking and eating. The young host/server leads us into the smoking room, where I spy the black couches and the various hookahs on the window ledge, surrounded by a profusion of blinking Christmas lights. This place is hippie rather than Hafez, with strange bits of Americana thrown in: old-timey posters of "Bugsy" Siegle and Frank Sinatra; Raphael's Angels, fallen, with beers and cigarettes in hand; the requisite Bob Marley; a tv, mercifully muted, tuned to the GSN. Yup, that means Game Show Network. And the music, a veritable 80's gold mine with hits such as "The Heat is On", "Sweet Child of Mine", and "Hangin' Tough". When I'm not dreaming of cushions and rugs, "hookah" also says to me: I'm between the ages of 18 and 21 and I obey the law but I'm still trying to be cool (in a nerdy sort of way). College dorm room, that's what they're going for. And yet, no dorm is this cliché. The interpretation of American culture isn't quite right, it's too mish-mash, and then I remember it's all from the immigrant's perspective. I'm the insider looking at an outsider's version of America, of what he thinks Americans want to be surrounded by when eating out. It seems laughable but quaint, and also a little sad. I think I prefer the dorm room analogy. What would Hafez say? 

not a fire-breathing dragon

But enough philosophizing. Our waitress is clearly cut out for the job. She is an extension of this place in sight alone: long dark hair in a headful of tiny braids and ribbons, linen shirt, flowing skirt, direct, piercing eye-contact and smile that says "welcome to my world". I'm stereotyping, I know, but sometimes stereotypes exist for a reason. She gets right down to business and asks us what we'd like to smoke. I assumed the smoking would happen after the eating but not so. She recommends a blend of sweet and savory, the "Royal blend". Well okay then. Placing two hot coals on top of the aluminum foil-covered tobacco, she hands us a couple of plastic tips, mouth guards if you will. There is only one hose, I'm a little disappointed in that. There's something kind of sexy about 2 people each holding a hose in their mouth, staring into each others' eyes, and blowing smoke out of their noses and ears like dragons. But alas, there is really nothing sexy about this place, save the waitress perhaps. We order black tea with mint and honey, iced. It comes in a huge plastic pitcher, mint leaves in abundance, but taking second place to the copious amounts of honey. At least it's not sugary-grainy. The tea and the smoke really do go nicely together, and as I puff away, I notice that the airflow in the room is so heavy the smoke doesn't linger at all. It's kind of nice, but also kind of cold, and I wish we were drinking hot tea instead. 

We order dolmas and lentil soup and grilled kabobs and a falafel sandwich. Typical, hopefully tasty, telling. Indeed. The dolmas are warm, that is, somewhere between hot and cold, and that just doesn't seem right to me. They are oily and mushy but I use those adjectives not in an entirely bad way. Just the right amount of vinegar to whet my palate for something more. Next the soup, in one of those tall white ceramic ramekins, steam rising off of it seductively and making me shiver. She also delivers a plastic ramekin of lemon juice, for the soup, if we so desire. It turns out to be the only condiment available, but I don't know that yet. The soup is a little watery, heavy on the ghee, peppery, but hot and steamy and therefore tasty, better than the dolmas. The kabobs and falafel come out, and while I really try my darndest not to compare, it's really impossible, isn't it? After a few bites, no more comparison was necessary, this food just really wasn't that good. The falafel was terribly under-seasoned, like mashed up garbanzos thrown into a fryer. Specks of tomato and lettuce soaking in a thin, whitish sauce lined the bread, bread grilled with that rather unpleasant grill flavor, not the delicious char-like flavor but the gas-is-on-too-high grill flavor. The kabob plate consisted of 3 oval shaped pieces of meat atop some bouillon-flavored rice with no added herbs, next to one giant hunk of grilled white onion, one giant hunk of mushy grilled tomato, and one giant hunk of grilled green pepper. I'm not opposed to large pieces of vegetables in general, or having to cut up my food, but the presentation was a little unappealing. A side of hummus was unceremoniously plopped next to the veggies, the little divot of olive oil slowly leaking onto the rest of the plate. The meat was under-seasoned, though not as badly as the falafel, but hey, it comes from an animal not a plant, so it's bound to be a little more savory. The veggies had the tell-tale grill mark on them, and sure enough, the same gassy flavor as the bread. Everything needed some salt and pepper and hot sauce, none of which were available on the table. 

After sampling everything I realize I'm hella thirsty, what with the smoke and the sugary tea, and we have to flag down our waitress for water, who now seems stressed out and hurried due to the three other tables in the room. I guess we can't all be peace and love and harmony all the time. I glance up at an aging Bob Saget hosting a quiz show, and for a moment I think there are a swarm of cops outside, but I realize it's just the blinking of the Christmas lights, reflecting on the window. 

Tom's Diner

I moved to Colorado in August of 1997 with the plan of joining the hippie masses playing guitar and smoking weed in Boulder. Well, that and going to school of course. It wasn't long before my musical aspirations completely changed course however, when someone introduced me to techno and ecstasy. And techno and ecstasy, in the late 90's, meant going to Denver. And so I have this memory, faded and drug-laden at best, of leaving some club at 2 in the morning in dire need of salty sustenance, and finding Tom's Diner. Yes I'm 95% sure I can make this claim: Tom's was the first restaurant I ever went to in Denver.

And now some 13 years later it's like I'm stepping back in time, not because I'm suffering from drug-induced munchies, but because Tom's really is a throwback to the past. It's hard to pin down the exact decade, there are style elements from the 50's, 60's and 70's all intermingled, but one thing it's gratefully lacking is the often-too-loud 50's pop soundtrack and the ever-perky waitress. The music, the first song I hear actually, is "Tom's Diner" by Suzanne Vega. Now that's interesting. For a second I wonder if it's someone's idea of a joke or it's the only song they play but then I hear the likes of The Pharcyde, Peter Gabriel, Sublime, and some reggae song, it's like a satellite radio station made just for diners. Diners on Colfax. The booths are all baby poop yellow and the tables are yellow mustard yellow, a combination that sounds a lot worse than it looks. The floor is brown and cream speckled tiles of various shapes and sizes and reminds me of the visitor center at Rocky Mountain National Park. Looking around, in fact, other aspects have a distinctly 1970's Colorado kind of feel to them: the exposed rock wall, the dark wood lattice work, lots of potted plants, and let's not forget the building itself. It's a UFO for godssakes! Tom's is some sort of irregular polygon with an absurdly pointy roof that definitely looks like it could be hovering above some dusty prairie town, disturbing the cows and the town preacher. With just a little hint of neon, a couple long strips precisely placed, you wouldn't want to fuck with this building at 3am on a Sunday morning when you're stumbling bleary-eyed down the street, it might just beam you up. But wait, don't be afraid, Tom's is open 24 hours! It will be there to welcome you with gigantic boxes of General Mills cereal (1 free refill, $3.99) and milk shakes made with the Cadillac of milk shake makers: a mint green and chrome beast of an appliance that can mix up 4 of those babies at a time. 

 Each booth is bedecked with a small bowl filled with creamers, and I say bedecked because of the perfect symmetry of it, a little geodesic dome of white and pink, 15 expertly placed creamers, like a bouquet of dairy that I dare not disarrange, thank god I got iced tea. I wonder if the 15th creamer, the one in the middle that seemingly supports the rest, ever gets changed out.


Okay it's time to pay attention to the menu. It's gotten bigger since last I was here. And the one thing I was looking for. . .something deep in my gray matter that I always found rather cutesy. . .nope, Grilled Cheese SWAK is not on the menu anymore. SWAK? Sealed with a kiss. How could they? I was seriously thinking of ordering it just so I could say it. Sure they still have grilled cheese, but it's no longer SWAK and therefore no longer worth ordering. They haven't lost all their humor since the menu update though, as I found this on the back page:

More cheekiness on menus! I say. The menu practically needs an index, with certain items appearing in more than one place. A list of the headers: Breakfast, South of the Border, Sides, Sandwiches, Baskets, Blue Plate Specials, Paninis, Burgers, Belly Bombers, Salads, Delicious Dinners, Sides (again), Drinks, and finally, Desserts. Is that all really necessary? No, it's just a way to show off their fancy use of the 50's style "rocket font" that's all over it. I don't need to see Santa Fe Chicken in 3 different places, I just want the SWAK back! After a good 10 minute perusal and forcing the waitress to come back twice, I settle on a BLT with fried egg and fries. She tries to take my menu but I'm not done with it, need it to cover my furious hand scribbling. I swear she raises an eyebrow. I like her, she's got just the right amount of crust for a Colfax diner waitress. She says things like "What do ya want to drink?" without the usual decorum of waitstaff. Ah, the freedom to speak without mincing words at your job. I'll take honesty over insincerity any day.

My food comes out pretty quickly, it's a slow, hot, weekday afternoon, and I've just guzzled 40 ounces of iced tea. I realize what a beautiful sandwich a BLT doth make. Bright colors in individual layers and textures, each ingredient good enough to stand up on it's own (okay, lettuce) but together creating a perfect edible harmony, a sandwich good enough for all walks of life. The last BLT I had was all deluxe moderne with ingredients like pesto aioli and pork belly and arugula. And you know what? That's just not necessary. A regular old BLT, especially the one I had at Tom's, is just as good as the fancy one and the simplicity of it made me think about and savor the ingredients more. Okay so I had a fried egg on it, I did fancify my BLT, but in a diner kind of way, not a bistro kind of way. The white bread was just toasted enough on the outside to withstand the possible saturation from the mayo and whatever water was left on the green leaf lettuce. The tomato was thick and bright and juicy (finally a good tomato), and the bacon was thicker than I expected, not overly crispy, the salt and fat swirling with my saliva and no doubt effecting the neurons in my brain, making me crave it even more with each bite. The fried egg was over-hard, the way I like it, especially on a sandwich, and gave it an added nudge in the breakfast direction while intensifying the salt-fat-protein experience that was happening in my mouth. Oh yes.


The waitress comes back with the check but I decide to go for the gold and get a shake. Chocolate. Now a definite eyebrow raise, who is this young chick comin' in here all by herself and stuffin' herself like it's her last meal? Yup, that would be me. I just have to see that beast in action, hoping it makes a lot of noise and perhaps emits little puffs of exhaust. But alas, it seems it's just for show, my milkshake gets made in one of those single serving kinds, silently plugged into the wall. Topped with Redi-whip in a tall, shapely, frosty Coca-Cola mug, it's pretty much just liquidy chocolate ice-cream, a little chunkier than I was expecting, they just don't make machines like they used to. Somehow I get it into my gullet, about 3 quarters of it anyway, and fall back in my booth, satiated, with hand cramp.


Tom's Diner feels like the end of something neighborly. I have just eaten at 15 restaurants in 3 and a half blocks of Colfax. I don't even know what the next eatery is! All I know is, I can't see it from Tom's. The foot traffic lessens, the parking lots get bigger and hotter, vacant buildings abound. There's a bunch of chains coming up, restaurant and otherwise, so I guess I'll be moving eastward in a more rapid manner. A section of Eat Colfax has been completed, and I've definitely broken down some of my walls. 

Cheeky Monk

I arrive at Cheeky Monk Belgian Beer Café, at 534 E. Colfax, around 7:30 pm on a Wednesday. The evening air is cool and breezy and I have a long-time, not oft-seen friend on my arm, Melissa. The plebians of the block are out in full force at the moment, like it's the post-heat of mid day scramble to get whatever it is you need before the sun sets, before it's time to hide away for a couple hours and then inevitably come back out around 11pm to scare up some more trouble. From outside I can see lots of white people with white hair in the restaurant, and I think about how Cheeky Monk seems a little incongruous in this location, this block of Colfax, not because of the color of the clientèle, but because it's always seemed so bourgeois to me. It's like Cheeky Monk is a destination location, not so much a neighborly neighbor of the block but an entity by itself, an island if you will. Wow, a pub is making me think these thoughts? Well come to find out, it's not exactly a pub.


Stepping into the doorway I see it really is crowded. I have been here on two other occasions and both of those times I was one of the only guests. I always thought it was a big waste of beautiful space, long walls of exposed brick adorned with faux-Renaissance paintings, beckoning me to lie outstretched on a dark leather settee whilst someone brings me my food on a silver tray. That's how I feel about exposed brick, lavishly lazy. But now all that brick is doing is helping to muffle the din of the other patrons, this place is positively packed. Strangely, there is a sign that says please seat yourself, and I'm a little incredulous, it's way too crowded to not have a host, we'll see how this pans out. I can see the bar is entirely full and we snake our way around the main room, finally spying a little two-top against a wall near the end of the bar. It's a little dark, bad for note- and picture-taking, but hey, we're hungry and thirsty and I'm just thankful I know how to read a sign and do something about it. And as is the problem with busy restaurants without hosts, we wait. And wait. And wait. A server tells us he's going to grab us some menus and then promptly forgets about us. Okay no problem, this to me is really only a minor issue with restaurants, something that can be completely forgotten if the rest of the experience is up to par. I go up to the bar to get the bartender's attention and see the look of "d'oh!" on his face behind a really big, genuine smile and I know everything's going to be okay from this point on. So we're the charges of the bartender. That's great, as bartenders tend to be a little more relaxed and personable and aware than servers, and every time one of the servers whooshes past our table their long apron flutters around my calf and I think about how the server doesn't even know it, they're so in the zone and can't possibly imagine something on them has touched something on me, albeit an apron. If I was in Paris I would find this poignantly poetic, but we're in Denver so it's just a sign of modern disregard. Suddenly another server comes up to us and asks us if we've been helped yet, yes the bartender gave us menus I tell her. "Oh do you want to go through him then?" she asks. Oh jeez, the unmasked inconvenience of waitstaff.

With menus in hand and an inkling of what I'm going to get, I glance up at the bar which really is beautiful, lots of shiny metal and spotless glasses, and the Tour de France playing on the tv. Ah, a bar that uses it's tv as an extension of who it is and what it stands for, not just to appease the (bored) customer (with a short attention span). Everyone at the bar is male and over 40, they, too, in the scramble of doing something --getting drunk-- in between the humdrum that is work and home. I can't help but remember the last time I was here, sitting at the bar, the bartender a young ignoramus who, when I asked for a description of a certain beer said, "it's an IPA, an Indiana Pale Ale" completely straight-faced. I assume she no longer works here. Their beer selection is impressive of course, but here's the problem I find with Belgian beers. They're either light, easy-drinking, tasty but a little boring, or they're huge and bold and interesting and complex. What I'm trying to say is, it's either 4% or 9% ABV, with nothing in between. I'm sure I'm wrong of course, but that's what the Monk was offering on their menu. I'm a 6.5 or 7 kind of girl, so I'll start light and go from there. Blanche de Bruxelles, a classic Belgian wit, 4.5%. The logo for the beer, etched on the glassware, is a little boy spraying out his bladder, arms akimbo. Hmm, yup that's kind of what it tastes like, not bad or pissy, but young, inexperienced, sassy, a beer that doesn't know how good it could be if it just grew up a little. I choose the fried pickle spears for an appetizer, which I had heard were some of the best in Denver. Arranged vertically in a silver cup wrapped in paper, they are strangely a little soft. We wonder if there's a layer of cheese in there, that's what the texture is like. But no, it's just the seedy part of the pickle, gone mushy, and if it were detached from it's fried sheath I'd probably think it was not worth eating. They're still tasty though, thanks to the deep fryer, and I dip them in what I assume is plain old mayonnaise. By this time it's way too dark in here to make out colors but the taste is unmistakably Hellman's. The website had a choice of dipping sauces including honey mustard, curry, or chipotle, and I'm beginning to think I should just stop reading the websites all together. Nothing but disappointment really, and not part of the lived-experience anyway. Moving on to the next beer, something with a little more heft, I ask the bartender/our server to tell me about something special. He gets a 10 for friendliness and a 7 for knowledge of what's on tap. Perhaps my first order of the Blanche pegged me as a wuss and he wasn't going to recommend anything much bigger than that. It's almost like we're negotiating, he staying low and me trying for high, with me winning (I was the customer after all): a Tripel Karmeliet, 8.4%. This beer had a gorgeously dense head, and after I got through that, the taste was slightly sour, then a little sweet, with an orangey bite and moderate spice. That's more like it.


Our entrées arrive just after the beer. I ordered a Frenched chicken breast, which comes with roasted garlic stoemp, French beans, and mustard chicken jus. Explanations: "Frenched" chicken is a breast cut into 5 or so large strips, but not completely separated. Chicken strips it is not. Bone-in, skin-on, roasted, with hints of tarragon, and the mustard jus was light and sweet and understated, the way mustard should be I think. The chicken was a tad dry, the skin a little too crispy, my only complaint. "Stoemp" is a classic Belgian dish which is basically mashed potatoes and/or root vegetables with herbs and spices. The beans were fresh and crisp and snappy. A winner! I would love to insert a photo here, but like I said, I could barely see my hand in front of my face it was so dark. Melissa ordered the chicken cordon bleu sandwich, which comes on a brioche so buttery it actually reminded me of France. And the french fries, oh yes the Monk has some damn good french fries. So thin, so crispy. There was nothing left on our plates.


And to finish we did something I don't normally do, which is order dessert. People on vacation like to order dessert, or at least find it easily justifiable, and so Melissa ordered us the beignets. Three little fried ovals of decadence, dusted with powdered sugar, one with chocolate hazelnut sauce, one with cream cheese icing, one with cinnamon sauce. Oh yes, with grapes and strawberries on the side. The grapes made perfect vehicle for getting the cinnamon sauce into my mouth, which oozed out onto the plate and begged to be lapped up. The Cheeky Monk is definitely doing something right. While they could just as easily give us chicken strips and fried mozzarella, which also go great with Belgian beer, they offer the full Belgian tasting experience. This uniqueness, albeit a little bourgeois, can't hurt Colfax a bit.

Kinga's Lounge: Drink Up!

Dear Readers, 

I had to skip a few blocks for this week's eatery, for reasons that may or may not be obvious yet, depending on where you're reading this. I'll be back on geographical track next week with Cheeky Monk. Without further ado, I give you. . .Kinga's Lounge.  

At 1509 Marion, Kinga's is another place whose mail doesn't go to Colfax Avenue. But hey, it's on the corner, one of their patios is on Colfax, and we've all seen those semi-drunk 20-somethings jay-walking late at night across Colfax to get there. Yes they have booze, a smattering of Polish beers and infused vodkas to be sure, but Kinga's happy hours are more of the Jägerbomb/Long Island Iced Tea variety, a more efficient and enticing bait for the not-too-discerning customer. Hoping to avoid the obnoxious loudness that is Kinga's at night, I figured a nice, respectable weekend brunch would give us a chance to focus on the food without distraction. 

I arrive at 11am on the dot. The door is unlocked and the open sign is on, but the hostess/server/bartender looks at me with an unmistakable glare of unwelcome surprise when I open the door. Someone is vacuuming and disinfectant lingers in the air. She gives me two options: wait on the patio or wait outside, it'll be a few minutes. I know when I'm not wanted and god forbid I be a nuisance to this woman before I even sit down. I mean really, how dare I. So back outside I go, into the hot summer sun, which affords me a chance to check out the building. I hope Kinga knows how good he has it. The building is an old house, pleasantly upkept through the years. The back patio is raised above the sidewalk and surrounded by a fence covered in thick leafy ivy, I can see white Chinese lanterns hanging above the tables, it's private and quiet and shady. I suppose it lends an air of respectability to the late night riffraff. 

My companion Lori arrives, I tell her about my banishment. It's 11:08 at this point, and there's power in numbers, surely we can overtake this young guardian of the door, so we barge in and take a seat. The server asks us if we want menus. Oh gosh. Yes sweetie, we're actually here to eat your food. I had perused the online menu, but what she handed us varied slightly. Where was the breakfast salad (really?) or the garlic-infused bloody mary or the homemade spiced hot wine? Only in the ether apparently, as these items were not on the menu and I could tell the girl was not about to tell us anything more than she absolutely had to. I settle on "Polish style breakfast", coffee, and a regular old bloody mary, and Lori goes for pierogies and iced tea. The only pierogies I've ever had came from a box out of the freezer, so it'll be nice to taste something authentic.

What seems like 20 minutes later our beverages come out. My coffee cup is precariously narrow at the bottom, like the opposite of a Weeble. The bloody mary is peppery and tomato-y but that's about it, no horseradish or Worcestershire or garnish to speak of, but I later discover a tiny olive and lime slice sunken beneath the ice. When she delivers the plates, I stifle a horrified laugh. Mine looks like a kindergarten à la carte plate. A Polish style breakfast at Kinga's is 2 veal frankfurters, an over easy egg, 4 slices of swiss cheese, 3 slices of tomato, and Polish bread. If you took me here blind-folded and plopped this plate down in front of me I would never guess it was supposed to be Polish. Really, it's like an adult-sized Lunchable. But okay, presentation isn't everything. Maybe this really is what the Polish masses eat for their first meal of the day. The meat is undistinguishable from a hot dog, which really bums me out because I know there will be no dearth of hot dogs for me on this 4th of July weekend, and all I can think about is how these wieners are longing for sauerkraut. The cheese is, well, Swiss, the tomatoes once again anemic, and the bread is dry as a bone. Expecting something light and potato-y, the bread is more like something that came out of a plastic bag from King Soopers, but not recently, more like last night. I make a little sandwich out of the cheese, tomato, egg and bread, hoping that acting like I'm sitting in a grade school cafeteria will somehow make the dish more appealing, or at least more fun. Nope. Lori's pierogies are downright repulsive. Slickly lying in a boat of liquid butter, the texture of the meat resembles what I gave my cat for breakfast, and if I knew what kitty's food tasted like I probably wouldn't hesitate to make that comparison as well. The dough is severely overcooked, it's just a mushy hot mess. Damn! I wanted this to be a good one. 

We have been the only diners for about an hour, and I half-jokingly wonder if it's a bad sign when you're the first person to order food in a restaurant. It's like the kitchen isn't warmed up yet, they won't be hitting their stride until at least 3, which is also the hour when brunch officially ends at Kinga's. Eventually an older couple comes in to eat. They stare indifferently at one of the three tvs, all of which are playing the same baseball game. What, no soccer miss server? Argentina is currently getting crushed right now and I'd like to think that if Kinga himself were in-house, he would at least have the World Cup on. 

After making a couple wrong turns I find the women's room. Not much to report except for a strange 80's era poster advertising a decidedly non-Polish hair product. I wander around the rest of Kinga's for a minute. Upstairs, next to the aforementioned verdant patio, is a seductively charming old bar and lounge. So this is the lounge, draped with dark red walls and smooth wooden paneling and floors, comfy black leather chairs and fancy crystal ashtrays. There's a tile-top table and heavy-looking brass candle holders on the mantle, a row of white orchids in the window. Even in the daylight, perhaps especially in the daylight, it makes me want to break out my bejeweled cigarette holder and invite some dapper chap for a game of Parcheesi or Pchelki (Polish Jumping Flees), after checking my pocket watch to make sure there's enough time before high tea, or happy hour. It's inviting enough to make me want to come back and have a dram or three or four. Now I see why it's known as a place to get drunk. The food at Kinga's seems like an afterthought, something to offer the masses merely because there's no other Polish restaurant in Denver proper, and it just happens to be the food Kinga's cooks know (ostensibly) how to make.