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. 

Pete's with Perry

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. 

La Abeja es delicioso!

I met up with my good friend Lalo for this week's eatery. He was aptly chosen as my dining companion for his expertise in traditional street-style Mexican food. Lalo knows his cosas when it comes to la comida. I arrive before him and have a minute to check it out. While officially called La Abeja, it has the usual-for-a-taqueria three to five unofficial names/offerings in well-produced and maintained spray paint above the door: Panaderia Y Pastelleria Bakery La Abeja Tacos Tortas Burritos. Really, you can't miss it. While I've lived in Colorado for 13 years, I'm still a pale girl from Michigan at heart, and any time I get the chance to go in somewhere authentically Mexican, I'm always surprised a little bit. It's not just an eatery you see, it's a little Mexican smorgasbord: convenience store, phone card store, candy store, bakery, and of course, the restaurant. Lively and loud Mexican polka music is blasting from the speakers. Right inside the door and immediately to the left is a whole wall rack of Mexican spices. And I thought Whole Foods had some offerings of that variety, hmph! Now I know where to go when I want to make mole and posole. 

There are a few glass cases with the baked goods, most are similar looking in that white flour, sugar, and cinnamon-sprinkled kind of way, like gigantic snickerdoodles. A couple kinds have more glitter-like sprinkles than a queen at Pride. Lalo walks in while I'm perusing the cases and, as I knew he would, declares "we will get that on our way out". Lalo is a big fan of bread products. The convenience store aspect of the place is true in this way: if you really need toilet paper or laundry detergent or bar soap, you can conveniently get it at La Abeja. It reminds me of a camp ground store, the bare essentials plus some cookies. 

The menu is above the cash register/order counter. Actually they have two menus, one in words and one in pictures, advertising different things. We focus on the words menu, I've seen enough picture menus lately anyway. Different things, new things!, I think. Chilaquiles (safe) and a lengua taco (dangerous). Lalo gets two tacos, carnitas and carne asada. (Believe me, at this point I'm sick of the italics too but I guess I'm going with it). I grab a pineapple Jumex from the case and try to pay, but the counter girl tells us we can pay when we're done. Well how do you like that. How trusting. 

The dining area is in a different room, separate from the store/ordering place. It's spotlessly clean and humming with the sound of an ice machine and a refrigerator. Ceramic roosters line the  tops of the walls, and glittery virgin Marys and other metallic still-lifes reflect the well-lit room and shine down on us. This place is busy, it's lunchtime, and the blend of demographics is reassuring. It's good enough for all denizens of Denver. To be sure, I had heard nothing but raves about La Abeja before coming. The server (and cook!), smiling and full of energy, brings out our dishes, a little surprised that the lengua taco is for me, most likely because the chilaquiles is actually a platter, with the requisite rice and beans. In other words, it's a lot of food. Enough italics, this is Denver, but of course, I will elaborate: Lengua means tongue. Cow tongue specifically. And chilaquiles are fried corn tortillas cut into triangles covered with green chile and cheese. Sounds like nachos maybe? Well nachos it ain't. It's soft and hearty and definitely something to be eaten with a fork. I stab a piece of lengua first. It's a little spongy, lacking the fibrosity of a more commonly eaten cow muscle, but tastes like beef and has a wonderful buttery texture. With a little cilantro, white onion, and salsa verde on top, it is a typical and tasty Mexican taco. The corn tortilla, doubled up of course, has a fluffy consistency and tastes like it was pounded out that morning.

 Lalo is happily impressed with his tacos as well. The carnitas (pork) is a bit salty, but tenderly soft and stringy, like it was just pulled from the pig, and the carne asada (beef) has a delectably savory barbeque/chile powder essence that I have yet to taste in a Denver taqueria. Going back and forth between the dishes, I am amazed to find the chilaquiles stay as hot as when the plate was delivered, as if the cheese and chile are an insulator for the wonderfully messy fried tortillas underneath. The green chile has a wonderful spicy heat that sneaks up on you in the best of ways. This is an amazing dish, something that is also frequently served with eggs in it, ahh, Mexican breakfast. Next time, next time. 

We savor the food, animatedly talking about math dreams and Tucson weather patterns and weddings and quiet, rainy retreats. We pay and leave and stroll down Grant Street, and Lalo keeps coming back to the food: "They tune in a lot to the undercurrents". Now if that doesn't rouse your interest and appetite in La Abeja, usted no atiende.

Roslyn Grill: The Old Queen

Pre-Script:

I want to tell you that Roslyn Grill plays a major role in the birth of Eat Colfax. In fact, I believe I remember the exact day, about a year ago, driving down Colfax back to my abode and thinking, "who goes there?" with a disdainful wince. Why does it have such a reputation, even amongst the unknowing such as myself? The seed was planted. I should go there. And why not? Do they have a sign that says No Well-Groomed Women Under 50? They most certainly do not. It's a free country, and I can go to Roslyn Grill. 

Roslyn Grill! I'm really excited. Nervous? A little. I walk by it a couple times a week at 7:45 in the morning and they are Open For Business. Lager pints half shielded by the crescent of a slumped back and a knobby hand. Hard stares, no talking. At least that's what I see from the outside. 

I do minimal research on the restaurants before I go, mostly just to check if they have a website. To be sure, Roslyn Grill has no website, but they have something far more esteemed: they have an article in the New York Times. Yup. Regrettably, there is a self-imposed ban on me reading the article, at least at this point (I'm a new writer and easily influenced). And no less notable but perhaps more obscure to the general American public, two articles in the Westword, from 1999 and 2007. Again, no read-y for me. S'ok, s'ok, I'm ready to put my imaginative capacity to compose a creative story to the test. (Okay so I skimmed the articles, but that was at least two weeks ago so by now my moderately encumbered short-term memory has long forgotten the details.) And now, the moment we've all been waiting for. . .

I invite Seth, who accompanied me to Emilio's. A man, a tall man at that, a man who is not afraid  of anything and just as excited as myself. Noon, I decide. The morning crowd is a little. . . obvious, and I'm too intimidated for whatever debauchery goes on at night. We're walking on the north side of the street, shooting past it a little to see all the angles, and I know they have a specials board on the west window that I want to check out. We wonder at the monstrosity taking shape at Penn (could it be residential up top?), stroll under the blue truk tunnel, our ears hissing at the sound of the impending construction machinery, only to discover that it's not the new building they're working on at the moment, they're tearing down the double decker McDonalds! Death to chains on Colfax! Seth points out a little too quickly that they're just going to put up another one (no! what the?) because they've caution-taped off the boulder out front with the big M etched in it. What, you mean that's not a gravestone? 

The specials board advertises a bean and chicken burrito or two chili cheese dogs for $4.99. Go "Rockies" at the bottom. While I get a little exasperated when I see misused punctuation, there's something kind of endearing about extraneous quotation marks. Walking in, we see lots of open tables, in fact all the tables are empty. The only patrons are at the bar, 6 dudes, one old lady (someone's old lady?), and Annie the barkeep. We plop down at a centrally located booth, you know I normally like the bar but I'd like to keep my note-taking clandestine. Annie greets us warmly, sans menus, perhaps we look like we just want an afternoon delight. She remarks on the demolition across the street and I realize it's going to be the focal point of her day. After we speak our intentions she hands us menus and happily tells us the specials. I don't know how long Annie has worked here, but it seems like forever to me, and I've only been here 5 minutes. Two Buds to start, and we need a minute for the food. Above the bar hangs a glass menagerie of Budweiser memorabilia that I somehow can't take my eyes from. It reminds me of an era when children pressed their faces against department store windows with expectant yule-tide glee, staring longingly at miniature versions of castles and trains and ponies. And now I'm noticing other bits of Roslyn's charismatic trappings: caricatures from the ages line the walls, stained glass lamps hang nobly from the forest green ceiling, a lovely gold-enameled mirror etched with the Budweiser Clydesdales, the faint scent of a million cigarettes smoked long ago. Annie comes back to take our order, she is all of 80 pounds, 10 of which must be the massive pile of hair swept expertly atop her head and fastened with some kind of gigantic black scrunchie. Her make up has been carefully applied, her shirt crisply pressed, her self-respect is evident and contagious. 

What to order? The specials are unappealing, was I even expecting appeal anyway? I go for the Italian sausage sandwich with fries. Seth tries for the fried chicken but "she's out of it" says Annie. This place appears to be run by women, appropriately. He's waffling, I tell him to get the chicken burrito special. Something Mexican, something Italian, okay so diner food all the way. 

No one in the Roslyn is paying us any mind, which is a surprise, and reassuring. Mostly they stare at the big screen tvs or watch the razing across the street, an occasional utterance escapes someone's lips. An older woman is sitting with a cola at a table by the window, dreamily staring out the window, seemingly waiting, waiting. A burly man with a bright orange sleeveless t-shirt that reads "we install and service hangovers" strolls though the bar, he has an air of handyman. It's almost too mellow in here, am I disappointed? Hardly, but Seth and I vow to return someday during the dark hours now that it already feels familiar. 

Annie sets the table with the thin, white, embossed, grocery store napkins my mom buys. Then comes the food. It looks as you would expect, the fries taking up 75% of the plate, cheese dripping deliciously and crustily from the innards of the sandwich. A plastic ramekin of ketchup. Seth's plate looks a little like something one would heat up in a microwave, albeit larger and absolutely swimming in green chili and cheese. I munch some fries, who's first bite isn't the fries? They are hot and crispy and white, the whitest fries I have ever eaten. So hot, so. . .crunchy, and. . . white, like I'm eating a deep-fried parsnip that's been perfectly shaped like a french fry. Not an iota of seasoning so I proceed to shake the shit out of the salt and pepper. The sandwich looks delicious, sautéed onions and green peppers are oozing out onto the plate, the edges of the plump, oval, golden brown sausage patty peaking out from the sides of the bun. The bun is a slight letdown, soaking up the juices and getting soggy before I finish devouring it. Some say a sandwich is only as good as the bun, but I've always preferred the savory middle parts anyway. The dipping sauce, which in my experience with Italian sausage sandwiches should be a traditional marinara, is most certainly and disappointingly of the Ragu spaghetti sauce variety, with chunks of long ago-canned tomatoes and onions slickly mixed in, oh it's in there alright. Bleh. No bother, the sandwich is so perfectly seasoned and juicy the sauce is unnecessary. Seth asks for extra green chili, "Oh you like that do you? It is really good, she makes it herself," says Annie. I picture a matronly Hispanic lady mixing up vats of it in the back, a true chef de cuisine de Rosyln. The green chili becomes our fry sauce and we happily munch away, completely pleased with the dining experience. 

I hop up a rickety half staircase to the bathroom and am delighted by an oversized stone and tile fireplace, right there across from the stalls. Suddenly my imagination clicks and I can see it now, the Royal Roslyn in her heyday, this would be the anteroom where ladies would giggle and gossip away from the men smoking fat cigars and listening to Old Blue Eyes and shooting pool. The unmistakable quality of classiness that still lingers in the chipped paint of the dark maroon walls, the gold-lined picture frames, and Annie herself, elegantly, pointedly made-up just as she's done her whole working life. Roslyn is like an old queen, long since dethroned but living out her days with dignity none the less, her patrons and employees still loyal supporters. Perhaps that's what they were thinking, watching the McDonald's being torn down, that suddenly their hard-luck lives would be transformed back to the glory days and there would be no shame at spending hours upon hours on the barstools of the Roslyn Grill. Who knows if any of that is true, but such was the sentiment I felt. 

Annie comes back for the financial exchange, sees the tip (a normal one for me and most restaurants I eat at) and thanks us graciously and humbly three times, tells us to come again, she really means it. "Wednesday is liver and onions day, Friday spaghetti and meatballs" she beams, trying to entice us back.  

Why the stigma, Roslyn? It's the way you're perceived and it's easy to blame the neighborhood: the addicts, the dealers, the homeless, the hard-up. And you open your doors and arms wide for whoever dares to enter. But it's not just a demographic of social outcasts that inhabit the jungle, it's also the professionals, the civil servants, the students, the hipsters, all of these urban dwellers that create a beautiful juxtaposition on this stretch of metropolitan main street. I'm not afraid anymore Roslyn, and I'll be the first person to recommend you.