Denver Restaurant Week 2010

OK, OK, so I might be jumping the gun on this one, but with Christmas over I need something to look forward to. Here's the link to Denver Restaurant Week 2010, where 2 people can get a 3-course meal at some of Denver's finest restaurants for $52.80.
http://www.denver.org/denverrestaurant/default.aspx

My wishlist? Fruition, Twelve, Duo and The Squeaking Bean. Or anywhere offering pork belly or rack of lamb. Reserve the big ones early - Mizuna was booked within minutes of being posted on the Restaurant Week website.

Doing Good by Eating

It's Christmastime, which means you bitch about lines at the malls, embarass yourself at your office Christmas party and, hopefully, do some good. Here are a couple of restaurants where doing good will fill you up and delight your tastebuds: SAME Cafe (http://www.soallmayeat.org/) and Cafe Options (http://www.cafeoptions.com/).

SAME (So All May Eat) Café doesn’t charge for its food (which is almost entirely organic and made in-house, by the way). You read that right – their menu comes without a price tag. Customers are encouraged to pay what they can, or what they feel the meal was worth.

On any given day, SAME will be filled with lawyers, ladies who lunch and out of work day laborers. Instead of a cash register, they have a donation box. If someone can’t afford to pay anything, they can trade an hour of washing dishes or helping out for a soup, salad and pizza (or whatever else they want). At SAME, you can even go back for seconds!

SAME’s owners had been volunteering at soup kitchens and homeless shelters for years. While they loved helping down on their luck people get food to eat, they realized it wasn’t the healthiest or the most delicious. Instead of the canned, boxed, preservative-filled food that stocks food banks, the owners of SAME wanted to give those who need it the most real, healthy food.

Somehow, this philosophy of giving away fresh, high-quality food has worked. SAME has been around for 3 plus years, and in this troubled economy, is cooking up more meals than ever.

Café Options, which does charge for their food, is also in the business of bettering our community. This downtown deli is staffed by graduates of Work Options for Women (WOW), a nonprofit that teaches impoverished women culinary skills to obtain employment, gain self-esteem and improve the lives of them and their families. All of Café Options’ proceeds go to WOW.

The Café roasts its own pork and ham and makes soups daily from scratch (I’ve worked in a couple chain bakeries/delis in my time, and none of them did more to make soup than heat up the block of ice corporate sent them). Sandwiches range in price from $6.50-7.25 – a little high for me, but right on par for downtown Denver.

The Cubano I ate at Café Options was excellent, and the knowledge that I was funding a program that helps low-income women get jobs and better themselves made it taste even better. I think I’ll have a hard time getting a sandwich anywhere else.

It’s true that chains give a lot back, too – as they should since they’re making the lion’s share of the profits – but you probably won’t see the CEO of Arby’s telling patrons to pay what they can or what they feel the meal is worth (for one, they’d probably be out of business in about 5 minutes).

If you have any restaurants like SAME Café or Café Options in your neighborhood, I urge you to try them out. You might be surprised by just how good “charity” food can taste. Plus, you'll feel good about where your money is going. I don't think the guy at Chili's can say the same thing.

Boulder Restaurant Week

You've got a few more days to get up to Boulder for Restaurant Week - aka you pay just $52.80 for 2 people to eat a meal that would normally run you $100. Check out First Bite Boulder for participating restaurants and menus:

http://www.firstbiteboulder.com/

Last night we went to Q's, which is inside the Hotel Boulderado. To be honest, I hadn't been salivating over Q's, like I do Frasca, Black Cat and the Kitchen, but the menu looked above average. For the appetizer, I ordered the carnitas tamale, which was very good and much bigger than I expected for a first course. Peter thought outside the box and ordered the asaparagus over crispy polenta cake with mushroom vinaigrette, blue cheese and prosciutto. It may not sound or look that delicious, but it was! I don't think I've ever in my life ordered a vegetable-centric appetizer, but I would order this over crab cakes any day.

The entrees were good - gnocchi and short rib ravioli - but the portions weren't as generous as the apps. In a rare selfish move, Peter ordered an apple dessert and didn't even finish it. Since I think cooked apples taste about as good as my dog's eye boogers, I was forced to watch the uneaten morsels make their way back to the kitchen for disposal without finishing it. I had a chocolate banana brulee cake. The banana and chocolate stood up well to each other, but the banana sorbet was too grainy.

Overall, Q's was well worth the $52 price tag, although after drinks, tax and tip it was back up to the $100 range. Go eat, people! Help your tummy and economy!

Back to N'Awlins (is that how you spell it?)

The first thing Jenny and I did when we got to New Orleans was buy a large beer (for her) and a Smirnoff Ice (for me) and walked down Canal Street sipping out of our brown paper bags. For us Colorado girls who don’t go out a whole lot, drinking on a public street was quite exhilarating. We stuck out so much that pretty much everyone we spoke to (asking directions, paying the bus fare, buying the booze) asked where we were from and warned us to be careful. Now I know how Woody from ‘Cheers’ felt.

After dinner at Cochon (more on the food later), we did what pretty much every traveler comes to New Orleans to do – drink on Bourbon Street.

A few things about Bourbon Street – it’s expensive (compared to Colorado), most bars are cash only and there are a lot of men looking for more than good conversation. A few things about Jenny and I – we’re cheap, we haven’t had cash since our middle school allowances and we love to (innocently) chat up guys and get them to buy us drinks. Not exactly a match made in heaven.

After gaping at the sex clubs and old men taking shots out of 21-year old girls’ cleavage, we managed to find a credit-accepting bar. Being the efficient economist that I am, I ordered a $3 shot of Bacardi 151. A much better alcohol-to-dollar ratio than the $7 beers and $13 slushies.

Feeling brave, we started talking to the seemingly least depraved men out and about. The first group, there for work from Iowa (even more country than us!), bought us more shots and showed us a karaoke bar. The karaoke club provided us with several more shots (courtesy of a birthday trip from New York City) and a chance to perform Coolio’s ‘Gangsta’s Paradise.’

Perhaps the highlight of the night came when an oil guy bought Jenny and me an entire tray of Jell-O shots. Well, I guess that depends on your definition of highlight. Considering what happened a few hours later, I wouldn’t necessarily call it a highlight now.

However, those Jell-O shot did get us wound up enough to ride the whale. The whale is a mechanical Shamu that bucks its rider around in an attempt to toss you off. It’s pretty much a mechanical bull, but the bar wanted something unique so they made it a whale. The whale was fun, although neither Jenny nor I will be applying at Sea World any time soon. And my inner thighs were sore the rest of the trip.

The fun, easygoing night turned unfortunate, as it does, when we, as we do, got hungry. It was a little after 2 am and even though we’d probably consumed 2,000 calories worth of alcohol since our 2,000 calories worth of dinner, we still, in our drunken state, insisted upon eating more. We wanted breakfast; specifically eggs benedict.

We beligerently stumbled through the streets of New Orleans, asking people where we could find our craving at such an hour. After false leads that took us to places we shouldn’t have been, we found ourselves hungrier than ever. And standing in front of the Harrah’s casino.

Even with my judgment clouded by shot of alcohol strong enough to corrode a diamond and a tray of Jell-O shot, I still objected to eating at the Harrah’s – the only place serving breakfast we had found – on the basis of it being a chain. However, my judgment was also easily swayed by Jenny telling me that the restaurant was 100% independently owned and operated. Of course it’s not a chain just because it’s inside a chain, she reasoned. And at 2 am, stomach pumped full of vodka, rum, everclear and God knows what else, I bought it.

That’s how we ended up eating the worst breakfast of our lives, which wasn’t even the eggs benedict we wanted. That’s saying something, since the last time I ate when drunk it was a McDonald’s double cheeseburger that I proclaimed to be the greatest thing I ever put in my mouth. Typically alcohol dulls the taste buds, thus making whatever I eat taste like a Michelin-starred restaurant’s cuisine. But the Harrah’s omelet was just that bad.

We shuffled back to our hotel, sick from the food and wishing we would have just waited until morning to find breakfast. I felt slightly guilty for eating inside a Harrah’s, even though Jenny still insists that it doesn’t count as a chain. Damn you tray full of Jell-O shots!

Instead of writing about the race that brought us to New Orleans – which didn’t go very well – I’m going to list everything I ate during the course of my 2 ½ day trip:

Wood-fired Oysters – Neither Jenny nor I like oysters, but we always like to try new things, so we gave them a shot. They were fantastic.
Fried soft shell crab – So weird to eat the legs without having to de-shell! Good, but the fried aspect was too heavy for me.
Louisiana Cochon – not as good as I remembered from my last trip, but still very tasty.
Harrah’s omelet – makes me sick to my stomach just thinking about it.
Sushi – It may be odd to eat sushi in New Orleans, but we walked past an all-you-can-eat lunch deal, so what could we do?
Muffaletta – the best one from the French Market restaurant, of course.
Taste of Orleans Sampler – red beans and rice, gumbo, crawfish etouffee and shrimp creole. All fabulous.
Shrimp Remoulade – Honestly, I’m not sure what remoulade is. But this couldn’t possibly have been it.
Seafood platter – An obese fishophile’s wet dream. A pile of fried shrimp, crawfish dressing balls, oysters, catfish and soft shell crab.
Beignets – I didn’t even look at Café Du Monde. I went straight to Café Beignet and ate my deep-fried batter like a good chain-avoiding girl.
Turtle Soup – It’s a good thing we didn’t believe it was made with actual turtle when we ate it.
Jambalaya – Not typically one of my New Orleans to-die-for’s, the Jambalaya at Desire Oyster Bar was the best I’ve ever tasted.
Eggplant eggs benedict – The eggplant and hollandaise were terrific, but why on earth did they overcook my yolk? Is this a New Orleans thing?

Oh, and after that first night, we didn’t get drunk on Bourbon Street. Harrah’s taught us our lesson.

Dinner at 1515

I had a great dinner tonight at Restaurant 1515. Everything with pork (the cheek, belly) were fantastic, and the potato foam flavored with chevre and bacon was even better than the sous vide-prepared lamb that accompanied it. They're doing some very creative things, like olive oil powder and mandarin orange caviar - all made in their test kitchen.

I noticed that they're having Thanksgiving Day dinner for just $18 (for adults; $9 for kids). Sounds like a great deal for a restaurant of this quality!
http://www.1515restaurant.com/thanksgiving_menu.htm

Thursday I'm off to New Orleans, where my little chain experiment will prevent me from eating at Cafe Du Monde, Acme Oyster House and any restaurant whose proprietor says "Bam!"

Costa Rica

The last time I boarded a plane to Costa Rica I was 22 – 22! – and my carry-on consisted of a 5 pound bag of gummi bears and my best friend, Jenny. This time I’m 28 – 28. – and I’ve got a copy of “Portnoy’s Complaint” and my husband, Peter. Other differences include a job, a house, eye cream packed in my checked baggage and the confidence of knowing what to expect.

My last trip to Costa Rica wasn’t spent vacationing so much as fleeing. Fleeing an explosive end to a relationship that came thisclose to ending in an engagement ring around my finger. Fleeing an upcoming 3 years of law school and a lifetime of over-time to pay back student loans. Fleeing every idea and expectation that I had for my life and trading that in for uncertainty, loneliness and, just maybe, hope.

Costa Rica was generous to me. Besides its jaw-dropping beaches, rumbling volcanoes and vibrant jungles, Costa Rica gave me something I had never before had, let alone felt – independence. Three months of beachcombing and thinking, hiking and exploring, swimming and depending only on myself for what to do that day and what I would do with my years to come.

I tried new things. Some of them – like eating rambutan (mamones in Costa Rica) and swimming in waterfalls, stuck. Others – like snorkeling (it took until a trip to Thailand 3 years later to break my fear of fish) and eating beans (I love them in the national dish of Costa Rica – casado – but still hate them in America) – did not.

When I came back home to Colorado on Christmas Eve I was sad. Sad to leave my paradisiacal lifestyle of hanging out on some of the world’s most beautiful beaches day after day. Sad to come back to my reality of needing to find a job (or else live with my mother forever – not happening). Sad to encounter memories of the almost-fiancee and how it all ended. But looking back, I shouldn’t have felt so sad. That trip – which I’m even more thankful for now that I’ve returned to Costa Rica – marked the beginning of my adult life. And if only I would have known then that it would all work out – and then some.

Fast forward 6 years. There are 2 more big differences between this 2-week jaunt and that 2 and a half month spell in Costa Rica: money and mode of transportation. Being a broke college student and having to pay back my law school loans (hey, I went for a month and a half, that should be worth something), I kept myself to a strict $10 a day budget.

That $10 included hotel (and I use that word loosely), food and transportation. Back then, before the real surge of tourism into Costa Rica, that kind of budget was possible if you were willing to sacrifice things like hot water, cleanliness and privacy. This time I don’t have any student loans haunting me and I’m even getting paid for each day I spend lying on the beach. Even though I’m not staying at 4-star resorts, I am a bit looser with my spending, especially when it comes to food.

The second key difference between the trips is our rental 4x4 Jimmy (or Jimny, as it’s printed on the car). While I was confined to bus and ferry schedules the first time around, now I have the freedom to go where I want, when I want.

You can learn a lot about a country and its culture from the passenger seat of a car (it’s a stick shift, and I don’t drive anything that doesn’t allow me to eat an ice cream cone and steer at the same time). Let’s take the U.S. for example. No matter where you drive – cities, plains, beaches or mountain towns – you’ll probably see lots of other cars and lots of Golden Arches. You’ll pass factories, stores, houses and gorgeous scenery.

Compare that to driving in Costa Rica. You’ll also see the occasional factory, store, house and loads of gorgeous scenery, but you won’t see a whole lot of cars or fast food. This is Day 5 of my trip, and I’m yet to see a single McDonald’s! Is it even possible to drive down America’s highway system for hundreds of miles or for 5 days without seeing a McDonald’s? What about just 5 hours? (Turns out, the longest stretch in the lower 48 states without a McDonald’s is about a 2 hour drive between Meadow and Glad Valley, South Dakota).

But Ticos (Costa Ricans) have gotta eat. So in addition to the immaculately-maintained soccer fields, the frequent bus stops (paradas) and the oh-so-green jungle threatening to over-run the roads, you’ll also see sodas.

Sodas aren’t beverages here; they’re restaurants, or diners. They are often named after the women who cook in them, like Soda Miss Sam or Soda Carolina. As we were driving out of Corcovado National Park and it was getting dark, I said to my husband, “Isn’t it comforting seeing a soda all lit up on the side of the road?” The truth is, you can’t drive very far without encountering a soda – or several. Kind of like Arby’s, Wendy’s, Taco Bell and Subway in the U.S. Except sodas serve a different type of fast food, and, as far as I know, all of them are locally owned.

Most sodas advertise ‘comida typico,’ which I’m guessing translates into ‘typical food.’ In Costa Rica, typical food always involves rice and beans, usually includes fresh veggies and/or fruits and some sort of protein, like fish, chicken, beef or pork. For $2-5, you can get casado at all but the most touristy towns (where it will be more like $6-7). Here’s what I got with my $3 casado yesterday: a huge portion of rice and beans, a salad, 2 grilled chicken breasts, a mound of mashed potatoes and the most delicious sugar-fried plantain you’ll find anywhere. At a Burger King, $3 won’t even get you a value meal of a Whopper, fries and a Coke.

To Costa Ricans, this – not KFC – is their highway stop-off. Yes, you’ll have to get out of your car, but the food is healthy, fresh and most importantly – really freaking tasty. Even to a girl who hates beans. Your casado – or arroz con pollo or rice and beans with coconut milk if you’re on the Caribbean side – won’t be ready in the time it takes to drive from the clown’s mouth to the pick-up window, but that’s because Miss Sam is in the kitchen cooking it; not a heat lamp.

Driving past and stopping at these sodas, I wondered what Costa Ricans must think about Americans when they visit our country and see all of the fast food. I imagine that most of them have experience with many of our chains – I saw a Schlotzky’s, Papa John’s and Cinnabon at the San Jose airport, a turn-off for a KFC and I know there to be a Pizza Hut in Jaco based on personal experience – but the difference is the hyper frequency.

Where there is 1 fast food chain per beach town in Costa Rica, there is 1 per corner in the U.S. They must think that we really like this food. That mystery meat and fried potatoes are the cornerstones of our diets like rice and beans are theirs. They must think that the coffee sold, literally, everywhere has burnt off our taste buds (and maybe it has).

So yes, this trip is different. I’m not fleeing any tumultuous life situations, I’m traveling with my husband, I’m getting paid. I have more money to spend so I don’t have to stay at places where a rat is furiously scratching his way through the ceiling directly over my bed. I don’t have to order the cheapest thing on the menu, casado. But I still do because it tastes so good. I guess not everything has changed.

Pura Vida!

I'm about to head to Costa Rica for 2 weeks, but here are a few chain-related thoughts for you to ponder while I'm gone:
1. Pray for me not to starve. Airports aren't exactly the easiest things to navigate when you're dodging chains. I'm baking cookies right now to bring along, just in case.
2. McDonald's and KFC have infiltrated central America (and the world), but are there Costa Rican chains? And how will I know if I'm eating at one?
3. Bones, the Denver Frank Bonanno restaurant, has one of the top 10 greatest things I've ever eaten on their menu: steamed pork belly buns. I was reminded just how delicious they are on a lunch date with my food mister (FM). Oh and Frank, please don't open another restaurant - right now your 4 sneak in under my chain quota.
4. The last time I was in Costa Rica I fell in love with Trits, a cookie/ice cream concoction. I'm bringing an insulated lunch bag with me so I can bring back the Trits, fully expecting them to melt. If I re-freeze them when I get home, will I get sick when I eat them? Do I care?
5. My cookies are done so I'm gonna go eat 4.

Banh Mi + Me = True Love

Bad news for Subway’s $5 footlong – I’m about to reveal the secret that will take you down. Two words – Vietnamese sandwich. Take that, Jared.

What’s that? You’ve never had a Vietnamese sandwich? You think it’s some sort of euphemism for sex with 2 Vietnamese child prostitutes? Well I was right there with you until this weekend.

First off – how did I find this place? It’s not like Viet sandwich cafes litter the streets, and Vietnamese restaurants typically limit their menus to pho and combination plates. I was in Denver for Pugs Day at the Park – aka Smeagol and Stella’s (my black and fawn pugs) favorite day of the year.

For Pugfest, hundreds of Denver-area pugs and their owners (or guardians, depending on how big of a hippy you are) take over City Park for an afternoon of games, socializing and stepping in pug poop. My pugs especially enjoy the eating contest. Smeagol won his first year at Pugfest, but fell to second place last year and slipped to third this time out (finishing just a second behind his much smaller sister, Stella).

After the pugs ate their hot dogs, I got hungry. Parking downtown didn’t seem very appetizing, especially with Octoberfest and the Great American Beer Festival going on this weekend. I first drove down Colfax, which is Denver’s sex-shop and drug-deal central. Or I should say was. While you can still catch a peep show 24 hours a day, the re-development of Colfax also means that you can score a really tasty meal at any of several excellent restaurants that have recently moved in. However, on this particular day, nothing was beckoning to me. Nope, I heard the siren call of Federal and, like Ulysses, was powerless to resist.

Federal Boulevard might be even more run down than Colfax. It houses significant minority populations, which means one thing in my book – phenomenal, authentic ethnic food. This is the taco cart, menudo, noodle and pho capital of Colorado. There may be bars on the windows and a distinct lack of English, but you can bet your bottom peso (or dong or yuan) that there’s good food to be eaten inside.

I drove down the street – which feels about 1,000 miles away from my suburban neighborhood but is in actuality only 20 – struggling to decipher the restaurants from the payday loans and liquor stores (I don’t read any Asian languages and it’s been a while since high school Spanish). The taco carts looked most appealing, but I didn’t have any cash after paying the pugs’ entry fee into the hot dog eating contest, and I assumed that an eatery on wheels wouldn’t take Visa.

And then I saw it. Not just Vietnamese – I’ve got lots of conventional Vietnamese restaurants in my ‘hood – but Vietnamese sandwiches. Something different. Something tempting. Something I had to try.

Inside they helpfully had photographs of all my sandwich (or banh mi) choices. Being a bit trepidatious of meats I’m unaccustomed to, I ordered 1 chicken and 1 BBQ pork. Each was just $2.75 and more than adequate to satisfy someone with a normal appetite.

Chicken, BBQ pork? This isn’t sounding so exotic. What is it that makes a Vietnamese sandwich Vietnamese, you ask. First, I’ve got to give credit to France. Yes before their days of “I surrender,” France controlled Vietnam. The French supply the crispy baguette and the Vietnamese added in local ingredients like cilantro, spicy peppers, pickled carrots and a variety of meats.

Some varieties spread on goose pate (trust me it’s good – even if you don’t like pate) and/or spiced mayonnaise. You can even get head cheese in it (Note: head cheese has nothing to do with cheese and a whole lot to do with head). All in all it’s a big punch of flavor wrapped up inside something so simple as a sandwich.

After I finished them I wondered what it was that made these sandwiches so much better than the deli ones I’m used to. Most of the components are the same as what I’m used to, and the ones that are different aren’t exactly different in a good way (ahem, goose pate). But somehow it all comes together to create something bigger, and tastier, than its parts. I’m not saying this will change your life, like Marco’s coal-fired pizza or dim sum will, but it will change your lunch hour.

Fast Food Through a Photographer's Lens

OK so we all know that fast food isn't the most gastronomically nor visually appealing, but check out these pictures by photographer Jon Feinstein from his series "Fast Food", posted on Good (http://www.good.is/post/picture-show-visions-of-fast-food/#). He hasn't doctored the food in anyway - it really does look this bad. Hmmm, maybe I'll continue Breaking the Chain beyond 2009...

Halloween in September

In the writing world, you've got to do things a bit early. Which is why I'm working on a Halloween story for Metromix this weekend. In preparation, I got a sneak preview of Il Posto's, one of Denver's tastiest Italian restaurants, orange and black themed dinner last night. While orange and black probably aren't most people's top two color choices for food, Chef Andrea Frizzi did an excellent job coming up with an imaginative menu for All Hallow's Eve.

I don't want to spoil the menu surprise, but it involves (duh) pumpkin, squid ink and black sambuca. Not to mention some killer proteins. Here's a photo hint of what Il Posto will be featuring on their tasting menu in the month of October. Oh, and there will be an equally spooky (yet still delicious) cocktail in honor of Halloween as well.

Find!

There's nothing more exciting to me than discovering new, wonderful food. If it's cheap and nearby, even better. Yesterday morning I was craving something beyond my typical breakfast of chocolate chip Kroger waffles. Having recently learned that my stand-by breakfast burrito locale (Wall Street Deli) was actually a chain, I set out to find something new.

I walked the streets surrounding my downtown Denver office building, passing the obligatory bagel and fast food chains. Even in a dynamic, cosmopolitan city like Denver, chains rule. Want Chinese for lunch? Good luck finding something other than Panda Express and P.F. Chang's. And while we have no shortage of sub shops, places like Subway and Heidi's dominate the locals.

I've always been a big believer in street food. I don't need 4 walls and a solid foundation to be well fed. Lunch carts, or meals on wheels, often cook up more inventive, better-tasting food than the restaurants steps away. So when I nearly walked into the burrito cart (hey, it was early) on the northeast corner of 17th and California, I decided to give it a try.

I ordered my usual eating out breakfast choice - a breakfast burrito with potatoes, eggs, cheese and green chile - and was shocked when the very nice and vivacious cart proprietor told me it would only be $2. I brought the burrito back to my desk and unwrapped the warm aluminum foil. A little soggy, I thought. I bit in. Wow, this is pretty good. I poured my little condiment cup of green chile inside. Spicy! I loved it more and more with every bite. The potatoes were well-seasoned and thought obviously went into the egg-potato ratio.

I came close to going back for another one, but I lacked the motivation to clang down the street another time in my heels (again, it was early). But I will definitely be back.

Dim Sum

Besides cravings, convenience was a bit of a problem this week. We’re in the middle of remodeling our kitchen and had an electrician working pretty much all weekend. While he tore out the hideous fluorescent box that previously illuminated the room and replaced it with recessed lights, my husband and I drove back and forth to the paint store trying to get the ideal shade of grey for our kitchen.

Meanwhile, we got hungry. Amidst the fast food and chain restaurants we knew there to be a tasty, locally owned restaurant serving Japanese rice and noodle bowls. Independent, healthy and it wouldn’t take too long – exactly what we were looking for. We drove over to the lot, starving, only to find that they aren’t open on Sundays. We looked to the left and the right – fast food burgers had us surrounded.

I am not a patient person. I needed to eat within the next few minutes or something bad involving tears and biting was about to occur. Could this be the end? Would I have to break down and eat at a chain in order to save my husband from getting attacked by my hungry self?
But there, across the street, like the cooked-to-order omelette station at a brunch buffet, a restaurant jumped out, glistening, from the mundane chains – Dim Sum. Neither of us had ever had Dim Sum, but we had always wanted to try. If only we hadn’t waited so long.

For those unfamiliar with dim sum, first, my condolences. Next, I’ll explain what it is. It’s Chinese food, but not your sesame chicken/sweet and sour pork type of Chinese. The portions are much smaller, more like a series of appetizers. The soups, dumplings, buns, vegetables, seafood, noodles and desserts are wheeled around on little carts and you get to pick what you want to try. It’s a great way to sample dishes you normally wouldn’t taste, as the portions are small and the prices are low. The shrimp and pork dumplings that we tried were among the best Chinese food we’d ever eaten. And the Chinese donuts for dessert rank right up there with beignets in the race for my favorite nutritionally-deficient food item.

I will now refer to ages 1-27 in my life as the dark ages because I went through them without dining on dim sum. Note to years 1-18, aka the time before I tried Thai food – you will now be referred to as the darker ages.

I am so grateful that we tried the dim sum restaurant instead of succumbing to my oppressive hunger at a casual chain establishment. Had I not been doing this experiment we would have most likely ended up at Good Times, eating yet another fast food burger. Even if you don’t have the commitment or willingness to give up chains forever, try it once in a while and see what amazing new foods you discover. Your taste buds will thank you for it.

Hello my name is Allyson and I'm a Marcos addict

I don’t typically consider myself to have an addictive personality. I only smoke a drag or two of a cigarette when drinking, I check in on my MySpace page once, maybe twice a year and I’ve only seen Titanic once all the way through. And yet I can’t stop eating Marco’s coal-fired pizza (For my cherry-popping Marco’s experience, read Best. Pizza. Ever.).

I went again today. Got the usual - the lunch special of salad, drink and margherita pizza. I never order a drink, reluctantly eat the salad and spend the time not drinking and unenthusiastically eating greens waiting for the main event - the pizza.

And it comes. And it's glorious. Every time I bite into it I'm amazed by the artistry of the sauce/cheese/crust amalgamation. I anticipate the next bite like I still anticipate Christmas. And when there are no bites left, I feel disappointment like the Christmas I got a suitcase instead of rollerblades.

So what do I do? Do I try to break my Marco's addiction cold turkey? Or do I just indulge - it is a local, independent restaurant after all. But does Breaking the Chain count if I'm eating at the same place over and over?

My goal for next week is to not eat at Marco's. I work in the middle of downtown Denver; there are hundreds of restaurants within walking distance of my office building. But then again, what would it hurt if I had just 1 little pizza? Just 1 more. Then I'd quit. Yeah...

For your viewing pleasure, I’ve attached not 1 but 2 pictures of this crack cocaine of pizza.

Try Finding Pizza on Labor Day

I spent the weekend camping and playing at a lake in Nebraska (Note: I'm not saying which lake I was at because I can't spell it and am too lazy to Google it. But let's just say it's the last name of a Hollywood actor known for running around topless and playing naked bongos.). Of course with camping comes camp food - s'mores, burgers, etc. When we got home Monday night I wanted pizza.

My first choice was Original Pizza (http://originalpizza.us/Index.html), which makes a tasty New York-style creation. They don't deliver, but I was craving it so hard that I was willing to pick it up. My husband calls and they're closed for Labor Day. Next.

We looked at Double D's Sourdough Pizza (http://doubledspizza.com/), but I just can't resign myself to pay $26 for a 2-topping pizza. Maybe if it came with Antonio Sabato Jr., but it doesn't, so I ain't paying.

At this point we were running out of pizza options and I was running out patience. Proving why I married him, my husband dug deep and suggested Papa Frank's (http://www.papafranksbroomfield.com/), a local Italian restaurant whose pizza we had never tried. He called - also closed.

WTF independent pizza places! Why can't you be more like a heartless corporation and force your employees to work on Labor Day? I couldn't wait another minute to eat so we headed to a style of restaurant I knew would be open - our Little Vietnam. Sure enough, all the pho places were open. Now that's a work ethic.

It wasn't the pizza I'd been craving, but my pho and my husband's pork plate were delicious, as always. I can always count on Little Vietnam.

Damn you, Dairy Queen

This week I encountered the enemy C of Breaking the Chain: Cravings. Considering I have the will power of Rosie O’Donnell, whenever cravings arise, it means trouble.

I consider myself to be pretty stubborn and strong-willed. Anyone who has ever had to live with me would tell you the same thing. That’s why it doesn’t make any sense that my hard-headedness turns mushy between 5-10 p.m. while watching TV. Whatever the commercial that comes on, I want what they are selling. Pizza from Dominos? Order it up! No matter that I don’t even like Domino’s. Seeing it on TV during those 5 magical hours makes me wish I had them on speed dial.

I still don’t quite understand how prostitution and marijuana are illegal but dinner-time commercials for Kentucky Fried Chicken still make the cut. I’m pretty sure that eating a bucket of saturated fat is far more dentrimental than a little sex or pot. Not to mention the ruined marriages due to your spouse eating the last drumstick, or, God forbid, the final biscuit.

I’ve had strong food cravings for as long as I can remember, and I can’t wait to see the havoc they wreak when I’m pregnant. In fact, I already have a list started of all the food we need to have on hand in the house when I’m expecting, so as to save my husband many a midnight trips to the grocery store. I’m so thoughtful. It’s a good thing we negotiated that second fridge and freezer into the price of our house.

This week the major craving culprit was Dairy Queen. Of the Big 3 ice cream sellers in my neck of the woods – Dairy Queen, 31 Flavors and Cold Stone – Dairy Queen would be a distant third. I’m talking a Kevin Jonas of the Jonas Brothers distant third. Yet a few days ago I got it into my mind that I absolutely had to have a Mint Oreo Blizzard then and there.

When I get a craving, my body has a hard time letting it go. If I don’t get it that first night when the craving begins, which I didn’t, it just won’t leave. I wanted that damn Blizzard all week long. And while will power may be able to win battles, it’s extremely difficult to win wars.

My husband generously offered to pick me up any premium ice cream I wanted from the grocery store, but it wasn’t ice cream I was after; it was the Mint Oreo Blizzard. Once the seal was broken on bad-for-me cravings, the floodgates opened. A character on a favorite TV show mentioned cookies; I immediately had to have a Doubletree chocolate chip cookie. A team on a competitive cooking show made truffles; I wanted a boxful from Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory.

But I didn’t have the truffles, the cookie, or, sadly, the Blizzard. And mentioning those three things probably wasn’t a good idea, as it’s coming up on dinner-time and all sound fantastic right about now. To satiate my sweet tooth I’ve been drinking lots of chocolate milk and eating dark chocolate in small bouts. According to my doctor this is much healthier than making a run to the Dairy Queen, as I’m getting more calcium and antioxidants. Screw that, I still want the Blizzard.

Fast Food-less 14er

I'm not a huge fast food person, but there is one time when I must have it: after climbing a 14er. For non-Colorado residents, a 14er is a 14,000+ foot mountain. For some reason, my otherwise lazy self enjoys hiking them. I've tried bringing turkey sandwiches to eat at the summit, but whole wheat bread and lean meat just don't seem appetizing after manually dragging myself up nearly a vertical mile. And so I end up at fast food restaurants.

Yesterday my husband (Peter), pug (Smeagol) and I climbed up Mt. Yale. Only Smeagol and I made it to the top, as we left Peter around 12,800'. Peter smartly packed all the food in his backpack, leaving us tired and hungry at the top. Luckily some nice guys from CSU fed Smeagol and I beef jerky, watermelon and chocolate (the pug didn't eat the chocolate). Still, I looked forward to my post-14er tradition - a cheeseburger and fries.

I picked up Peter on the trail and we started the long trek back to the car. While I'm all enthusiasm on the way up, I'm all misery on the way down. My shoes hurt my feet. I slid in the scree and scraped my knee. I'm hungry. I'm quite the brat.

On the plus side, nothing compares to seeing the 4-Runner at the trailhead parking lot. It's a harbinger of the cheeseburger to come. I typically insist that we wait until we encounter a drive-thru from which to get my greasy, protein-packed burger (hey, I just hauled my ass up a mountain, I deserve to order from inside the car), but I knew that my chain restriction would mean I'd have to get out of the car.

K's Burgers in Buena Vista, CO is where we stopped. They hyped "old-fashioned" burgers (as opposed to those new-fangled ones) and had a crowd outside. I ordered a cheeseburger and fries and Peter, feeling not-so-great after not summiting, ordered a grilled chicken sandwich. I've gotta say, it wasn't the best hamburger of my life. Not really worth getting out of the car for. But hey, it still beats a turkey sandwich.

Best. Pizza. Ever.

Every once in a while something comes along and turns your world upside down – in a good way. In my life these things have included meeting my husband, first tasting ice cream and learning that an airplane (and some cash) could take me pretty much anywhere I wanted to go. Now I have something new to add to that list – Marco’s coal-fired pizza (http://www.marcoscoalfiredpizza.com/).

I thought I knew pizza. I’ve met Chicago-style, New York-style, Neapolitan-style, heck even something called Denver-style. I’ve eaten it on at least 3 different continents and 10+ countries. I’ve been made sick off of it, as well as made happy. I’ve celebrated birthdays, mourned deaths and talked late into the night with friends new and old over it. I thought that after a quarter of a century I couldn’t possibly learn anything more about pizza.

I was wrong.

I’d heard about Marco’s in passing, but I’d never really taken the recommendation seriously. After being misled by friends’ referrals to “the best Italian food in Denver” (canned tomato sauce), “the best Mexican food in the world” (not even edible) and “the greatest hamburger since In-N-Out” (I’d rather have Burger King, and that’s saying something), I don’t really trust many people’s palettes. I guess I have a self-important tongue. But there is someone who is usually not too far off base when it comes to restaurant recs, and he said that Marco’s, on a good day, creates a world-class pizza. World class? That’s worth a shot.

I have a co-worker with whom I’m having a food affair. We’ll call him my Food Mister (if women are mistresses, I assume the male version would be a mister) in order to protect his identity from any of my potentially jealous dining companions. FM is extraordinarily generous to me when it comes to office lunches. He’s spent more on my mid-day meals than I’d spend on vet bills to keep my dogs alive. FM has a food fetish, and I’m an easy target of affection for anyone who enjoys a lady who can eat. The first time we went out to lunch, I out-ate him at an all-you-can-eat pasta buffet. He’s been smitten ever since.

We trade off buying each other lunches, although his treats are typically considerably more expensive than mine. On Thursday, it was my turn to buy FM lunch, and so we set out to try this so-called world-class pizza. It was a fairly long walk over, but we were greeted by a promising sign – filled tables and people waiting to be seated. This place was popular. It wasn’t long until someone showed us to a table, and quickly after we both ordered the lunch special – a salad, drink and margherita pizza.

I have a theory that you can tell all you need to know about a restaurant based upon their simplest, usually cheese or margherita, pizza. On this blank canvas, an overly-sweet or processed sauce can’t hide under stacks of pepperoni. The crust’s flavor and texture can’t be masked by peppers and onions. And when cheese is the star ingredient, it better be fresh and flavorful. If the margherita pizza doesn’t taste good, there’s a pretty good chance that nothing else will either.

Naturally, the salads arrived in front of us first. I was excited to see it topped with very young-looking mozzarella, and it didn’t disappoint. Normally I’m not a big fan of salads, but if there’s enough meat or cheese tossed in, I can make due.

When FM and I go out to lunch, we usually chat quite a bit. That is, until the food comes. Then, dead silence. The only sound you can hear coming from our table is the clanking of forks hitting plates and sauces being slurped. However, this time at Marco’s, when our pizza arrived, we spoke.

“Oh my God.”
“Oh my God.”
“This is the best margherita pizza I’ve ever eaten.”
“I know.”
“No, this is the best pizza I’ve ever eaten.”
“I know.”
“The sauce –”
“So fresh, it must have been real-life tomatoes just minutes ago.”
“The crust –”
“Perfection. You can taste the flour.”
“And the cheese –”
“Is there a cow in the back?”
“This pizza is so good I want to cuss.”

And FM never cusses.

If our conversation doesn’t do a good enough job of describing just how delicious this pizza is, here’s how Marco’s describes it. “Made with San Marzano tomatoes and artisanal cheeses imported from the Italian countryside. Antico Molino Caputo flour from a third-generation family mill. A proprietary water blend that recreates the signature New York City bite. Fired together at 1,000 degrees for just 90 seconds to create an exceptionally light, tender and fragrant crust.”

90 seconds! There is nothing any human has ever done or anything they will ever do in under 90 seconds that can match the greatness of this pizza. And don’t even mention sex – not until you’ve tried this pizza.

We finished quickly. I looked over at FM and said those magic words, “Do you want to get another one?” When the busboy came by to clear our tables he asked how everything tasted.

“Fantastic,” I replied. “Can we get another one?”
“Another one?” he stuttered. “Umm, let me get your waiter.”

Our waiter returned to our table, utterly befuddled.

“You want another pizza?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, please,” I answered.
“To go?”
“No, we’ll eat it now.”
Puzzled expression. “Well, do you want another lunch special?”
“No, we don’t need the salad and drink – just the pizza, please.”
“But you have to have the salad and drink – it’s the lunch special.”
“But we just want the pizza.”
“So you just want a pizza?”
“Yes, please.”
“But it comes with salad and a drink. It’s the lunch special. You have to get the salad and a drink to get the pizza.”
“Umm, ok. Whatever it takes to get us that pizza.”

Never in my life have I finished a meal at a restaurant and promptly ordered another of the exact same thing. It’s the equivalent of riding a roller coaster at an amusement park and screaming, “Again!” to the attendant. Except fuller.

The second – or I should say third since we had each eaten our own in round 1 – pizza was just as delectable as the first, although it could have used a bit more cheese. I happily paid whatever amount of money they charged my credit card – it could have been $100 and it would have been worth it – and out we waddled. On the walk back to the office, there were a lot of “Oh my Gods” again and “That was the best pizza ever.” No real conversation, however. We were both just basking in the afterglow of that pizza.

Why are you doing this???

When I told friends and family that I was giving up chain restaurants in 2009, the response was similar to if I had said I was planning to spend the year in an igloo eating only orange foods. “Good Lord, why?” was the common reaction.

I can’t really blame them. In your average suburb, city or town it’s a whole lot easier to find a Domino’s or Papa John’s than a family-run pizza joint. And you’ll stumble over five Olive Gardens before finding authentic Italian food.

So why avoid them? Am I some kind of hippie who needs everything I eat to be grown on an organic farm? Do I refuse to eat anything cultivated outside of my state unless it’s delivered in an electric car driven by environmentalists scattering seeds along the side of the highway? Am I a food snob who thinks I’m too good for McDonald’s?

For one, I’m far from a hippie; I have a Republican elephant tattoo. For the most part I could care less if my veggies are organic or if the farmer wore fair-trade overalls. While I will always select locally-produced food over imported when given the choice, I live in Colorado and am not willing to give up bananas, chocolate or pretty much anything that grows between November and April. I may be guilty of wanting high-quality, delicious foods, but I don’t believe there exists a correlation between that and cost, and I’m certainly not above hitting up a drive-thru every once in a while.

So why break the chain? Like most of my life, it all comes down to the food. I’ve had one too many disappointing meals at the restaurants you see advertised on TV. There are too many fantastic flavors at your local, independently-owned places to keep eating riblets and pizones. We live in a lazy, uncreative culture that rewards the status quo. Instead of trying out a new Asian restaurant, we fall back on P.F. Chang’s and Panda Express. That mentality made me miss out on Thai food for the first 19 years of my life. I still shudder to think of those years, or as I now call them, the dark ages.

It’s my intense love for food that has led me to this resolution of sorts. I can no longer bear the fact that I’ve never tasted food from Cambodia, Moldova and so many other regions. I’m going to stop wasting my meals at satisfactory (at best) restaurants that I’ve eaten at hundreds of times and instead seek out the exceptional.

I look forward to eating food that was imagined and prepared where I’m eating it. Where the cook makes what he/she thinks will taste best; not what corporate dictates. Where quality control means each and every plate sent out of the kitchen means something. I fully expect to eat the best food of my life.

Supporting my local economy is a positive externality of breaking the chain. The best way to support local businesses is to buy from them. Even if a franchise is owned by a resident, much of the profits will leave your community, as they’ll be sent away to corporate. That franchiser also doesn’t get to decide from where to purchase their food, and odds are they aren’t patronizing local farms and ranchers. Their ingredients come from a uniform, national supplier who ships the product to restaurants around the country. Of course when food is being transported long distances, it’s not fresh by the time it gets to your plate. And to keep it alive and servable longer, the food must be pumped full of chemicals and preservatives – a reason chains have such high sodium levels.

Better-tasting food, healthier food and environmentally and economically friendlier food – what’s not to love? This is going to be a preservative-free, locally-made piece of cake.
I’ll simply stop eating at chains – cut and dry, right? Well, what is a chain? Unfortunately it’s about as clear as Arby’s sauce. Some are obvious – Applebee’s, Denny’s, Red Lobster, etc. – but then there are local chains. Pizza places, delis and even fast food establishments that are based here out of Colorado but have just as many locations as the Cheesecake Factory.

According to a popular encyclopedia-esque website, a chain restaurant is a set of related restaurants with the same name in many different locations that are either under shared corporate ownership or franchising agreements. The site goes on to say that chains are typically built to a standard format and offer a standard menu. They are often found near shopping malls and tourist areas. Nothing like capitalism to incite your hunger for standard (read: bland) food fare (My words, not the website’s).

Since my motivating factor is the quality of the food I’ll be eating, I decided to define non-chains as locally-based restaurants with no more than 4 locations. While 4 is an arbitrary number, I believe that the more locations to oversee, the more likely the original flavors that made that initial restaurant so good will be sacrificed to appeal to the masses. And I don’t trust any mass that made Kentucky Fried Chicken the second most successful restaurant in America (secret recipe: herbs, spices and disdain). I’m also going to restrict non-chain restaurants to a single state. If they cross state lines, it’s a no-go; food extradition can’t possibly promote good eating.

Another reason why this will be harder than it first appeared is because this decision affects more than just me. Every person I eat with will have to avoid chains when dining with me, and for some people this will be a major challenge. One friend of mine won’t eat anywhere except the major American-food chains. Another won’t go to a Mexican restaurant that doesn’t serve Margaritas. So much for taco carts with her.

There are many restaurants I’ll miss, but I think at the end of the year I’ll consider ’09 to be a culinary success. Join me as I track the difficulties I experience, attempt to convert white bread friends to naan and chronicle my new food discoveries!