Archive for April, 2009

There is, most unfortunately, no such thing as a free lunch.  That sucks.  I like lunch.  I like free.  The blissful union of those two things is something someone somewhere should get on.  There may be a Nobel prize, or at least a James Beard award, in store.

There is, however, a custom in Madrid called “tapas” which I gather to mean in English “free bar snacks.”  Typically, this consists of a basket of salty chips or peanuts, tossed on your table so that you might order another round of drinks.  This normally works.  The salt parches your throat so that you can barely rasp “another round” to your friendly server.  Which arrives with more salty snacks.  A vicious, beautiful cycle, that.

There is at least one place, however, that goes above and beyond a salty snack and delivers the closest thing to free lunch I have ever seen in the non-communist world (uh, or in the communist world, for that matter).

It’s possible to spot El Tigre from a block away.  Even on a Sunday afternoon, young Spaniards with trendy haircuts and acid-washed jeans block the door, oft clutching a glass or bottle of something that looks vaguely alcoholic.  The ceilings are low, the décor rivals the best and dirtiest dive bar with unsteady tables, wall kitsch that has little rhyme or reason, and barrels filling in so more patrons can crowd into the tiny space, set things on a flat surface, and pretend that they are involved in some semblance of comfort.

Flat surfaces are important.  Order a caña in El Tigre, which is a juice glass full of light beer, and you get plate of authentic Spanish tapas that range from tortilla Española to ham on tostados to croquetas of fried cheese and dough.  The closest thing to a potato chip you’ll see is a fried potato, dripping in salt and grease and doused in salsa brava.

It’s hard to hold your food and drink at the same time, hence the tables and barrels.  It’s also hard to have just one round (huh, I spot the revenue model here).  If you’re like me in your lust for free and delicious, you’ll feel obligated to eat until you’re about to explode, which will cost you approximately 5-7 euros, depending on how healthy your appetite is (mine is healthy.  Very healthy.  If this had been dinner, I would have spent 7 euros.  As it was a snack, I spent 3.50).  On a continent where it’s hard to spend less than $50 a day even if you’re living po’, El Tigre is a godsend.  Just watch yourself.  If there’s anything worse than an alcohol hangover, it’s a fried food hangover.  And at El Tigre, you’re likely to get both.

Being an exceptionally tall human, I am no stranger to public transportation with legroom for dwarves.  My turn to yoga was one part desire to get in shape, one part desire to touch my toes, and 900 parts necessity, since without flexibility, I am unable to contort myself in ways necessary to fit myself into the Polly Pocket-sized compartments that seem to abound this earth.

No munchkin-land impression, however, compares with my flight on SpanAir.  Not a one.

I was forced to take SpanAir from Frankfurt to Madrid because I paid with miles.  When you pay with miles, you don’t get normal amenities.  You don’t get upgrades.  You don’t get seat requests.  You don’t get special meals.  You may as well get shoved in the cargo area of the plane.  They aren’t making money off of you, and, therefore, they have no interest in making you comfortable.  Last time I flew on miles, I had a middle seat on an Asian airline from San Francisco to Jakarta, Indonesia.  Luckily, I also had a good friend named Ambien along for the ride who allowed me to sleep in that middle seat the entire way and wake up with just a moderate crick in my neck.  No such luck on the Frankfurt to Madrid leg.  My health insurance changed and turns out most doctors don’t just prescribe Ambien because you might want to take it recreationally during a long flight.  Who knew.

I eyeballed the lack of leg space immediately upon drowsily boarding my flight.  Hoping it was just my lack of spatial awareness flaring up again, I tried to suppress the imminent panic attack building.  I looked at my ticket again. Definitely a window seat.  When I reached my row, I couldn’t get into my seat the normal way, so I crawled over the first two seats then busted out the Crisco to grease myself down between row 23 and 24.  I had 2 carry-ons, and I did my best to stealthily put both in the overhead compartment and was promptly caught by a flight-attendant with an overzealous love for rules.  She told me in Spanish that I had to put my second bag under the seat in front of me.  I pretended to not understand (hey, being a foreigner might finally pay off!), so she proceeded to tell me in French, German, and English.  Great.  Guess I can’t pass for Japanese (see aforementioned height affliction).

My oversized purse taking up a cubic foot of my precious legroom meant that there was no way I would be able to sit straight in my seat.  Praying that I wouldn’t have seatmates, I arranged myself in a modified side-angle pose, propping myself up with one elbow and shoving my butt forward toward the seat in front of me.  Naturally, it was a full flight.  As soon as my seatmates arrived, I was locked into place, doomed to either breathe through the hip opening position I was in for the next 2 ½ hours or die of muscle cramps.

To get through it, I began to imagine the Spanish flavors I would be reintroduced to upon my arrival in the Iberian peninsula.  This was particularly difficult after the flight attendant dropped off my mid-flight snack.  Far from the fat-laced jamon de Iberico I was preemptively drooling over, I was forced to stress-eat a crustless whitebread sandwich with bad cheese and too much mayonnaise.  I then asked my seatmates to let me out no less than 11 times so I could “go to the bathroom” (which probably made them think I had kidney failure or irritable bowel syndrome) and yelled “come ON” a little too loudly when armrest-grabbing turbulence dictated the pilot turn on the fasten seatbelt sign, ending my 95th lap up and down the aisle.

Finally, just as my heart was about to explode from excessive palpitations, the pilot announced that we were about to touch down in Madrid.  Hallelujah.  But as some cruel twist of fate and test of my patience, my rowmates, with that smug look of superiority that clearly says, “I am god because I am better at sitting still than you are,” waited until everyone else deboarded the plane.  Guess what.  I don’t care.  And furthermore, I’m going to walk like the tinman for about 6 days straight because of what you’re putting me through.  I don’t know god, but if I were him, I’d banish you to the 9th circle of hell for that move.  It’s akin to beating a puppy.

Finally, after sweat broke across my brow, I was freed from my SpanAir confinement.  Crisco was again necessary to bust out of my improvised yogic pose, and my stiff limbs flailed a bit, nearly taking out the very flight attendant that made me put my bag under the seat in front of me.  Serves her right.

It’s lucky Spain is a culture of pork.  Otherwise, this totally wouldn’t be worth it.

Ali’s coming to town.  She arrives by way of United Airlines tomorrow, April 21 and leaves April 26.  She’s coming to visit me. I’m sure we’ll have a lovely time, eating and drinking for hours and then spooning in my bed over endless pillow-talk that will blow any male-related pillow-talk that occurs in that bed out of the water.  We’ll hike the Flatirons, sit atop a mountain, and have manic conversations about life.  I’ll probably be late to work Wednesday and Thursday, and we’ll probably make new friends in restaurants and bars throughout the Boulder community.  It will be a reunion worth writing about.

This would all be fine and good and absolutely terrific except that I leave for Spain on April 25, and Ali will stay until April 26, sleeping in my bed without me.  Yep.

This isn’t the first time Ali and I have done something like this.  We met in Argentina, bonded over our immense and equally-matched appetites, and the rest is history.  When we left Argentina after 5 months of falling in love with each other, we didn’t say goodbye.  We meant to, though.  We even went to the airport together.  But because of our inattention to detail and the fact that we were both running late, we got separated at customs and had to sprint to our respective planes, sans teary adieu.

So this isn’t exactly a shocker.  It’s okay, she understands.  But hey, Boulder friends, want to hang out with the coolest girl I know?  Her crappy host is ditching her for trendy scarves and Iberico ham.

Acid Reflux. I’ve found one downside to living life in wine: acid reflux. I may look young and spry, but I’m really approximately 65. No joke. Ask my friends for their opinions when I’ve forgone a night out for a campari soda and a couple of rounds of chess. Unfortunately, this also means that I have senior citizen problems: I say things that are totally inappropriate in social contexts, I have a tendency to refer to the good old days, and I have an aforementioned acid reflux problem. This would be easily controlled if I just took a couple of nights off, but that’s proving almost impossible. So my new senior citizen problem, unlikely to change anytime soon, is waking up at 4 every morning with a stomachache and/or heartburn. When I can’t go back to sleep, I go for a walk and greet the little old ladies and men that I meet. It’s a thriving social community at 5 am. We talk about our grandkids and impending move to Florida.

Strunk & White. Speaking of being elderly, I’ve taken to listening to All Things Considered all day, especially while on the job at the Boulder Wine Merchant. This provides useful tidbits of information, such as the fact that yesterday was the birthday (anniversary?) of Strunk & White. Naturally, this sent me into a couple of moments of blinding nostalgia as I remembered checking every intro government paper by the Strunk & White rules. Suddenly, I was re-declaring my major all over again (only to change it a few more times), longing for the academic stimulation of the college campus. Then I remembered all the drinking and the aforementioned acid reflux flared up again. Sigh, I guess I’m not as young as I once was.

Food porn. Be aware, if you give me anything that contains beautiful pictures of food, it will render me completely useless for at least as long as it takes to look at those pictures. It will also render me deaf, which helps me fit in more with my new 5 am social crew. Favorite food porn of the moment: Tastespotting (beware, upon seeing this, David’s consumption of lotion went up fivefold, and Rusty immediately began a search for a new house with a bigger kitchen. It’s a recession, people. Neither of those consequences are saving them money) and Saveur Magazine. This month’s issue of Saveur features a truffled gnocchi, and article comparing Alice Waters and Thomas Keller (my heroes), and a sexy cover subject: the chocolate caramel tart. They’re going to send me to the nursing home, I’ve become a drooler.

Writing. I’m clearly not sleeping anymore, what with the heartburn, so I thought it might be fun to take a 4th job.  If you can’t get enough of me here and want to read more about wine, check me out at my new gig as Boulder Wine Examiner.

I take a lot of pride in my current car situation.  This isn’t inherently odd.  A lot of people love their cars.  Normally it’s because they scrimped and saved or took out a line of credit and bought something pretty that fits their lifestyle, be it a Honda Civic or a lifted Jeep or a shiny BMW.  This is not the case for me.  I’ve owned 1 new car and we didn’t get along.  She was accident prone.  2 years of my driving skills and she’d survived a sideswipe by a brick wall and a run in with a parking divider that had ripped off god only knows what in her undercarriage.  It’s not my fault; she had a penchant for plowing into stationary objects while her owner, me, was text messaging.  I sold her to my dad in the height of the Civic buying craze, giving him a “deal.”  I should note that he bought the car for me in the first place, as a graduation gift, so it doesn’t matter what “deal” I gave him, it didn’t change the fact that he bought the car twice.

Anywho, after quitting my lucrative career in finance, I found myself back in Denver and desperately in need of some transportation.  I distribute wine, after all.  I live in my car.  Because lack of finance job also equals lack of high discretionary income, I was hoping to scam a family car for cheap (free).  Lucky for me, I had options.

Option 1:  1997 Dodge Caravan.  This shiny red vehicle was the vessel of choice for Shunk family roadtrips around the country.  We thought it was pretty cool when we got that thing; it was the first year Dodge put two sliding doors on their minivan.  It’s seen better days, however, and the fact that the driver side door is actually broken coupled with the terrifying shimmying that makes me doubt the survival of the engine at speeds higher than 65 mph made me hesitant.

Option 2:  LUCKILY, Adam packed up and went to Spain, leaving behind a family legacy:  1992 Honda Accord.  LX.  This baby has a special place in my heart.  I learned to drive in it, and it represents the ultimate in a trip down memory lane.  Sure, the clutch is faulty.  Ok, the “automatic” windows move at the speed of paint drying.  The radio plays only one station, the handle on the passenger door is broken, the interior’s faded, and there’s a crack in the windshield that’s almost hazardous to the sightline.  The Grateful Dead stickers and homemade Grateful Dead rearview mirror hanging have become fixtures, as much a part of the driving experience as the seatbelt and the steering wheel.  To add to the charm, Adam got hit just before moving away so there’s a big dent in the side and no tail light.  I don’t care.  That car and me, we get along.  We understand each other.  And I cruise around in that baby proudly, head held high.

Head held high, that is, until, as mentioned before, I have to work from my car.  My car might be appropriate if I were the high school pot brownie baker, but I schlep fine wine.  I already look young.  I’m sure every restaurant owner and liquor store buyer is happy to see their sales rep cruise up in her high school car.  I try to park in the back of the parking lot so as to avoid awkward questions about my pride and joy.  I’m pretty sure no one wants to look under the hood.

Occasionally, I get to valet my car for free for my wine appointments.  This happened 1 week ago.  Normally, I would decline politely, and walk as much as a mile in high heels to avoid pulling into the valet line in that baby.  It’s not worth the judgment.  But frugality trumps avoiding awkwardness so when I found myself in downtown Denver forced to either pay a million dollars for an hour of parking or take up my buyer’s offer on free valet, I swallowed my pride and cruised into the garage.  The valet gave me an eyebrow raise.  I tossed him the keys.  ”Try to take it slow around the corners,” I said, “Not really because of the whole scratch thing, more because the tires are kind of bald, and I’m concerned about your safety.”

“Now I’ve really seen it all,” he said.

“Hey,” I said, “Don’t judge her.  You’ll hurt her feelings and won’t be able to get her to start when I come back.”

If things go well, I might have to cave and get something a little more, um, professional.  Hopefully before the wine suppliers come in a month and I’m required to drive them around to my wine accounts.  But she’s a trooper, that car.  And it doesn’t matter what comes next, I’ll never forget my first love.

Chipotle. Dearest. Burrito-kin.

It was good while it lasted, wasn’t it? I remember the day we met. I was but a rosy-cheeked youth, full of zest and neutral opinions about Mexican food. And then you walked into my life one fateful spring day and all was changed. Suddenly I was begging my friends to come with me to see you, riding by coyly on my bicycle and hoping you’d notice me (and give me a free drink). You stuck by me through the hard years: the years of puberty, when my metabolism finally caught up and you turned me into a roly-poly. You were there for me in high school, and I was there for you, shamelessly requesting to eat in your hallowed halls each and every day even as my friends rolled their eyes. We were in passionate love, and nothing could tear us apart.

The time came to introduce you to my friends and family, and they loved you, too, Chipotle, sometimes with a zeal that rivaled my own. I was jealous occasionally, it’s true. And I took it out on you by going down the street to the more authentic burrito joints. I never strayed too far, though, Chipotle. I was still your biggest fan, sticking by you regardless of the fact that loving a big chain had the potential to ruin my foodie reputation, as many of my more savvy friends oft reminded me. I didn’t care. We were still in love.

The time came when I couldn’t bear to be away from you, so I began to proselytize for money. I worked in your offices, bringing burrito love to the masses, and helping your fearless burrito-makers talk about all that is good and Chipotle to everyone. I lost friends over our relationship, Chipotle, as I couldn’t talk about anything but you.

And that’s when I realized we needed some space. I moved cross-country so we could take some time to think about things, but I was still your girl, and everyone knew it. I offered to take my new co-workers and friends to your locations and talk to them about why you’re wonderful, despite the fact that you compete with every more original street meat vendor and ethnic food restaurant in New York. I trekked across Brooklyn almost weekly just to maintain our relationship. It was a rough road, but we persevered, and I was sure we were going to make it.

But now, you’ve changed, Chipotle. I’m okay with some change, we should all be challenging ourselves to get better. But change I can get behind would be things like bacon in the green chile. Better farming practices for your meat. Seasonal salsas. You know, things that still make you the wonderful you that you were. Things that made you the chain with the power to change the world. But I don’t even know who you are anymore, Chipotle, and that hurts.

I liked you because it was simple: you knew who you were, you were a little bit irreverent, and you didn’t care what anyone else thought. You were cool. My friends were jealous of our relationship. But those days are gone. Your value menu (because no matter what you call it, it’s still a value menu), kids meals, and no substitutions rules are too much. Your ads now make me think of Burger King. I even tried to give change a chance, but wasn’t allowed to add pork to my pozole, and then I knew. It was over.

So Chipotle, it hurts, but I think we should see other people. And I don’t think we can be friends. You see, I’ve been secretly getting into bed with some more authentic taco joints of late, the kind that won’t abandon me to look and act more like QDoba. Remember when we used to make fun of QDoba? What fun we had laughing at their silly attempts to one up you. But now you’re just the same as them. Next you’ll probably add queso to your menu.

So it’s with a heavy heart that I bid you adieu. We lasted 15 years and had some good times together. Here’s hoping we both find happiness down the road.

I just read these exchanges and resulting events between my dear friend David and Denver’s most illustrious, but still bad, food critic Jason Sheehan, and the bile rose again.  Normally, I don’t begrudge anyone a good meal.  In my perfect universe, we’d all be brothers and sisters of delicious well-crafted morsels, breaking our metaphorical bread over the tables of great restaurants from San Francisco to New York, from Denver to Austin, from Arkansas to West Virginia (hey, it’s my dream, let me have it).  But the circumstances surrounding Sheehan’s trip to Le Bernardin, coupled with the fact that he has a palate about as calloused as the bottom of my foot (thanks, Ben, still love that metaphor), make me not only inexplicably jealous, but also still irritable, a year after the event occurred.

Open call:  The food scene is exploding in this part of the country, and it’s time for the Front Range to have an actual food critic.  You know, like one that actually knows food.  Naturally, being more of a doer than a whiner (uh, most of the time), I’m ready to take this on, with dear friend David.  We have a site in the works that will continue the thread of the bacon cupcake-off, but are currently accepting suggestions for restaurants to review.  I’d also love to know if you happen to KNOW a food critic with good taste so I can get onto that writing.  So, food friends of the Rockies, email me or post comments on this entry, and I’ll let you know when we go live.

Peace, love, and foie gras.

The wine world is a funny funny place. It’s not all sipping Vouvray over lunch. In fact, it’s very little kicking back with a bottle and boozing until you’re tipsy. The wine world is a place for geeks. It’s a place to talk about structure, tannic grip, and residual sugar. It’s a place where it makes sense to spit so you can taste 30 wines without falling on the floor. And it’s a place where you have to jump through certain hoops.

The largest congregation of wine geeks in my world is at The Boulder Wine Merchant. Owned by a couple of Master Sommeliers, Boulder’s wine aficionados, snobs, and studiers congregate amongst the shelves, discussing the tragedy of the 2007 Oregon pinots and the triumph of 2005 Bordeaux. Naturally, I had to work here.

The Boulder Wine Merchant has put me through hoops. To get a job there, I had to fill out a 60 question wine quiz on everything from the 1855 Classification of first growth Bordeaux to the different levels of German Riesling to the traditional method for making champagne. I sent the quiz to a sommelier I knew in New York who responded, “This is so hard core.” Being the eager beaver that I am, however, I used my resources in the form of wine books and Google and got the job.

My first day on the job, the owners asked me to open a bottle of champagne. By asked me to open I mean asked if I knew how to open , to which I mistakenly replied, “Yes.” Okay, here’s a lesson: never reply, “Yes” to your fearless and knowledgeable leaders. Because then you’re going to be watched like a hawk for error in your technique, of which you have plenty if you’ve always opened champagne by just busting the cork off outside and letting the excess champagne run where it may. So when I began to employ this method, the owner looked on with exasperation: “No, 45 degree angle. DON’T remove your hand from the cork. Just a twist. 45 DEGREE ANGLE! 45 DEGREE ANGLE!” In my nervousness, the cork came flying out, I forgot the whole 45 degree angle thing, and sparkling wine spewed all over the table and floor. Good. Torture. Thanks.

Things really got rough, though, when I started distributing wine to the Boulder Wine Merchant. They know I don’t know anything. So when they’re tasting my wines, they don’t care about anything I might say about them, they just care what they think, which is fair, because they know about 900 times more than I do. It makes them a unique appointment. Normally, I babble on about the winemaker and the vineyards. With them, I just pour, like a deaf-mute, and they talk amongst themselves about the weight and structure. Once in awhile they order something, to which I nod subserviently, and scurry on my way.

I still manage to do something stupid from time to time. For instance, the other day, I zealously used my industrial strength wine key to whip the cork out of a bottle of wine I was going to pour for them and in the process knocked over another open bottle, sending zinfandel gushing all over the back table. I laughed nervously, as if to say, “Love me! I’m the idiot girl who needs to be taken in and trained! I’m so adorable in my inabilities!” It broke some of the ice for a second, and then they went back to talking about the mid-palate as we returned to our equilibrium of deaf-mute silence.

Through the adversity, I trudge on in the name of the DOCG system, Rhone blends, and new world vs. old world style. I’m okay with being broken down, but I hope the day comes soon when it’s decided I’m ready to be built back up.

Dear Core Power Yoga,

I’m sorry I didn’t have faith in you. You see, I made the mistake of going to your C1 class. Normally I’m an advanced beginner. The yogis in New York really kicked my ass and my confidence. So when I went to your C1 class, I felt proud that I was such a good yogi, but underwhelmed at the challenge. I also missed the touchy-feely spirituality of Dharma Mittra yoga and my Vinyasa instructors. You understand.

Today, however, I tried C2. After 9 thousand side planks, at least 500 chatarangas, and about 2 million boat pose crunches, I can happily say I am condemned to bed rest until my muscles start firing again. Naturally, that’s the mark of an effective workout. I also lost about 10 pounds in water weight today. I apologize that some yoga studio devotee had to mop that up off the floor. I also apologize to all yogis around me, fit and perfect, who didn’t even ooze a drop of perspiration. I’m sure it was uncomfortable to have someone else in the class shake their sweat all over you like a dog out of the river. We’re all brothers and sisters in peace, though, so I know you used Ugai breathing to get through it.

C2 also really kicked that whole lack of spirituality problem. I’ve never felt closer to my guardian beings and spirits. Sure, this is mostly because I was praying I wouldn’t slip across my sweat-soaked mat in crow pose and break my neck. When I stood up in Warrior 2, my life flashed before my eyes. The instructor’s advice, “Just breathe through it,” was like a beacon of hope until I blacked out. And when I threw up after class, I felt the gods were really cleansing my system. Remarkable.

So, Core Power Yoga, the teacher in me bows to the teacher in you. Through new age jazz, 100 degree rooms, and instructors who definitely don’t know how long it takes to pant 5 breaths in downward facing dog (I swear, I took at LEAST 10 breaths every time), you’ve shown me what you can offer. As soon as I can walk up a flight of stairs, I’ll be back.

Namaste,

Laura

PS.  This post is dedicated to Zach, who’s finishing teacher training at Core Power.  How you’ve done this everyday for 6 weeks is beyond me.

Here’s how to become one of my inner circle: indulge my requests to experience the magic of savory and sweet. This means, when we go to brunch together, be a dear and split both the short stack of pancakes and breakfast burrito with me. We’ll have a lovely morning, staring into each other’s eyes, thinking about the balance of the universe.

There are a couple of places in the Denver/Boulder area, however, that are making your presence at brunch less important. This is because they’ve attuned to the savory sweet universe and are offering up dishes that combine this lovely factor. I’m sharing this information with everyone because I want you to be free to embrace your desire for harmony, with or without a willing dining partner.

Boulder

Lucile’s Creole Café: Pain Perdu. French toast + egg and Louisiana sausage= perfect sized sweet and savory brunch for one. Just don’t let the syrup touch the egg (uh, I happen to like pork and maple mixed together, though).

The Kitchen Café: Dutch pancake with ham and gruyere cheese. This SORT OF counts. As in, it will do in a pinch. The pancake adds a touch of sweetness, but truth be told, I’ll probably be browbeating you into sharing the toffee French toast and Goat Gouda omelet until the seasonal menu changes again.

Zolo: Banana chocolate chip corncakes. So the corncakes themselves are like dessert, but they’re totally served with a side of homefries. Because that makes sense from a culinary perspective. Ah, sweet starch with side of savory starch. Lay off me I’m starving.

The Tee and Cake: Chocolate Bacon Cupcakes. Bacon makes everything taste better, even chocolate cupcakes. And yeah, I do consider cupcakes brunch. The caloric intake is on par. Just make sure you get one on Saturday. Because they only make them 3 times a week.

Denver

Duo: Sweet Sunday. Okay, so first glance, not a sweet lover’s dream. Eggs, mushrooms, onions, potatoes. But the onion ragout is sweet, so it adds that harmonic balance. Or you could just get the challah French toast with a side of bacon, or order the basket of scones before your cider-glazed pork benedict. The options are endless.

Bump & Grind: This menu changes often, so I won’t try to keep up. I do know, however, that in a pinch, you can order one of the pastries (which are, like, real smack you in the face pastries, not some bastardized version) for about $2. Plus the servers at the Petticoat Brunch on Sunday are savory and sweet embodied. I don’t want to give away the fun, but it’s always worth it.

Steuben’s: Chicken and Waffles. Yep, straight from the dirty South. The a la carte menu is also sizeable, making it hard for even the most diehard savory and sweet combiner to choose a perfect combination (macaroni and cheese + pancake? Wrong?).

Rootdown: How do I choose? Here’s the genius thing Rootdown did with brunch options: sweet potato hash with the savory, crème fraiche with the sweet. Every dish walks the balance. Yet another reason why this place is, like, the hottest thing in Denver right now.