36 month celebration

Rob and I celebrated 3 years recently - time has flown!

Despite our otherwise exhausting weeks, we chose to indulge a bit for the occasion.

We met in Larimer Square, which we normally avoid like the plague. The twinkly holiday lights are charming, but the plethora of valet runners (and the Teslas whose gears they're grinding) gets obnoxious quick. But - 3 years - it's kind of a big deal, so we figured we'd weather it.

Normally we return to our go to favorite, and the setting of our 3rd date, Osteria Marco. It never fails, and is the perfect execution of Italian food without pasta in every single dish (much to the satisfaction of my pasta-averse boyfriend, who OD'd as a kid growing up in an Italian family).

This anniversary, we thought we'd try something a little different. After dropping a dollar bill in the top hat of the carolers outside, we headed downstairs to Green Russell, a speakeasy-style bar I've been wanting to try for awhile. Despite feeling like we were in the wrong place (which is the whole point), we strode forth acting like we knew exactly what was in store. With the pie shop in the front and the smokehouse just off to the side, we still felt like we were in the wrong place when we arrived at the "check in" table. All in good fun. We produced our IDs and did a secret handshake with the hostess, and were led through the swinging door to the dingy, basement establishment.

I was prepared for the dark, dampness of the place, as well as the polished brass studs on the red vinyl bar stools, but even my wildest imagination hadn't prepared me for the stench. It smelled like a mixture of wet hops and dirty socks - too much so to just be "part of the experience". We held our breath and took our seat, angled toward the bar to watch the drink-making show.

Though it took at least 20 minutes to get served (should've known it was an old-style speakeasy with modern hipster service), I will give it a gold star for ambience. The suspenders-clad servers and Brylcream'd bartenders did a great job looking nervous and shady, and my drink (whose name I can't remember because it was at least a full run-on sentence long) was quite good. We snacked on homemade pretzels and cheese dip, which were salty as all get out but good nonetheless. The "rules" of the joint, posted all over the place, are cutesy and perfectly pretentious - "Be kind and dress smartly".

When we'd had enough, we j-walked across the street to Rioja, which I'd only ever been to for brunch. It was Rob's first time. The ambience was disappointing after Green Russell, of course - the metallic wall art is more fitting of an all-things-Asian restaurant (you know, the ones that have udon noodles and pad thai and lo mein and pho and dimsum). Oh well. The sheer glittery curtains between tables, meant to serve as a visual blockades between diners, were a good idea in theory. After all, it did serve as an identity protection sheet for our neighbor, whose cackling laugh nearly cracked my wine glass.

The food really was good. Our main courses, Artichoke Tortelloni and Black Truffle Gnocchi were perfectly seasoned and melted in our mouths. We had placed a bet on how many pieces of pasta would arrive on our plates (I guessed 3, Rob guessed 4), and we were both happily surprised to find 5 tortelloni and at least a dozen little gnocchis.

The goat cheese and olive plate could have been executed better - it arrived in a minimalist display with 3 whole olives rolling around the plate, and about a teaspoon's worth of a few different cheeses. We are normal-sized people - come on. The Castelveltrano and apple skewers were surprisingly well-paired, and though Rob was not a fan of the smoky caramelized olive dust in the center, I was just intrigued enough to dissolve most of it on my tongue.

It would be unfair if I didn't mention the bread baskets, which are arguably the #1 reason I like this restaurant, and will likely return. On this particular night there was a lavender sourdough, a goat cheese puff and homemade  focaccia. Hands down, the highlight of the meal is selecting your bread(s) from the bread peddler as he comes by with his tongs.

Despite having to Google half the menu items (we're fairly smart people, by the way), we were impressed by the dining experience at Rioja. The best feature of this type of restaurant, of course, is feeling uncomfortable but pretending that you are totally accustomed to someone straightening your table cloth and folding your napkin when you leave the table to plug the parking meter. And the smoky caramelized olive dust - that's just weird.

Citrus is a funny flavor for a cinnamon roll

I had breakfast with an awesome friend today - one I've never thought of as "close", but who always inspires me. We ate at Dozens, a place I've seen a million times, parked near a thousand times, considered a hundred times and made a date to go to a handful of times, but this is the first time I've actually gone.

There is something about certain restaurants or drinking establishments that makes me feel required to be judgmental. It's nameless, but it makes me notice every burnt out light bulb, every stain on the menu, every chip in the paint. Dozens is NOT one of those places.

I didn't have a stellar experience, and I didn't have a horrible experience, and somehow that was ok. I left feeling like I came, I ate, and I got exactly what I expected. That's more than I can say for many dining experiences I've had.

The "I'm your friend let's hang out" service was great and not overdone - it seemed authentic, which almost sounds like an oxymoron as I type it, but it's true. The name of each dish was cheeky and Denver-y: you had to be a local to understand them all, I think. Or maybe you had to be the owner. My 'Blue Bonnet Sonnet' omelet was exactly what it needed to be: fluffy and filled with green chile and cheddar. Although I'd hardly call the 1/48th of a slice of pineapple a "side of fresh fruit included", it was fresh and zingy on a cold winter day, which was all I could ask for.

There was one thing that caught me off guard: the citrus overtones of the cinnamon roll. It's cool to play with comfort food favorites and add a twist of your own flavor and all that. In fact, it's common and often well done. But, Dozens, you really do owe diners fair warning when you mess with something as promising and potentially life changing as a cinnamon roll. People see the poetic combination of those two words on the page and spiral-shaped, crunchy-on-the-outside-soft-on-the-inside memories take hold. It's already an uphill battle: going up against the idea of the cinnamon roll. You really should be honest if you plan to throw those memories down and stomp on them.

The citrus marmalade glaze was a shock when I was expecting gooey, cinnamon-y, creamy icing-y goodness, but I made it through and feel I'm better for it. I even enjoyed it a little, once I assuaged my mind with the logic that, this wasn't a real cinnamon roll. My memories are tainted, and I may never read that poetic line the same way again, but I'll add it to my life experiences and hopefully never be duped again.

My breakfast-mate, on the other hand, welcomed the surprise and counted it as a blessing. Which brings me back to him: the inspirational friend across the table from me.

It's not that he has a difficult life: in fact, quite the opposite. But the few circumstances that might be considered setbacks by some have had 'opportunity' written all over them through his glasses. He had a child before he was ready to start a family, and does everything he can for his son despite the circumstances. He has followed a career path taking him far away from his girlfriend of several years, but he has the strength and conviction to stay on that path because he knows it's right for him. He sees every day as a chance to wake up, do awesome stuff, and live for himself without apologies. He fits more activities into one day than I fit into an entire summer, and for a peak bagger living in Colorado that says alot.

I only hope I can take some lessons from his book and run at life head on while still stopping to hold doors for those who need it. May we all rush at our dreams full force and take unhesitating bites of cinnamon rolls, come what may.