On my first night at last week’s 24th annual Aspen Food & Wine Classic, I drank too much wine.
When I woke up the next morning, headachey and wanting nothing more than a bottle of mineral water and a rice cake, it hit me: This was just the beginning. Three solid days of overindulgence lay ahead. I had to get back on the horse.
Not wanting to betray my rookie status, I quickly downed a cup of coffee (feeling virtuous, given the recently released study that suggests coffee may lower the risk of liver cirrhosis), and made my way over to the festival tents as soon as they opened.
It was still morning, and I had a lot of ground to cover. There were hundreds of booths, and only three days to hit them all. So I figured I’d start my morning slowly, with a beer from the Sam Adams display.
While sipping, I perused the glossy program of events.
“Pace yourself,” suggested the introductory notes.
Too late.
This was my first time at this mother of a trade show, an annual event that draws thousands of passionate foodies of all ranks and from all corners to Colorado’s high country.
And it was all that I expected: free-flowing wine, glitzy cocktail parties, extravagant dinners, hob-nobs with celeb chefs, post-nightcap wanderings through town.
But there was plenty to surprise me too.
Like, for something that bills itself as a food festival, The Classic attracts a remarkably skinny crowd.
You’d think, for one of the holiest days on the food calendar, that the fragile streets of Aspen would sag under the weight of the 5,000 assembled gourmands. You’d expect strained waistlines and stained polos. (And given the $975 entrance fee, you’d expect attendees to get their money’s worth.)
But these aren’t the doughy gastronomes of a generation ago. This is a worked-out, well-heeled, super-fabulous crowd that sports pricey jewels and lugs expensive handbags.
And they’re equally as interested in who designed Giada de Laurentiis’s top as what she drizzled over her tilapia.
Because the unexpected little secret of the Classic is this: No one eats. They drink, yes, and the occasional nibble of seared duck or poached veal makes its way down the occasional gullet, but most attendees are much too busy schmoozing, gossiping, gawking and sharing World Cup stats.
Besides, what if you smile at Rocco DiSpirito when you’ve got caviar stuck in your teeth? The hot-headed chef of NBC’s “The Restaurant” was in town to promote Elegant Medleys. No, it’s not a new restaurant or TV show, it’s Purina’s new line of Fancy Feast meals. That’s right. Cat food.
But if you love human food, and particularly if you love wine, you have to love this event. There’s no other opportunity in the world to taste this many things you’ve never tasted before.
For example: I’m a confessed Riesling fan, and I must have sampled 40 varieties over the weekend, an experience unattainable under any other circumstances. My understanding of this grape was widened, broadened, stretched, exhausted and surprised.
And in between glasses, I got Jamie-Lynn Sigler – a.k.a. Meadow Soprano – to mix me a margarita at the Cointreau booth.
After three days of overindulging at the Classic, I broke loose and drove the 40 miles to Glenwood Springs to check out the 109th annual Strawberry Days Festival to remind myself that there are bigger decisions to make than whether to follow a pinot gris with a Priorat.
Like, whether to buy a sample of strawberry jam or strawberry syrup. (I took one of each.)
The Strawberry Days Festival was sponsored by the local Elks organization, not Amex and Chrysler. It was free to get in, not nearly $1,000. There was a dude cooking kettlecorn, not Jacques Pépin making canapes. There were cups of strawberry lemonade, not glasses of Chateau Margeaux. There was a soapbox derby, not a panel of South African winemakers discussing terroir.
And people actually eat.
But when the cover band playing in the corner hit that familiar refrain from The Doors’ classic “Roadhouse Blues” (Well, I woke up this morning/and I got myself a beer…) I realized the two festivals, and all the food-loving people who attended them, had more in common than it appeared.
Let it roll, baby, roll.
Dining critic Tucker Shaw can be reached at 303-820-1958 or at dining@denverpost.com.
