I swear I gained 15 pounds last week.
It wasn’t my fault. I was in New York City for vacation.
No surprise here: I overate.
And, even less of a surprise: I didn’t even think about going for a run to work it off.
It started with a flawless post-redeye croissant, buttery and yeasty, at Patisserie Claude. Claude himself, always on the premises, is the epitome of the grouchy, sleep-deprived hermit-baker with gruff manners but unfathomably good pastries.
From there, I had roasted, curried cauliflower (described on the menu as Indo-Chinese style) and paneer stir-fry at Devi, a rosebud of an Indian restaurant near Union Square. Then I tossed back a half-dozen ice-cold Atlantic oysters at old standby Aquagrill in Soho. Later, I sliced my way through a tender Wagyu strip at the new Vegas-
style CraftSteak over on the West Side. (At $110 it wasn’t worth it, but the fabulous $14 martini was worth every cent).
Buttered rolls and egg sandwiches at the Meatpacking District’s Sascha Bakery provided the next morning’s fuel. Mozzarepas (corn bread stuffed with mozzarella) from a cart off Washington Square took me to dinner. Which, being a wood-oven-fired duck breast and a scoop of brioche bread pudding (at Cookshop in Chelsea) encouraged the kind of slow, meandering conversation that is the mark of a perfect Sunday supper.
Still stuffed next morning, I limited myself to just one apple fritter at Donut Pub.
I was proud of this restraint, but it didn’t last. Lunch was nasi lemak, a Malaysian chicken-coconut-curry dish at Fatty Crab, then two scoops of gelato (mascarpone and mint) from Il Labortorio Del Gelato downtown.
Dinner? Naturally, a supple poached fillet of halibut with a citrus emulsion next to a trio of illegally tender hearts of palm and washed down with a just-
under-room-temp Sancerre Perry Street, an uber-glam modernist eatery on the banks of the Hudson River where you can watch the sun set over New Jersey as you sip your negroni.
As the week wore on, my meals began to blur. A late-morning café au lait and basket of bread at Balthazar. An afternoon bahn mi Vietnamese sandwich (medium spicy) with an ice-cold Coke from Little Nicky’s. A midnight snack of iwashi (sardine) and hirame (fluke) sushi with cold sake at Blue Ribbon Sushi. A 5:30 a.m. burger at Florent.
Two meals vied for the best of the week: One was a perfect old-school coq au vin at Le Veau D’Or, a lost-in-time French restaurant that first opened in 1937 and hasn’t changed much since.
The other was at the new, tiny Little Owl in the Village where I had one of the best pork chops I’ve ever had, thick and succulent and not, like most pork chops, egregiously overcooked.
There were some low points, of course. While the supremely glitzy, sprawling, 1,000-seat Buddakan was pulsing and packed, its unexciting Chinese fare fell flat. (Good thing Triple Eight Palace in Chinatown was serving dim sum the next day.)
Also lackluster: Cru, where, despite a tasty bowl of ricotta cavatelli with toasted walnut butter and a filling, moist breast of chicken with chickpeas, my socks were not knocked off. And The Original Sandwich Shoppe, which at one time made the best meatloaf sandwich on the planet, was off its game – stale bread and watery mayo.
So, what did I take away from my trip besides a crippling credit card bill, wistful memories of a perfect pork chop, and jeans that are snugger than they should be?
I took hope.
My trip gave me even more optimism about Denver’s ever-rising dining scene.
Yes, there’s more foodie action in New York City than almost anywhere else. And while Denver doesn’t have as many restaurants as New York (what city does?), we have, chef for chef, more than our fair share of culinary innovation.
Need proof? Check out the lobster bouillabaisse and patatas bravas Somethin’ Else on East Sixth Avenue. Mateo Restaurant in Boulder for a charcuterie plate and gnocchi. India House downtown for tandoori quail and channa masala (spiced chickpeas). Braised endive with ham at Z Cuisine in Highland. Snickerdoodles at Adagio Baking Co. in Park Hill.
And what with our 10 jillion miles of running trails and bike paths, your jeans will still fit.
Dining critic Tucker Shaw can be reached at 303-820-1958 or at dining@denverpost.com.
