Chipped beef on toast is served at Ellyngton’s in the Brown Palace. (William Porter)
Ever eaten chipped beef on toast? Shaved crimson-colored beef drowned in a mountain of cream sauce — specifically, a — and served atop a couple of slices of toasted bread?
If you’re a military veteran of a certain age, you will definitely remember it, though in all likelikhood you called it by a far less polite name. It’s the same name my Boy Scout buddies and I called it at North Carolina’s back in 1969.
A recent morning at Ellyngton’s Restaurant in took me back to the rustic dining hall that sat near the bone-chilling lake where we earned our Swimming and Lifesaving merit badges. And you know something? It was as big a gut bomb now as it was then, despite the white table cloth and heavy silver cutlery on the table at Ellyington’s.
Things started off well, with a complimentary liquid amuse-bouche arriving at the table. It was a raspberry-tinged “sipping chocolate” the kitchen was sending out to all diners that morning, the better to steel yourself for returning outside.
I had dropped in at Ellyngton’s on a cold morning out of a bit of nostalgia. The previous night, I had finished rereading F.X. Toole’s “Rope Burns.” The short-story collection is a masterpiece in its own right, but also ranks as some of the greatest writing about boxing ever. (One of the stories inspired Clint Eastwood’s
Anyway, the book was written by a guy whose real name was Jerry Boyd, a retired cornerman from California who had parlayed years of experience as a ringside cut man and bucket handler into his book. He did this at the tender age of 70.
, joining him for breakfast. He was terrific company and a natural raconteur, and sadly only had two more years to live. So I returned to the scene of our breakfast in a minor effort to channel the man.
And I ordered the chipped beef on toast.
Lord, what a mountain of food. A huge mound of beef mixed with an impossibly rich cream sauce sat atop slices of Texas toast in a hubcap-sized bowl. I looked around to see if there was a defibrillator hanging on the wall.
When I was four forkfuls in, the waitress came by.
“How is it?” she asked.
“Tasty,” I said. “But how on earth does anyone finish this?”
“It’s a lot of food,” she conceded. “But you can do a half order.”
Now she tells me.
I lasted another eight bites and put down the fork. I felt like Sonny Liston must have as he lay on the canvas in Miami under the gaze of Muhammed Ali — utter defeat and “What the hell just happened?” No, I didn’t have the leftovers wrapped to go.
I paid my tab and walked to the office. The sidewalks were iced over and all I could think was how much roadwork a boxer would have to do to wear these calories off. More than I had in me, to be sure.
And that’s the Denver Breakfast Club for this Tuesday.
The post appeared first on .
