Larimer Square is one of Denver’s top attractions: it is exciting, expensive, and crowded (like a theme park, only for adults). The street is almost always buzzing with a constant flow of families, foodies, and hipsters. There’s a million things to look at, and good smells emanate from the buildings packed tightly into this historic district. Understandably, the restaurant competition is fierce, and many of the chefs are worthy of name dropping. To decide where is eat is like picking a ride at Disney Land: exciting and extremely difficult.
Don’t be persuaded by the big signs and bright lights of other establishments. Follow the iron pig to Osteria Marco, newest member to the family of Frank Bonanno restaurants. You will then be led down into the cavernous dining room. On a sunny Sunday afternoon, your eyes will take a full minute to adjust to the dark and cozy basement. Once things come into focus, the beautifully polished wooden bar takes center stage, surrounded by tall racks of Italian wines. Even on a slow afternoon, the hustle and bustle of the chatty diners, attentive servers, and soulful music give the restaurant character that can't be imitated.
The paper menu fits Osteria Marco's unpretentious attitude. No frilly descriptions adorn the house crafted meats, cheeses, and antipasti, which could be intimidating to a less experienced diner. On the same note, the food arrives with little embellishment, only a drizzle of green olive oil, or flecks of freshly ground black pepper. For the same reason a great peanut butter and jelly sandwich has only three ingredients, the honest fare at Osteria Marco speaks for itself.
Creamy goat cheese is slathered on warm bruschetta, topped with earthy mushrooms halves and luscious olive oil ($6). The rotisserie chicken panini ($10) is filled generously with morsels of tender chicken and grilled long for the provolone cheese to become gooey, and the red pepper spread to seep through the crusty bread. A substantial salad of pesto-coated shrimp, arugula, ceci beans, and warm flatbread ($12) doesn’t let the salad eater feel left out of the party.
While desserts are not as transcendent as the buttery house-made Burrata cheese, they round out the meal nicely. The uncomplicated vanilla semifreddo is served in a pool of strawberry sauce and sprinkled with candied toasted almond bits that offer needed contrast to the frozen cream.
When it is time to leave, climbing out of the grotto into the carnival of activity on the street can be a little shocking. Nevertheless, the euphoria of a satisfying meal at Osteria Marco doesn’t wear off, and like a kid coming down from a sugar high, leaves you spoiled for the next couple days.
Osteria Marco
Italian│1453 Larimer Square, 303-534-5855│$3-$21│Monday-Thursday& Sunday 11 a.m.-10 p.m., Friday & Saturday 11 a.m.-11 p.m.; all credit cards.
Front Burner: Great atmosphere and simple food made in time honored, traditional ways.
Back Burner: Unlikely/expensive parking coupled with crowds of snobby hipsters can make an otherwise relaxing experience stressful.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Masalaa
After dining at your local Star/Little/Taste of India, have you ever asked yourself, "Why did I waste $16.95 on overcooked Korma and watery Chai tea?" Chances are you’ve also had your fair share of greasy curries, saccharine sweet mango lassies, and chutney from a jar. Leave those bad memories behind and seek out Masalaa Fine Indian Vegetarian Cuisine. Located near the intersection of 1-225 and Parker Road, Masalaa blends into a strip mall with monotone blue signs. Don’t be fooled by its plain façade, inside awaits a culinary excursion far from strip mall-style Indian cuisine.
Upon arrival, the smell of fragrant spices is the first thing to greet you. You will be led to a table in one of two rooms, each warmly decorated in a homey style with paintings of India, and linen covered tables. The quotes on the wall from Mahatma Gandhi almost speak louder than the servers, but food arrives quickly even on a busy Saturday night.
The extensive (almost overwhelming) menu of authentic vegetarian Indian cuisine is a little vague, and the practically non-existent servers don’t much help either. Masalaa aims to impress with four pages of exotic delicacies, all prepared to order. Surprisingly though, the menu is never compromised with hints of Americana, even on the kids menu (!).
First time customers should just point to something and order- the chances of success are high. Try a few of the very reasonably priced appetizers to start your voyage. The Mulaga Bajji ($3.95), deep fried jalapeño peppers dipped in chickpea batter, served with a cooling coconut sauce, will satisfy any heat cravings. The Gobi 65 ($3.95), deep fried cauliflower marinated in spicy yogurt, served with a cilantro sauce are also delicious. A surprising discovery is Vada Pao ($4.95), fried potato bonda stuffed between buttered rolls. It doesn’t sound like much, but the cold mustard seed and curry spiced potato cakes are scrumptious. To even further distance yourself from your chalky Chicken Tikka nightmares, order an Uthappam (starting at $7.50), a pancake of lentil and rice flour, or Dosa ($6.50), an impressive looking crepe served with savory condiments.
Once you have managed to select an entree, the feast continues. The Vegetable Korma ($9.95) is perfumed of coconut and cardamom, but the lack of salt doesn’t let the spices do any justice to the mundane mix of overcooked broccoli, peas, and carrots. The Aloo Masala (9.95) is a very satisfying dish of potatoes in a rich (borderline greasy) sauce. The servings of complimentary rice are very generous, and the steaming Phulka bread ($2.50) erases any bad feelings about bland sauces. If you still have room at the end of the meal, complete your experience with Gajjar Halwa ($3.95), warm carrots and milk flavored with nuts and saffron, or Gulab Jamun ($3.95), milk balls in cardamom-flavored syrup.
Masalaa doesn’t just attempt to serve authentic Indian cuisine, they actually do. The food is delicious, satisfying both strict vegetarian Hindu and hedonistic omnivores alike. So next time you get a craving for an Indian meal that won’t leave you disappointed, you know where to go: Masalaa Fine Indian Vegetarian Cuisine.
Masalaa Fine Indian Vegetarian Cuisine
Vegetarian Indian│3140 S. Parker Rd., Aurora, 303-755-6272, masalaausa.com; Delivery 303-534-TOGO; Take Out/Catering 303-755-6272│$1.95-$16.50│Hours:11:30-2:30, 5:30-10 p.m. Monday-Thursday; 11:30-2:30, 5:30-10:30 p.m. Friday; noon-3, 5-10:30 p.m. Saturday; noon-3, 5-10 p.m. Sunday; all credit cards accepted
Front Burner: Authentic vegetarian Indian cuisine made to order in a pleasant, warm atmosphere. Water glasses always full and quick service.
Back Burner: Bring your own saltshaker, napkins, and friendly conversation; your server cannot offer any of the above.
Upon arrival, the smell of fragrant spices is the first thing to greet you. You will be led to a table in one of two rooms, each warmly decorated in a homey style with paintings of India, and linen covered tables. The quotes on the wall from Mahatma Gandhi almost speak louder than the servers, but food arrives quickly even on a busy Saturday night.
The extensive (almost overwhelming) menu of authentic vegetarian Indian cuisine is a little vague, and the practically non-existent servers don’t much help either. Masalaa aims to impress with four pages of exotic delicacies, all prepared to order. Surprisingly though, the menu is never compromised with hints of Americana, even on the kids menu (!).
First time customers should just point to something and order- the chances of success are high. Try a few of the very reasonably priced appetizers to start your voyage. The Mulaga Bajji ($3.95), deep fried jalapeño peppers dipped in chickpea batter, served with a cooling coconut sauce, will satisfy any heat cravings. The Gobi 65 ($3.95), deep fried cauliflower marinated in spicy yogurt, served with a cilantro sauce are also delicious. A surprising discovery is Vada Pao ($4.95), fried potato bonda stuffed between buttered rolls. It doesn’t sound like much, but the cold mustard seed and curry spiced potato cakes are scrumptious. To even further distance yourself from your chalky Chicken Tikka nightmares, order an Uthappam (starting at $7.50), a pancake of lentil and rice flour, or Dosa ($6.50), an impressive looking crepe served with savory condiments.
Once you have managed to select an entree, the feast continues. The Vegetable Korma ($9.95) is perfumed of coconut and cardamom, but the lack of salt doesn’t let the spices do any justice to the mundane mix of overcooked broccoli, peas, and carrots. The Aloo Masala (9.95) is a very satisfying dish of potatoes in a rich (borderline greasy) sauce. The servings of complimentary rice are very generous, and the steaming Phulka bread ($2.50) erases any bad feelings about bland sauces. If you still have room at the end of the meal, complete your experience with Gajjar Halwa ($3.95), warm carrots and milk flavored with nuts and saffron, or Gulab Jamun ($3.95), milk balls in cardamom-flavored syrup.
Masalaa doesn’t just attempt to serve authentic Indian cuisine, they actually do. The food is delicious, satisfying both strict vegetarian Hindu and hedonistic omnivores alike. So next time you get a craving for an Indian meal that won’t leave you disappointed, you know where to go: Masalaa Fine Indian Vegetarian Cuisine.
Masalaa Fine Indian Vegetarian Cuisine
Vegetarian Indian│3140 S. Parker Rd., Aurora, 303-755-6272, masalaausa.com; Delivery 303-534-TOGO; Take Out/Catering 303-755-6272│$1.95-$16.50│Hours:11:30-2:30, 5:30-10 p.m. Monday-Thursday; 11:30-2:30, 5:30-10:30 p.m. Friday; noon-3, 5-10:30 p.m. Saturday; noon-3, 5-10 p.m. Sunday; all credit cards accepted
Front Burner: Authentic vegetarian Indian cuisine made to order in a pleasant, warm atmosphere. Water glasses always full and quick service.
Back Burner: Bring your own saltshaker, napkins, and friendly conversation; your server cannot offer any of the above.
Vinaigrette
Hi. My name is Emily, and my life revolves around food. It is the one thing that connects all the other pieces, like a simple vinaigrette melding the flavors of a chopped salad. This is not a new passion, but one that started at a young age when I first learned to make a vinaigrette with my dad. Just Dijon mustard, red wine vinegar, honey, salt, pepper, and olive oil-shaken, not whisked. The way the ingredients hesitated to combine at first, then emulsified into one creamy sauce sparked a fascination with food that has stayed with me to this day.
To avoid sounding a little obsessed, I will say that I have other interests. Science, art, travel-they just all happen to get tied into food somehow. That dressing finds its way into every crevasse, coating each ingredient lightly. I like knowing the origins of food including the history and culture associated with the people who make it. Despite recent strides like the organic, Slow Food, and localvore food movements, food seems to be causing more problems than solutions. The serious dilemmas of a world with too much food concern me. Obesity, starvation, disease, allergies, additives, and genetically modified foods are issues that affect gourmands and simple eaters alike, and I want to explore them. From smoked salmon to Salmonella, the world of food never ceases to amaze me. I can only hope there will always be enough Dijon vinaigrette to make my salad come together, without leaving a pool at the bottom of the bowl.
To avoid sounding a little obsessed, I will say that I have other interests. Science, art, travel-they just all happen to get tied into food somehow. That dressing finds its way into every crevasse, coating each ingredient lightly. I like knowing the origins of food including the history and culture associated with the people who make it. Despite recent strides like the organic, Slow Food, and localvore food movements, food seems to be causing more problems than solutions. The serious dilemmas of a world with too much food concern me. Obesity, starvation, disease, allergies, additives, and genetically modified foods are issues that affect gourmands and simple eaters alike, and I want to explore them. From smoked salmon to Salmonella, the world of food never ceases to amaze me. I can only hope there will always be enough Dijon vinaigrette to make my salad come together, without leaving a pool at the bottom of the bowl.
The Triangle
As the eager summer sun crept up on the horizon, I walked anxiously down the graffitied street. My nose caught a nauseating whiff of cheap grain alcohol as I passed the dumpster overflowing with glass bottles. I hesitated for a moment before stepping inside the building. The Triangle Lounge was a funky old place- passing as a restaurant by day and rowdy bar by night. Her backside was about as easy on the eyes as a friendly crack whore: tired, abused, and a little scary. As I slipped in through the back door, I could feel the beads of sweat forming above my lip. The kitchen was cramped with appliances, the low-boys humming softly. I flipped the switch on the industrial-sized fan, which buzzed furiously to keep the temperature down. Making the rounds to turn on the fryer, flat top, and five ovens, my cheeks started to flush from the overwhelming heat.
I cautiously walked out into the dining room. If I had told you we don’t get tornadoes in Seattle, only earthquakes, you probably wouldn’t have believed me. Spilled liquor and empty bottles covered the worn wooden bar as well as the floor. Tables and chairs were strewn about, and the smell was ripe, to say the least. As I turned the corner, I almost jumped when I saw JC, the bar manager, passed out on the floor. JC had been part of the 90's grunge scene, an era he clung to tightly. He was 32, scruffy looking, and always sweating from the copious amounts of drugs he relied on to keep going. He had a nasty habit of taking shots with regulars, getting so wasted he would sleep at the Triangle. I managed to convince Hugo, the jolly Mexican dishwasher who didn’t speak a word of English, to wake JC up and start mopping the floors. It was then that I asked myself, "What the hell am I doing here?".
With a year of culinary school under my belt, I thought I knew most everything about cooking. I idolized all the big shots: Thomas Keller, Ferran Adria, Anthony Bourdain. I had skills; I could concassé tomatoes, chiffonade basil, and squirt sauce decoratively on a plate. I thought being a chef was about searing expensive meats and reducing luxurious sauces. My imaginative dreams included traveling to Europe to study under culinary masters. The cherry on top of the sundae would be opening a restaurant of my own, which would lead to my inevitable fame.
But before I could get any further down the road to success, I knew I needed to earn some street cred. I wanted to feel legit, get a few scars on my hands and blisters on my feet. I was home for the summer and needed work as a cook before returning to my prestigious culinary school. Luckily, I beat out all the other competitors (ha) for a job at the Triangle Lounge, in Seattle’s Fremont district. My first couple days went smoothly, and although I thought I was above such menial work as frying chips and making tubs of pico de gallo, I felt kind of bad-ass working there. Everyone smoked, drank on the job, and told dirty jokes. I was also the new girl, so the attention wasn’t bad either.
This was my second Sunday at the Triangle, and today I was working brunch by myself. I thought I had managed to impress the chef throughout the week with my culinary lingo and clean chef whites. Sure enough, that Wednesday, the handwritten schedule was posted: BRUNCH/Emily. Maybe he wanted to test me, maybe he had just fired two cooks, maybe he was high. Who knows why, but I was assigned brunch that Sunday alone. By most standards, brunch at the Triangle was pretty typical: eggs Benedict, French toast, omelets, etc. I found the scribbled prep list from the previous nights' crew, and began to feel faint. Hollandaise, poached eggs, sliced fruit, French toast batter, pancake batter, clarify butter, biscuits, gravy, precook bacon, sausage, and chorizo. I had two hours to figure out, organize, and prepare for a brunch I had learned for the first time a week ago. Needless to say, the time disappeared like a line of coke in front of JC.
Proudly, I congratulated myself on making my nine o'clock deadline. I had managed to finish all the prep on the list and chug a few tall glasses of acrid coffee with a couple minutes to spare. For some reason, still unknown to me, adventuresome Seattle tourists were able to look past the distressed exterior of the Triangle Lounge, and invite themselves inside. The furious DEET-DA-DEET-DEET of the ticket printer started promptly at 9:15. Two top: one eggs Benny, one Italian scramble. Not bad, knocked 'em out quick. DEET-DA-DEET! Four top: one stuffed French toast, one corned beef hash, one biscuit and gravy, one eggs Benny. I was handling this pretty good. After a few well spaced tickets and relatively easy orders, I started to feel confident. Then the printer started spewing orders, back to back. Omelets, eggs over easy, medium, and hard. Rye bread, wheat bread, bagel- no butter. DEET-DA-DEEEEET. Sauce on the side, hash browns extra crispy, smoked salmon Benny. I started to lose it. I was so shaky I would break the yolks on perfectly cooked eggs and have to start over. I forgot to toast bread, ran out of precooked bacon, and the hollandaise broke. Hung-over JC (who was filling in for a flaky server), couldn’t pick up his food in time, and I would have to refire entire orders. My confidence started fading as panic took its place.
If I had been able to pause for one minute, I would have burst into tears. Hugo, the dishwasher, could sense my frustration. He gestured that he would take over the fryer, and while I spun around to drop food on the plates, he flipped pancakes and French toast. He would ask my approval before plating anything, "Amiga, mas papas fritas?". I would look over and blurt out a grateful, "SI!" then get back to organizing my thoughts. By the time the night crew rolled in, I had officially been defeated. I didn’t even bother to make myself a shift meal, I just walked to my car in shame.
That day broke me. It shattered my confidence as a cook, and put me in my place: just a novice culinary school freshman. How could I ever make it in Paris if I couldn’t even cut it at the nastiest dive bar in Seattle? I could talk about foie gras torchon and truffles, but I realized none of that mattered unless you could hold down a line. I learned that speed, agility, and memorization were much more valuable than being able to list culinary facts.
I wanted to run away from the Triangle and never look back, but I knew I had to stick it out. That summer I got scars on my hands and blisters on my feet. I learned kitchen Spanish, and became good buddies with my savior, Hugo. I learned how to multitask and organize ticket orders in my head. I tried many types of alcohol for the first time, often before noon. I unclogged a toilet in the ladies room on a Saturday night in front of a line of impatient drunks. Working at the Triangle Lounge, not only did I learn how to be a cook, but I grew up.
I cautiously walked out into the dining room. If I had told you we don’t get tornadoes in Seattle, only earthquakes, you probably wouldn’t have believed me. Spilled liquor and empty bottles covered the worn wooden bar as well as the floor. Tables and chairs were strewn about, and the smell was ripe, to say the least. As I turned the corner, I almost jumped when I saw JC, the bar manager, passed out on the floor. JC had been part of the 90's grunge scene, an era he clung to tightly. He was 32, scruffy looking, and always sweating from the copious amounts of drugs he relied on to keep going. He had a nasty habit of taking shots with regulars, getting so wasted he would sleep at the Triangle. I managed to convince Hugo, the jolly Mexican dishwasher who didn’t speak a word of English, to wake JC up and start mopping the floors. It was then that I asked myself, "What the hell am I doing here?".
With a year of culinary school under my belt, I thought I knew most everything about cooking. I idolized all the big shots: Thomas Keller, Ferran Adria, Anthony Bourdain. I had skills; I could concassé tomatoes, chiffonade basil, and squirt sauce decoratively on a plate. I thought being a chef was about searing expensive meats and reducing luxurious sauces. My imaginative dreams included traveling to Europe to study under culinary masters. The cherry on top of the sundae would be opening a restaurant of my own, which would lead to my inevitable fame.
But before I could get any further down the road to success, I knew I needed to earn some street cred. I wanted to feel legit, get a few scars on my hands and blisters on my feet. I was home for the summer and needed work as a cook before returning to my prestigious culinary school. Luckily, I beat out all the other competitors (ha) for a job at the Triangle Lounge, in Seattle’s Fremont district. My first couple days went smoothly, and although I thought I was above such menial work as frying chips and making tubs of pico de gallo, I felt kind of bad-ass working there. Everyone smoked, drank on the job, and told dirty jokes. I was also the new girl, so the attention wasn’t bad either.
This was my second Sunday at the Triangle, and today I was working brunch by myself. I thought I had managed to impress the chef throughout the week with my culinary lingo and clean chef whites. Sure enough, that Wednesday, the handwritten schedule was posted: BRUNCH/Emily. Maybe he wanted to test me, maybe he had just fired two cooks, maybe he was high. Who knows why, but I was assigned brunch that Sunday alone. By most standards, brunch at the Triangle was pretty typical: eggs Benedict, French toast, omelets, etc. I found the scribbled prep list from the previous nights' crew, and began to feel faint. Hollandaise, poached eggs, sliced fruit, French toast batter, pancake batter, clarify butter, biscuits, gravy, precook bacon, sausage, and chorizo. I had two hours to figure out, organize, and prepare for a brunch I had learned for the first time a week ago. Needless to say, the time disappeared like a line of coke in front of JC.
Proudly, I congratulated myself on making my nine o'clock deadline. I had managed to finish all the prep on the list and chug a few tall glasses of acrid coffee with a couple minutes to spare. For some reason, still unknown to me, adventuresome Seattle tourists were able to look past the distressed exterior of the Triangle Lounge, and invite themselves inside. The furious DEET-DA-DEET-DEET of the ticket printer started promptly at 9:15. Two top: one eggs Benny, one Italian scramble. Not bad, knocked 'em out quick. DEET-DA-DEET! Four top: one stuffed French toast, one corned beef hash, one biscuit and gravy, one eggs Benny. I was handling this pretty good. After a few well spaced tickets and relatively easy orders, I started to feel confident. Then the printer started spewing orders, back to back. Omelets, eggs over easy, medium, and hard. Rye bread, wheat bread, bagel- no butter. DEET-DA-DEEEEET. Sauce on the side, hash browns extra crispy, smoked salmon Benny. I started to lose it. I was so shaky I would break the yolks on perfectly cooked eggs and have to start over. I forgot to toast bread, ran out of precooked bacon, and the hollandaise broke. Hung-over JC (who was filling in for a flaky server), couldn’t pick up his food in time, and I would have to refire entire orders. My confidence started fading as panic took its place.
If I had been able to pause for one minute, I would have burst into tears. Hugo, the dishwasher, could sense my frustration. He gestured that he would take over the fryer, and while I spun around to drop food on the plates, he flipped pancakes and French toast. He would ask my approval before plating anything, "Amiga, mas papas fritas?". I would look over and blurt out a grateful, "SI!" then get back to organizing my thoughts. By the time the night crew rolled in, I had officially been defeated. I didn’t even bother to make myself a shift meal, I just walked to my car in shame.
That day broke me. It shattered my confidence as a cook, and put me in my place: just a novice culinary school freshman. How could I ever make it in Paris if I couldn’t even cut it at the nastiest dive bar in Seattle? I could talk about foie gras torchon and truffles, but I realized none of that mattered unless you could hold down a line. I learned that speed, agility, and memorization were much more valuable than being able to list culinary facts.
I wanted to run away from the Triangle and never look back, but I knew I had to stick it out. That summer I got scars on my hands and blisters on my feet. I learned kitchen Spanish, and became good buddies with my savior, Hugo. I learned how to multitask and organize ticket orders in my head. I tried many types of alcohol for the first time, often before noon. I unclogged a toilet in the ladies room on a Saturday night in front of a line of impatient drunks. Working at the Triangle Lounge, not only did I learn how to be a cook, but I grew up.
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