From Russia (and Arvada) With Pastries (and Sausage)

Life with babies is one random adventure after another. Such it was that we were in Arvada a few weeks ago with the goal of buying used children's clothing (nothing's too good for my little guys). As we pulled up to another mostly-empty suburban strip mall parking lot in our station wagon that every day looks alarmingly more and more like the Griswold's Wagon Queen Family Truckster, I killed the engine and we felt instantly odd. It took a minute to process the unfamiliar vibe we were sensing. It was silence. Both boys were fast asleep in the back. As my wife ventured in to shop I was charged with staying in the car, as apparently, unlike their canine counterparts, it's not considered kosher (or legal) to leave human babies alone in the car--even if you crack the window a bit and leave them some water.

You think you hate it now? Wait 'til you drive it.

So I stayed put, as I am not your ordinary, everyday fool. I fumbled with the radio and mostly twiddled my thumbs, then started noticing that most of the traffic in this lonely out-of-the-way shopping strip was funneling in and out of the business next door. I craned my neck to see what lucky business was able to maintain a steady flow of clientele in this location. It was a Russian grocery store.

When all the clothes were bought and the babies awake we wandered into the small store to browse the unfamiliar aisles of undecipherable but familiar enough sodas, candies and canned goods. The friendly proprietor of European Delicious motioned us up to the counter and showed us his dazzling array of smoked and cured meats behind the glass where he stood. He talked me into buying a 3lb link of Keilbasa. It wasn't all that hard.

As far as I know (I don't really know) much of Denver's Russian community is concentrated in Southeast Denver and neighboring Aurora, but as I learned from the proprietor of European Delicious there are a handful of Russian churches in Arvada that keep his aisles bustling with expats.

I also grabbed some peach pastries off the counter. He warned me that I might find them a little dry (by design apparently), and that just a few doors down there was a great Russian bakery owned by two young women. We thanked him and headed immediately over there.

Kavkaz Bakery turned out to be a pleasant little shop featuring loads of fresh-baked Russian and Eastern European delights. It was hard to resist choosing from their dazzling selection of expertly decorated cakes, but I restrained myself and stuck with the smaller sweets.

The flaky, empanada-like sweet pastry stuffed with a sweet ricotta-like cheese filling was my absolute favorite. The friendly young lady who co-owns the bakery told me its name--at least three times--but being over a month later it escapes me. 

Another highlight was this crunchy donut-shaped cookie covered in shaved almonds. It was a delicious dunk into my morning brew and I only wish I had brought home several more. 

Also delightful was this strudel-like fruit-filled pastry. The layered dough was buttery and flaky; and the filling was sweet--but not overly so--letting the fruit flavor really stand out.

The next morning I polished off what was left of the pastries from Kavkaz Bakery with mug of black coffee. I picked at the peach pies all week--they were indeed dry--but good enough with morning coffee. Also lasting at least a week was that lovely Keilbasa. It felt like I had it at almost every meal: Sliced cold with mustard on sourdough, pan fried with eggs, grilled on a bun with sauerkraut. It was a little much, but I'm not complaining.

Thanks to my babies, I found a wonderful slice of Russia in a far-away pocket of Arvada. Here's to many more new experiences in the year to come.

Happy Holidays With Al's Beef: Christmas In Chicago

I've written before that Chicagoans are known for their ability to eat. Imagine then, if you will, how it goes down during the most gluttonous time of the year. Yes, no trip to Chicago around the holidays would be complete without stuffing one's face, and while I did it in many ways--from our traditional Filipino Feast festivities to sickening amounts of shawarma--I can think of few better ways for the Chicago ex-pat to get in the spirit of the season than by eating a beef with hot.

It was Christmas Eve Eve, and the family and I were wading through the hoards of last minute shoppers and camera-toting tourists, surrounded by the sounds of Salvation Army bells, the howling Loop wind and the incessant, rhythmic pounding of some Chicago Bucket Boys. We had just finished checking out some pathetic Christmas windows at the State Street Macy's (formerly Marshall Fields) and needing some serious cheering up. Luckily right around the corner--on Wabash and Jackson to be exact--is a much lovelier window:

Yes, after staring at "Christmas" windows that were just product placements for mostly evil celebrities, it was a relief to see the window of Al's Beef , which didn't need to disguise itself behind glitter and Christmas lights. We stepped out of the frigid winds and in to the welcoming warmth of Al's. The air heavy with the aroma of steamy beef: Think roasting chestnuts but with beef juice and hot peppers. In the spirit of the holidays I up-sized to a large Italian beef with hot peppers though my wife stuck with a regular. Also in the name of Christmas and all things holy, I got us a large order cheddar fries.

Downstairs in the downtown location is all stand-up counter dining--complete with a life-size photo (and detailed instructions) of a fat guy demonstrating how Al's wants you to eat your beef. This is all well and good, but not possible while shouldering a squirming infant, so we headed up to sit and dine like the tourists that we now are.

Eat too many beefs the right or wrong way, 

you will end up looking like this guy

If you have been chronicling my beef adventures (OK, I know you haven't so I'll catch you up) then you will know that while I've had some decent beefs over the years I haven't had a really good one. Al's Beef, in case you are wondering, is a really good one.

The large seemed just right as one whiff of that steaming shaved beef--one look at those lovely hot peppers--made me imagine that I would not be able to get enough beef that day (I was wrong--I got enough). I twisted my baby off to one side and went in with one hand. I managed to get most of what I wanted in my mouth, and while fending off very determined baby hands I did my best to savor each tender, juicy and spicy bite.

After several overly enthusiastic mouthfuls I turned my attention to the copious cheddar cheese sauce slopped all over Al's excellent fries. It was insanely rich and just the type of holiday overindulgence that I was hoping to get into on this trip.

And overindulge I did. This meal marked the start of six days of frenzied and non-stop eating. And while my stomach was not exactly pleased by about day four, I am hoping this marks the start of a new holiday tradition: Al's Christmas Beef.

Happy New Year, and thanks for reading.

Leaving the House Without Kids: Fast Times at Euclid Hall

When I sat down to start writing about Euclid Hall, it hardly seemed worth it--not because I didn't like it--but rather because I spent all of thirty-five minutes inside its retrofitted Larimer-Square-worthy space. You see my wife and I, in another rare evening out without babies, visited a few weeks ago before catching a film at this year's Denver Film Festival. By the time we finally got out of the house, down to the Auraria Campus and had picked up our tickets we had exactly 45 minutes before show time. We decided to make the most of our time and made a mad dash to the closest restaurant that we could find.

On 14th St just across Cherry Creek, Euclid Hall's glowing, giant-sized beer-tap-sign appeared like a beacon (again, excuse the photo quality, I'm in the market for a new camera). We hesitated for a moment before heading in, briefly contemplating whether or not it was possible to dine so quickly in one of the Jasinski Empire restaurants. It crossed our minds that we might have better luck with our quick meal at the media-mogul-owned-burger-factory next door. But this was once-a-month-at-best date night and we had been wanting to try Euclid Hall for a while--so we crossed our fingers and headed in.

I checked my phone for the time as we leaped up the entrance stairs: Just about 40 minutes until the lights would dim and the film would start. I interrupted the hostess as politely as I could to exaplin our time crunch as she started her welcome shpeal. (Yes, I was going to be that guy tonight.) She took it wonderfully in stride and steered us away from the Chef's table at the entrance to the bar upstairs where she thought it would be faster.

After hustling up the stairs we sidled up to the bar and were greeted by a barkeep with a museum-worthy handlebar mustache. He started another shpeal that I could tell was going to be much, much longer than the hostess' as he began flipping through pages of drinks and food. When I cut him off (and this time apologized for being that guy) and asked him, "Do you think you can get us fed and out of here in 30 minutes?" He closed the menus, stepped back, and without missing a beat or seeming annoyed in the least he confidently told me that yes, he could--and maybe sensing the troubled decision-maker that I am, he added that it would, of course, "Depend on how fast I could decide what to order."

"Touche, young barman," I thought to myself. If I had a dueling glove and we both had ten-gallon cowboy hats to match his mustache (and I could grow facial hair) we could have had faced off like true gentlemen at ten paces. I glanced the menu over and in a decision-making out-of-body-experience I rattled off: "Mushroom poutine, sausage sampler and the pickle plate." Outside of ordering a hot-dog from a hot-dog stand, that was the fastest ordering I have ever done.

Photo source here

We then got a couple beers from the relatively pretentious but well-endowed beer menu, toasted to our efficiency up until now and took big, satisfying sips--then a quick breath, a few laughs and suddenly our food started rolling out.

All ribbing aside, our barman was a consummate professional. He checked in just enough to make us feel looked after, but without interrupting or being bothersome. He thoughtfully made the point of putting our orders in separately so that each item would be delivered when ready. When all the clutter of our meal arrived and we were about to dig in hastily, he took a minute to arrange the plates and drinks in a much more ascetically pleasing way. "Even in a hurry," he was telling us wordlessly, "take the time to enjoy it the right way." After our plates were just right, we took another breath--our second or third of the night I believe--and went to work.

The pickled vegetable platter was full of a variety of house-pickled foodstuffs. There were of course pickled cucumbers of at least two kinds, as well as nice fat cauliflower and carrots.

The sausages were the star of our back-bar dining night. The veal sausage was light and was spiced with orange or another citrus. The subtle sweetness and delicate veal flavor was a good place to start. The Kielbasa was much heavier. It was a great version of this Eastern European classic: bold, simple and meaty. The bratwurst was stuffed with cheddar, which I normally don't love--I prefer my brats straight-up, so to speak, but it was still a worthy brat.

The best of the best hands down was the blood sausage. This dark, slightly sweet, richly flavored tube of meat was absolutely fantastic. If I make it back to Euclid Hall I will skip all the other sausages and double-up on this congealed wonder. It was that good.

I forgot to mention that when each dish was served to us it was done with the obligatory Euclid Hall shpeal. Our poutine was no exception, and after her relatively lengthy and formal explanation (remember, this is poutine we are talking about) our server almost bowed in retreat as she backed away from the bar. I bet in Canada they would never believe that this much formality could be given to their ubiquitous hangover-curing poutine.

The Euclid Hall version was good. It is, after all, gravy and cheese on top of fries. The mushrooms did add a nice earthy flavor that complimented the rich gravy and starchy fries very well.

I settled our tab, left what I hope was considered a generous gratuity and we rushed out the door. In sum: good food and phenomenal service. We still had to jog a little to make it back to our film in time. (Note: jogging--much less after eating poutine-- is not something I recommend.) Sadly, this was the only film we were able to see at Film Fest. It was a stirring, bittersweet story; a nice film for our night out made all the better with a full stomach of sausage, potatoes, pickles and gravy thanks to the professionals working at Euclid Hall.

Going Out With Babies: Ernie's Bar and Pizza

As those of you with kids know, having them completely changes the way you do certain things--and has you doing things you have never done before. For example: I regularly wake up at 5am, I spend endless hours and copious amounts of money in stores that I barely even knew existed a year ago, and when trying to make the crying stop (theirs not mine) I find myself jumping up and down like a chimpanzee. One thing, however, that my wife and I have tried hard not to change is going out to eat.

If I were writing a blog about Denver's hippest and fanciest dining, I would have long ago shut down (not just because the public would have demanded it) because I wouldn't feel right rolling into a new opening (not that I would be invited anyway) with two infants that at any moment could scream bloody murder.

Luckily, however, the places my wife and I tend to frequent serve food from cultures where, for lack of a better phrase, babies rule. Take for example the many Mexican taquerias that we patronize: One couldn't feel more welcome with two babies in his arms. In fact, when was the last time you went to a crowded taqueria and didn't have some being under three years old screaming and/or running and/or crying and/or causing general mayhem?

So when I received a text from a few of our baby-less friends one Saturday afternoon asking if we would be joining them at Ernie's Bar. I was hesitant. I had never been to this somewhat new establishment that replaced Three Son's on Federal and 44th so I wasn't sure how welcoming they would be of two 10-month old infants who though generally quite well-behaved have been known to, well, act like 10-month old babies. But we were out that evening anyway so decided to drive by and check it out.

Immediately the hostess and staff made us feel extremely welcome. They hurried to rearrange chairs and tables so that we could fit at our friends' table. They asked over and over again if we were comfortable and if we needed anything for the boys. We settled in as comfortably as you can "settle in" with infant twins, and it was only then that I looked around I noticed that despite the "Bar" in the name "Ernie's Bar", this was very much a family place.

And the food? It almost doesn't matter, because to be in a restaurant with table service, big screen TVs and a full bar was pleasure enough for us. To sip on a freshly pulled draught beer from a cold pint glass while hearing the din of bar-room conversations in the background was a very good feeling. I could see a sporting event on the television from where I sat. I was ecstatic.

It is with this considerable bias that I say that I really enjoyed the food. We started with buffalo wings. They were well-cooked and spicy. The sauce was classic.

The pizza special for that night was a white clam pie. I had already sampled a friend's chicken and caramelized onion pizza with Fontina cheese. The crust was incredibly thin, but didn't fall apart or flop around as you might expect. It was crispy but with enough heft to have a little softness to it. The edges were light and fluffy without being dry. I remember thinking that it was excellent. The toppings were fine, but I didn't love this particular combination.

When I got my white clam pizza I was equally as smitten with the crust, but also just as neutral on the toppings. I did like it, but I guess I prefer pizza toppings like basil, tomato sauce and the like. (Again, the bliss of this bar-experience was clouding my judgment.) I will withhold final take on Ernie's until I am able to go back and try a more simple and traditional pizza, but based solely on this crust I would expect very good things.

This review of mine was clearly clouded by my I'm-back-in-a-bar glasses, but from what I could tell Ernie's Bar serves solid pizza and wings. I don't want to dissuade those without kids from going to Ernie's either. I bet after eight or nine some good old adult drinking goes on in there, and being on the corner of 44th and Federal means that you just never know what excitement might be awaiting you.

Maria Empanada: Buenos Aires Comes to Lakewood

A couple weeks ago my wife and I (and babies) went to a party hosted by our friend of Cuban descent. We arrived late--extremely so-- as is our custom (or flaw depending on how you look at it), so our ropa vieja and other Cuban delights had to be re-heated in the microwave. While I was waiting for my plate to heat, I espied on other guests' plates the uneaten edges and leftover bits of Argentino-style empanadas withering away in the afternoon sun.

In other eras of my life, half-eaten empanadas would have been a step up from my usual meal, and it did cross my mind to reach over onto my neighbor's plate and sample his cold, already-been-chewed-on pastry. But I didn't really know too many people at this party, and I try not to embarrass my wife in front of her friends when I can help it, so I restrained myself and let it be.

A plateful of Cuban food later I was content and had just about forgotten those empanadas, but as we were leaving I saw a black-white menu on the counter; it read: Maria Empanada. I proceeded to stuff it in my pocket only to get a glare from my wife that read: "We don't take things from other people's homes without asking." Point taken, and since our hostess was busy with goodbyes, and all the hugging and kissing that goes along with that, I made the questionable call to try and remember to check out Maria Empanada as soon as possible.

Luckily my memory for eating potentially great food is better than my memory for the rest of life's more mundane tasks, and a few weeks later we made the trip to Lakewood to check it out.

Maria Empanada is an inviting little building that Buenos Aires native Lorena Cantarovici recently opened on Mississippi just East of Sheridan. Made to look like a rustic log cabin (it used to be a BBQ joint), it practically glows with welcoming warmth on an otherwise grungy street ripe with strip mall storefronts and half-empty parking lots. The inside is cozy and has a simple elegance that will make you want to stay all day, but the small space only has two tables and four chairs so the preferred method of ordering is take-out.

The empanada spread was thin when we entered, but it was an hour from closing and Lorena gladly offered to make us anything we wanted if we were willing to wait about seven minutes. With both babies asleep in their car seats on the floor we couldn't think of anything better than to catch our collective breath and sniff at the aroma of baking dough as it wafted from the kitchen.

In addition to the empanadas, there is also a lovely display of Spanish Tortillas and Argentine Tartas. After about three minutes of staring at these savory cakes, we decided we definitely needed to take home a couple slices.

Soon after the empanadas started to appear, and the very attentive man at the register arranged the dozen in a box, painstakingly labeling each on the lid above.

He then asked us if we would like any dipping sauce. From the four options we picked the chimichurri and the hot red salsa. We loaded it all up in our arms, excited to get home and enjoy our Argentine feast.

As is my wife's custom (a product of being raised in a big city where being cheated is the norm), on the way to the car she scrutinized the receipt and pointed out that we were charged for the sauces. That's like having to pay more for the salsa on your tacos, or for a packet of mustard for your hot dog. Sure it was only 70 cents on top of a 30-some dollar tab, but as they say, it's the principle of the thing.

70 cents worth of chimichurri and a mild hot sauce

Seconds later, however, I forgot all about being nickel-and-dimed for my chimichurri as I was biting into a spicy beef empanada and loving it. Still hot from the oven, the dough was flaky and slightly crisp. It was delicate but just hardy enough that the juicy fillings didn't leak all over my lap. The beef was not spicy in the least when you eat as many tacos as I do, but we are talking Argentina, Che, and if I closed my eyes and concentrated, I think I could taste that Porteño "kick".

Upon arriving home and re-warming our haul in the oven, I dug into a traditional beef, which has raisins on top of the spicy beef ingredients of olives, onions, peppers and eggs. This Argentine classic is what I had been hoping for when I first espied that menu and it did not disappoint. Even reheated it did not lose any of its crisp, flaky allure, and the subtle sweetness of the occasional raisin rounded out the strong, savory olives.

The only one I didn't love was the Blue Cheese that also came stuffed with melted queso fresco, walnuts olives and eggs. All the flavors, even the fresh-baked excellent dough got lost in an abyss of pungent cheese. The earthy Mushroom empanada, however, had just the right amount of cheese, and with plenty of simply seasoned sauteed mushrooms, this was one of my favorites.

The classic Ham and Cheese along with the Tango (ham, cheese, bell peppers, onions) were also excellent as the simple flavors let the dough shine.

My absolute favorite of the night was the Spinach. In the middle of this sauteed-spinach-and-onion-filled empanada was a hard boiled egg yolk. The meaty yolk and the gooey spinach were perfect together, and once again, the flavors were enhanced by the wonderful dough.

Cantarovici also makes Argentine Tartas, essentially a large pie with a flaky, empanada-like crust. We chose the Vegetable tarta. It was densely packed with finely julienned veggies (carrots, zucchini, bell pepper, onion) and a ton of fresh flavor. It was delicious.

And finally we tried a simple Tortilla Española. The layers of thin potatoes were perfectly cooked, as was the egg holding it all together. Bits of red and green bell peppers rounded out this well-executed, tasty tortilla.

The good of paying money for miniscule amounts of sauce is that it teaches one conservation. Maybe that was the point. In a move true to my Midwestern upbringing that would make my mother (and mother-in-law) proud, instead of throwing out the remains as I might have with free salsa, I put both almost-empty containers back in the fridge. It was only yesterday, almost two weeks after our empanada run that I felt compelled to finally throw them out.

There is still 7 or 8 cents of sauce left in there!

Cantarovici's empanadas have that home-cooked feel, and they should, as each is hand rolled and baked fresh continuously throughout the day. All in all I was impressed. Having spent a bit of time in the Capital Federal de Argentina, I would say it is well worth a trip to visit for a taste of a Porteña-made empanada right here in Denver. I only hope she is able to expand the seating options at some point, as it is such a great space.