Biker Jim, Pomfreet and the Food Truck Party at the Denver County Fair

What would summer be for a food blogger without posting about a food truck? I'm not talking about the food truck in the traditional sense that serves really good, cheap Mexican fare-- but the new, still-somehow-booming fleet of flashy, mobile super-kitchens that continue to swarm Denver's streets. Just like it's hard to throw a baseball and not hit the side of a barn (though not for Rockies pitchers), it is hard to walk downtown  and not spot a food truck--but just like you don't throw stones in glass houses, don't throw balls near food truck parties as you might crack a screen on an LCD display.

My latest foray with a food truck came at the end of a long day wandering around the Denver County Fair. It wasn't exactly a large gathering of food trucks-- five or six were corralled around the Southeast patio of the National Western Complex-- but it was packed with people like me--hungry after staring at so many delicious-looking chickens and goats and oh-so-glad to not have to eat at one of the Stock Show lunch counters or choke down another giant, dry turkey leg.

"Off the Streets and Into Your Mouth" is of course the tag line and main logo on Biker Jim's upscale version of his original food cart. It is a very literal name (which I enjoy immensely) though it might err on the too-literal side of things. It might be more appealing as "Off the Streets, Cleaned Thoroughly, Cooked and Then Into Your Mouth". Or maybe a different preposition would have cleared things up more: "From" The Streets? "Near" the Streets? I'm not sure why he didn't emblazon a large "Biker Jim" across the front, as that name in itself is synonymous with great Denver street food for anyone who has spent any time in Denver.

In the end it was a Biker Jim sausage through and through, complete with his signature cream cheese and caramelized onion toppings. I had the elk cheddar brat and it was fantastic as always--a true sweet meat. Though I still prefer the original Biker Jim grill on the mall from a simple cart, I suppose if anyone has earned the right to put his feet up and his menu on an LCD display it is him.

Next up was the Pomfreet truck: simple name for simple fare. The truck deals exclusively in fries and sauces to dip them in.

We ordered the freedom fries for the boys, which were the standard fries. I could be wrong but I think freedom fries are what uber-patriots called French fries after France did something in the W-Bush-era global reign of terror that uber-patriots didn't like (I think it was not blindly supporting the unilateral invasion of a Middle Eastern country for no legitimate reason or something like that). Maybe it was a purposeful shot of irony (which goes well with any fried food) to name the truck after the original French (Belgian) name of Pomme Frites, and then the first menu item after good ol' fashioned French-hating Americans.

The fries (I cringe at writing freedom fries--even in parenthesis--though I am going to start calling my sauerkraut liberty cabbage again) were excellent by themselves and outlandishly good with the garlic aioli dip. Our babies love their garlic and their fries--and with their new-found love of adult-sized plastic forks-- they were so happily occupied that the Pomfreet truck would serve well as our new babysitter.

Mom and dad ordered the green chile-smothered "Poutine". The green chile was simply chunks of mild Hatch chiles instead of a green chile sauce, and all the the smothering was done by a not-too-cheesy, creamy cheese sauce. I suppose it should be called a cheese-gravy as that is the only thing that would make it poutine-like instead of just good-old chile-cheese-fries. And there is nothing wrong with that. It was a fantastic and perfect with my sausage. Biker Jim and Pomfreet should always park next to one another.

The last bit of blog-worthy irony of the night was that the last food truck to open its higher-than-thou window to the masses of the County Fair folks was one serving "Caveman Food". Of course cavemen food, or the paleolithic diet, argues that we should eat as our pre-historic hunter and gatherer anscestors did. Gathering and hunting, of course, is much easier these days with a truck and a gun, so I'm not sure exactly what the delay was about, unless all the chopping and prep work was done with stones and spears.

The best part of the truck-eating experience for our family now are the trucks themselves. Our boys love--and I mean love--trucks. Despite a relatively gender-neutral upbringing, they gravitate towards large, motorized vehicles like a moth and its porch light on a dark summer night. Maybe that is the appeal of the food truck. Don't we all (at least many of my male readers) have more toddler in us than we would like to admit?

Food trucks like these are here to stay without a doubt. I just still can't believe that there are still so many and the prices that some of them charge. Despite this cynicism-laced post, I had a good meal that day from Biker Jim and Pomfreet, all for an arguably reasonable price, so maybe the market is taking control of food truck prices at last--or maybe we are all just used to it now. And even though I can't help think about all the "other" food trucks out there full of true and tested street-worthy fare, it is still just fun to sit on a curb-- or in our case the steps of the Stock show grounds-- and chow down.

Press "1" For Awesome: Food of the Philippines

Besides all my usual reasons, I have been very tardy in posting recently because of a whirlwind trip to the Philippines. The premise was a sad one, as a dear, dear loved one has passed, but the result was gathering together with family at our ancestral home just outside of Manila in Cavite. And as I learned during my first Filipino wake, times of Filipino mourning are just as filled with food as times of celebration.

The food in this house has been prepared by a woman named Rita who has worked for the family for as long as many of us can remember--at least the last twenty years. She is a masterful cook and she was in top form for the entire week, whipping up meal after elaborate meal for dozens of hungry neighbors, distant cousins and travel-weary visitors at a time.

Press "1"! Press it!

My favorite time was breakfast, when it was usually just a handful of us immediate family-- and maybe a few faithful churchgoers, stopping by after mass to continue the devotions. A typical morning meal that week looked a lot like this:

I always started by getting my hands on some quesillo (which I saw spelled Kaysilo at a local market). Quesillo is Cavite's version of Kesong Puti. It is a fresh, unpasturized and glorious cheese made from the milk of a carabao.

Philippine Pictures

The carabao, if you don't know is the Asian Water Buffalo and native to Southeast Asia. It is an enormous and cumbersome beast while the cheese, in contrast, is delicate and light. It is just firm enough to stay together when sliding out of the banana leaf in which it is wrapped, but soft enough to fall apart with the gentle tug of a spoon.

Its creamy texture and fresh taste make it the perfect spread for a freshly baked pandesal (the Filipino salty bread roll) though it is even better with a bite of a sweet, sticky longganisa sausage dripping with fat.

Also on that plate above with both a sweet and a garlic-laden longganisa is a subtly sweet tube of sticky rice, Sumang Malagkit. It too came wrapped in a banana leaf.

And another version of it was flavored (and colored) with ube, the ubiquitous purple tuber of the Philippines. Everything is better with ube.

Despite how I talked up Rita at the beginning of the post, in retrospect much of this particular meal was bought at the local market. But just so it's clear that she is an awesome cook (press "1"), here is a picture of lunch later in the week. Her version of Arroz a la Cubana.

This Latin-inspired Filipino dish consists of ground pork, peas, carrots, potatoes and raisins all mixed up in a red sweet-but-savory tomato sauce. That sounds good enough as is, but also thrown in there are big chunks of fried banana--Saba to be specific. Saba is a small cooking banana with a taste not unlike a plantain, though it is sweeter. The dish is typically served with a fried egg, but Rita--who was cooking buffet-style and had no time to be frying eggs to order--instead hard-boiled quail eggs and tossed them in with everything else. Brilliant.

That is a taste (or at least a look) of what I've been up to lately. It's too bad Denver doesn't have Filipino food this good but then again the Philippilines doesn't have good Greek or Salvadorean cuisine either--just two of the themes of upcoming posts I'm working on now-- if I can just find the time to get it all done.

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.

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.

Chicago Louie's of Denver: A Sausage by Any Other Name Would Smell Much Sweeter

As my last post describes in detail, a few weeks back I found myself amidst the crowd and chaos of the First Friday Santa Fe Art Walk. And although there was surely plenty of art to be seen, my family and I were perfectly content to simply stroll and take in this rare and refreshing slice of true Denver urbanity. Oh, and we wanted to eat some tacos. But we didn't stop at tacos that night. No, we ventured on another half-block from what was a divine taco haven and came face to face with this:

Now as you may know if you have read this blog before, I hail from the city of Big Shoulders. Generally speaking things that have the word "Chicago" in them grab my attention immediately, although I realize by no means does using the name of my native city imply any sort of guarantee of quality. Take for example the band of the same name and a local chain of restaurants that are not really "old" and try way too hard to be "Chicago-y". 

Now that is what I call "Old Chicago"

Nevertheless I zeroed in on Chicago Louie's less for the name and more because I had heard good things about it and its sausages. Of course having a food truck with a Chicago theme that is then nick-named the "Paddy Wagon" and has a gangster-looking type as the logo is a lot like opening a Mexican restaurant and throwing up a sign with the image of a sombrero-and-serape-clad paisano with a mustache napping under a cactus. In fact this astute Westword reader reminds us that "Paddy Wagon" may have been coined because the vehicle was often used to round up drunks in the Irish part of town (by the stereotypical Irish cops). (Of course it could be a pun on sausage "patty", but that would be much, much worse.)

Once you get past the cheesy and borderline offensive logo and marketing pitch of Louie's there is the menu. It is possible that in order to revive the long-buried Italian and Irish-American stereotypes and tensions that Chicago has always been known for, the folks behind Chicago Louie's decided to balance the jabs at alcoholic Irishmen by naming their sandwiches after infamous Italian-American mobsters. And not only does it raise the level of cheesiness, it makes it freaking annoying to read the menu. Have you ever longed for a "Salvatore 'Lucky' Luciano"? Of course you haven't-- unless you wanted to get beat repeatedly over the head with a bat or wanted to be extorted in some way. The "Lucky" is actually a grilled bone-in pork chop with sweet onions, peppers and yellow mustard. Now that sounds rather appetizing. 

As is well established, I am not one for fancy naming. But while I cringed at the menu, I also became intrigued, as lost behind the horrible name choices is some great looking food that features several Denver-made Il Mondo Vecchio sausages. Yum.

In the end I settled for the Italian beef. Actually it wasn't a hard decision once I deciphered that ordering a sandwich named after the convicted murderer, Paul Ricca, actually referred to a Chicago-style Italian beef, one of my absolute favorite sandwiches.

The beef at Chicago Louie's was very good, and though few of you reading this likely care, you might now that I have been combing Denver for a good Italian beef off and on for the last year. This one came out a little dry but when I sent it back for more "beef juice" there was no hesitation as they happily poured on a generous ladle-full, properly sopping the bread to point of just-about-falling-apart. The beef was tender and the excellent giardiniera was spicy and tasted house-made. It was a beef worthy of the Chicago name on the side of the truck.

My wife, apparently full from the four tacos she ate just moments earlier ordered just one slider made from Chorizo sausage and topped with green chiles and refried beans. It was packed full of bold flavor and it was delicious. Too bad it was named after the Mexican drug lord Felix Gallardo. As I write this thousands of innocent people are being victimized by senseless drug violence across our southern borders and Chicago Louie's decides it's a good idea to honor the "Godfather" of Mexican drug lords with a sandwich? And where does that fit with the whole Chicago-stereotyping theme?

As far as I can tell from what I sampled Chicago Louie's seems to be making some great food. And just like the ridiculous naming doesn't add anything to the experience for me, it probably won't keep me away either, as good beef and sausage are things that transcend gimmicks and foolish marketing pitches. Somewhere on that truck are written the words: "Gourmet Sausage Truck". Now that is something all Chicagoans (and Denverites more importantly) can get behind, from the criminals purported on Louie's menu to the saps like me that just love good food. And good food is good food, so when the Gourmet Sausage Truck also known as Chicago Louie's is parked on a street near you, do yourself a favor and get over there.