Text 22585, 157 rader
Skriven 2007-11-11 11:57:00 av MICHAEL LOO (1:123/140)
Ärende: trip to CO 406
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I'd made these reservations when it appeared the Rockies
were going to do the World Series thing. Getting a good
plane seat wasn't trivial, but that didn't compare to the
frustration of spending 11 hours over two days trying the
Paciolan thing. And when that didn't work, getting Marnie,
Carol's travel agent angel to step in was futile unless I
wanted to spend a grand a seat. I thought about 1. cancelling
the plane ride or 2. spending a grand a seat. Didn't do either.

UA 441 BWI DEN 0954 1202 320 3CD

We got up not so early (the original plan had to be to
take the 6 am to Chicago and the big fancy 763 from there
to Denver, but I chickened on this so that we could get a
fighting chance at a night's sleep) and got to BWI in jig
time. Surprise - at 8:30, the line for security was halfway
down the hall, so we didn't get to the RCC until almost 9.
Camped out there for a while, chatted with the agent a bit,
and got to the gate as they were calling zone 3. I said to
Carol, we get to cut the line, but she didn't care for that.
As we made our way to the door, the flood voluntarily parted
for us, interesting phenomenon.

Row 3 on the 320 is disagreeable for two reasons - the
recline is an inch or two diminished (not a big deal, as
I don't tend to recline anyhow), and, more importantly, if
there's an equipment switch, the row disappears. Before I'd
made the change, I'd asked if there was any chance for such
a switch, and the agent said no.

It was a most uneventful flight, the only issues being that
the flight attendants erred on the ditzy side, and one of
them, a youngish redhead, squeezed my shoulder a few times
as he went by.

Breakfast was your usual fruit plate or a Western omelet
with what the (Carol tells me nonnatural) blonde purser
characterized as "turkey sausage" in her spiel to us and
"turkey bacon" to row 2. The omelet, says Carol, was quite
edible despite the bland quasi-Hollandaise blopped on top.
The sausage and bacon were pork and Canada, respectively,
and not turkey at all. I had my usual, the double
Courvoisier straight up and a croissant (doughy, vanillary,
terrible).

The movie was about some invisible guy.
                                            
We landed 25 early.

Joell and Larry picked us up at the airport, and as the flight
was actually on time, we had a couple hours before brunch,
so Larry showed me his pride and joy, the new UC medical
campus, out on Colfax in a former army base. With the demise
of the base, all the hourly motels have closed up, and the
place appears to be ready for a major renascence.

Downtown Denver was hopping. No on-street parking to be
found, and the lots were charging $40 and up - we found one
that would settle for half price if we were out by 4:00.

Walked through the mall and Writers' Square, which were
full of folks, but not a purple shirt to be seen, to Rioja;
this is one of these trendy new restaurants with the spare
rather hip furnishings, cool pictures on the walls, budget
Riedel glassware, fancy drinks, house-infused liquors.
Pretty full for 2:00 on a brunchday afternoon, but that
might be explainable by a proliferation of Red Sox attire
at various tables.

A round of mimosas took a while to come (as did everything)
but were worth the wait, good-quality Cava just tinged
with juice.

Although the menu is a little spare, there was still a bit
of dithering at our table, so I asked our genial but fairly
head-in-the-clouds waiter for the Rioja picnic appetizer,
which was probably the best thing we had. Three kinds of
smoked meat, a dry chorizo-like thing, a lightly cured
pork loin (not bresaola as promised, but nicer than that),
and something else I forget. A blob of "orange confit" -
actually, some kind of marmalade - went well with these
and the delicious though a little soft garlic-scented
almonds. The centerpiece was a radicchio cup containing
several kinds of olives in the house marinade - wonderful
balance of the four tastes and seductive citrus scents,
just wondrous. I passed on both the blue cheese and the goat
cheese, but they seemed to find favor elsewhere. A fennel-
red-onion-truffle-oil salad completed the plate nicely; I
found a bit of a heavy hand with the truffle oil, but
everyone else liked the combination. Along with the
bread basket (lavender sourdough, olive rustic, and goat
cheese biscuits, a volonte but only if you were fast enough
to catch the ghostly fleeting bread guy) there as the
parmesan-crusted house version of lavash to go with. I loved
the lavash, liked the olive bread, and found the lavender
surprisingly tolerable. I refused to try the biscuits.

Larry had the house Benedict, which seemed to please him;
Joell's "seared Tasmanian salmon, manila clams, bacon,
roasted garlic, grape tomatoes, corn broth, basil creme
fraiche $17.50" was extremely good, though the manilas
were really mussels in disguise. Carol had the smoked tomato
soup, quite nice, followed by ravioli (they call them
tortelloni) stuffed with artichoke and goat cheese and
served in an artichoke-truffle-oil broth - she was ecstatic;
I tasted the broth, which again I found a bit overtruffled.
My duck confit hash was nice little cubes of russet potatoes
mixed with shreds of the not-confit-enough-not-salty-enough-
not-fatty-enough confit that is fashionable these days. I
gave Joell a taste, and she lit up, saying, this is what
confit is supposed to taste, then going on with a story
about how she and Larry had had a fabulous meal at some
famous place in France, only they couldn't eat the confit,
as it was too fatty and salty and ripe. I pointed out very
mildly that that was what confit was; I didn't point out
that this wasn't, which it wasn't. I did point out that my
over very easy eggs were not easy enough, but as eggs were
secondary this didn't interfere with my modest enjoyment
of the dish.

With the hash I had the quite plummy peppery Reynolds Merlot
that cried out "South Australia" a lot louder than it did
"Merlot." It's actually from Vic, though. You can get it for
$5 a bottle (i.e., less than a glass cost here) at BevMo, if
you're interested.

Matua SB did the job for Joell, while Larry, driving, stuck
with mimosa. Carol had a "lemon quencher," a rather nasty
concoction of limoncello and gin; she liked it.

We were kind of full, and our time was running out, but
the ladies couldn't resist a little taste of dessert,
ordering the goat-cheese-filled beignets; I suppose these
were nice, from the expressions of satisfaction, but the
bit of one that I tried was pretty horrid.

As my taste buds hadn't been sufficiently satisfied by the
hash, I ordered probably the worst thing a pre-diabetic
could, the brown butter tart; this was a not-too-sweet
richness in a good solid 1-2-3 pastry and hit the spot.

The bill hit another spot, and my wallet felt as though it
had been kicked in the crotch but not so badly as if I'd
succumbed to temptation and paid the going rate for tickets.

We toured around town a bit and then went home.

For some reason, there was no enthusiasm for dinner, and
Larry and I went comatose along with the Rockies, drowning
our sorrows in Galway Pipe, and the wide screen made it
almost like being at a Coors Field populated by people with
a slightly wrong aspect ratio; the girls talked girl talk,
planning the next day's shopping, that kind of thing.

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