#17

Damn it feels good to be #17.  

For fun one day I linked up some of my posts with the website urbanspoon, which basically offers restaurant information in the form of formal reviews from reputable sources like the Denver Post or Westword, and then from blogs by less reputable sources like myself.  Decent enough stuff on there, but you have to sift through the bullshit.  Come to find out urbanspoon also keeps tabs on its bloggers in the form of a leaderboard.   Denver Dives is currently running #17, behind such heavyweights as The Well-Tempered Chocolatier, Gluten-Free Foodie, and the Kansas City Traveling Gourmet.  Dives are not for everyone, and as such I feel pretty contented to be in the teens.  If everyone went to the dives I frequent, wouldn't they at some point cease to be dives?  A thought to ponder for another blog post, specifically the Dive Manifesto that I am currently working on.  I am sure I could write one post about Colt & Gray, which by the way has to be one of the stupidest restaurant names I have heard of in a long time (seems to me it is more fitting of a cocktail consisting of malt liquor and dishwater) and jump up the standings a couple of notches, but I will remain true to my craft and subject matter.

I will say that it salts me a bit to be running behind The Kansas City Traveling Gourmet, some clown who stopped by Denver a year ago and wrote one useless post about some place in Boulder, no less, and iEat DC, similarly written by some guy from DC who visited Denver for a day in November.  At least the DC guy is within gunning range - I am pretty sure that if all five of my readers checked out my page and posts on urbanspoon that together we could pimp the out of towner and send him back to the grime and bad weather of DC. 

Go to the polls, kids.  I am sure it'll feel pretty damn good to be #16 as well. 

Wolf's Motor Inn

'I've driven past this little cafe before that we can hit,' I told Matt, cranking a U-turn to head east on Colfax.  We were in Aurora, returning from a night out and looking for a quick bite.  After a couple blocks, to the point where we were in danger of getting out in the sticks, the sign for Wolf's Motor Inn glowed on the left, happily adjacent to a seedy motel.  The parking lot was packed.  I had no idea it was such a popular late-night food spot.  As we approached, hip hop music could be heard bumping inside, which was not at all what I expected coming from a diner at 11 pm.

Some folks might be deterred by a homemade sign posted to the front door stating 'NO WEAPONS OF ANY KIND ALLOWED!'.  For us, however, it was only a slight inconvenience, as Matt had to return to the car to drop off his nun-chucks.  A sign reading 'No Weapons' obviously leads one to assume that there had been weapons brought to the party at some point in the past, and with less than desired results, or else why would Wolf's be asking for people to refrain?  And the fact that it clearly specified weapons of any kind made me picture someone trying to get in the door with a flame thrower.  'Seriously,' he would say. 'It's a cigarette lighter.'   The sign was a slight cause for uneasiness, but we were already standing on the stoop.

Not the Least Bit Ominous

Inside was a big surprise.  While we were hoping for bacon and eggs, or a burrito with green and red, instead we got drafts, shooters (of the alcoholic variety), and a couple pool tables.  It was extremely well it by any standard, which helped to alleviate some of the uneasiness.  There were booths lining the windows, which suggested that Wolf's may actually have played a diner during the day, and that I may have to make a return at some point.  The crowd kind of caught me off guard as well, as it seemed a pretty low-key, happy bunch, packed with folks blowing off a little stream after a week of working hard - not at all what I had expected of a place worried about its patrons bringing in different varieties of weapons.

Wolf's did have other charms as well.  It appeared as if someone on the staff really enjoyed using their dot-matrix printer, as the printed signs were tagged all over the bar area like it was a telephone pole.  Posted specials, Christmas parties long past, and the ubiquitous 'No credit' sign.  A box of wine sat proudly in one corner of the back bar, I assume only for that special night out at Wolf's.  Speaking of special, Malibu sat prominently on the top shelf with all the best liquor, and why wouldn't it?  Rum with coconuts should be only be enjoyed once and awhile, for obvious reasons.  We grabbed a cheap beverage from the barkeep and sat back, enjoying our stay.

Then the cops showed up.  Maybe the sign on the door had revealed an ominous undertone to Wolf's that was obscured by the bright lights and jovial atmosphere.  It made me think of that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark, where Indy is sitting in a bar somewhere in Cairo with the hated Bellock, and unbeknownst to our hero the other patrons of the bar are secretly passing pistols back and forth.  Maybe this was going on right now over at the booth in the corner and Matt and I didn't even know it.  Whatever the true identity of Wolf's, I could feel my stomach quietly telling me to give it some love, so we finished our drinks and moved off in search of that late night bite to eat.

Wolf's Restaurant & Lounge is located at 15691 E. Colfax in Aurora.  For all of you closet Tesla fans, head on over and hum to yourself about all the signs.  Just leave your crossbow in the car.

The Denver Dish

I was chatting with a friend Mike over beer and chicken wings one afternoon, and discovered that he, like me, is a closet blogger.  His choice of topic?  Denver food.  Who knew?  Maybe everyone is doing it.  So I checked out his blog, The Denver Dish.  My overall verdict is that it is good stuff.  The pictures on The Dish are better than mine, no doubt (my application with National Geographic is still pending), and fortunately it deals in reputable dining establishments, which means that he's not directly competing with me for my 3 regular readers.  The Dish covers the types of places you might take your mom when she comes to town and is not game for the Chunky Soup you usually whip up for her.  It presents a nice balance to my roster of cheap beer joints and greasy spoons, a sort of fab to my shab.  Check it out next time you have a moment.   

The Beer Warehouse

I once knew a place where dreams would come true.  Where the impossible would often be possible.  Where you would walk in the door sure to be a loser, but emerge a winner.  Where a guy with a 6-pack budget could give himself a taste of the 18-pack life.  As of today, however, that place is no more.  I speak, sadly, of the The Beer Warehouse.

 Behind That Door: The Promise Land

The news I heard this morning that The Beer Warehouse was closing its doors brought the memories flooding back.  Of course it was Matt that first introduced me to the secrets and mysteries of The Warehouse.  That first time in, early one Saturday morning (it was only open Saturday mornings), I wandered around staring in awe at all the possibilities.  The sign by the door gave the pricing, wonderful in its simplicity:  $10 per domestic case, $15 for a case of imports, and $50 for a loaded up blue tub.  Cases of beer were stacked high, alongside scattered six packs, cans, bottles, 40s, and every so often a puddle of spilled beer and a pile of glass.  The smell of stale beer and the way my shoes stuck to the floor reminded me of my old frat house.

It did not take us long to develop a tried-and-true two-pronged strategy for getting the best out of a trip to The Warehouse.  One person would stand by the stack of beer that was being collected, while the 'runner' would wander looking for undiscovered stash of good stuff.  Standing guard was most important, as if you did not fiercely guard what you were planning on taking home, other wanderers would find their way over and take it.  I was turned away from many a pile by a salty 'That's mine!', accompanied by an icy glare.  In my experience, one could easily come to blows for pilfering another's stash, as I once witnessed.  Scouting around for the take was more fun and where the glory was at.  It can be best described as a scavenger hunt where your goal was to find a 6-pack of Newcastle Brown Ale amongst 50 cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon, MGD and Old Milwaukee.  It required a keen eye and a methodical touch that left no case unopened (you could easily find a case that said Miller Lite on the outside that was filled with Sam Adams) and no bottle unexamined for possible damage (much of the beer sold at The Warehouse was either approaching its quality date or had been damaged in transit, thus the propensity of broken glass).  And no matter the day or time or how picked over the stash of the day appeared upon first glance, if you looked hard enough you could always randomly find something good, whether it be a couple Pilsner Urquels left in a case of broken glass, a 6-er of Breckenridge Vanilla Porter lost in a corner, or that one time I found a lonesome 4-pack of Duvel.  The good stuff was always in less supply, but there was also less demand. 


We didn't come in to a trip to The Warehouse with any preconceived notion of how much money we were going to spend or how much beer we would come home with, as by the time you got in the door all that planning went out the window.  There might be too much Heineken Dark to pass up, or the proprietor may call out that everything is 2-for-1.  Our discovery of the wonders of the blue tub, not unlike cavemen discovering fire, also threw all possibilities and economics out the window.  It took our Warehouse experience to a whole new level.  The exact stats of our best take during the blue tub era escape me right now, but it was 3 years ago that we brought home about 20 cases of beer for a mere 60 bucks.  I think I am getting a little misty....

One Worth Calling Home About

Coming home from The Warehouse with a smorgasbord of good beer for cheap was only part of the draw, however.  It had a culture all its own, and every time in I looked forward to seeing what crazy thing would happen.  Idle threats once turned into a shouting match.  I saw a runner, obviously a rookie, come back to his stash after looking for beer with a hand bloodied by broken glass.  There was that asian family that would show up early and leave with at least 30 cases of Heineken in tow.  Then there was the time that, upon seeing a new pallet filled with Tecate brought out on to the floor, a group of gentlemen who had been milling around quietly worked themselves into a frenzy tearing the cellophane off the pallet and diving on top to claim their stake.  Finally, one of my personal favorites was the time we painstakingly filled up our blue tub to the point where it was overflowing with every good beer under the roof, only to have it violently rejected by the proprietor due to a rules violation.  One was not allowed, apparently, to just fill up a tub with just anything you could find.  The intent was to fill it with the dregs of the day that no one else wanted to buy.  We went home with our tub only after my friend Jeff swung a deal with the boss, agreeing to buy a second tub from him, site unseen, that had been filled the previous week but not purchased.   Only after getting the tub home did we discover that not only was it chock full of first rate labels like Beer-30 and Evil Eye Malt Liquor (which we expected) but that probably a quarter of the beers that had been swimming in the swill at the bottom of the tub were covered in mold.

You never knew what was going to happen at The Beer Warehouse.

Today's take, my last one ever:  52 beers and one large random bottle of corked (yes, a real cork!) belgian ale (really from Belgium!) for $20.  Not a bad mornings work.  This just brings home the fact that it is all over now.  I am sure the sting will wear off after the first couple of times I purchase beer at retail prices, but I cannot help but mourn just a bit.  For now, the dreams are just that.  All I am left with is a fridge full of cheap beer, a scrapbook in my head full of memories, and one large blue tub, empty.  Empty.

Don't Go Into The Light!

Crown Burgers

It struck me the other day that there was a major omission in my investigation of Denver dives - the greasy burger joint.  What list of dives can call itself complete without the inclusion of a fast food hamburger stop?  The hamburger is a widely interpreted dish, from the 99 cent variety, to the 15 dollar posh version with fancy meat all sorts of shiny gear on top, even to those that are starting to pop up on the menus at Mexican restaurants.  This makes it a perfect engine for a dive, as many of the interpretations find themselves on the soggy buns end of the stick.  In an attempt to fill this gap in my research, and fill my belly, I made a beeline to Crown Burgers for lunch. 


Crown Burgers has the look of a dive down pat, with the dated exterior, the antique drive thru sign (including duct tape!), and the absurd specials plastered on the majority of the window space, screaming at you to buy a gyro sandwich for $4.19.  I assumed that when digging into a basket at the Crown Burger your head ends end up in such a grease-and-meat induced fog that natural light is unnecessary.  Whatever the rationale, I was excited to get inside.

Crown Burgers is done up in classic fast-food joint decor: semi-greasy off colored laminate booths throughout, a counter to order at, and a hand-operated menu on the wall complete with worn-out pictures of the food.   Tacky menu pictures are a favorite of mine.  Unfortunately it seems that these days only the Chinese (with a few exceptions like the Crown, of course) continue to excel at making patrons uninterested in eating their food prior to ordering through the use of unappetizing pictures of their food.  The hallway to the restrooms was decorated with a stack of ceiling tiles that had apparently been forgotten about, as they were sorely needed in the front of the restaurant.  However, those stacked in the hallway were white, so perhaps they were being allowed to season in the back hallway to better match the greasy off-white tiles throughout the restaurant.

Crown Burgers is the home of the Royal Burger, otherwise known as the Royal Pastrami, otherwise known as the Pastrami Burger, a hamburger with pastrami on top (go figure).  There was also the Double Royal, but I shook off the notion, as it could possibly have temporarily paralyzed a small guy like myself.  The rest of the menu was a cornucopia of different heart-attack specials, (smothered chili-cheeseburger, et al) so I decided to stick with the house specialty and a 'Mixed', a combo order of fries and rings.  Arriving at my booth several minutes later was a good sized cheeseburger topped with lettuce, tomato and onion... and then a heaping pile of pastrami.  It was like two sandwiches for the price of one, score one for getting a good deal.  The lady taking my order at the counter, who I believe was Stella, one of the owners, had given me the option of foregoing the roughage, but I didn't want to be too much of a savage and declined her offer.

First the Mixed.  Delicious as any fried bit of mung, the interesting thing here was not the fried bits themselves, but the sauce that came with:  Creamy, yellowish in color, definitely special, the consistency of mayonnaise, but not exactly straight out of the jar.  There was something else going on but I could not put my finger on it, as it really had no appreciable flavor.  I decided it's sole purpose in life was a calorie booster, as if you needed one after the rest of the meal.  Crown doesn't bother charging you for their boost, though, like some of those juice places do.  More value!

I eyed the Royal like a quarterback dissecting a defense.  Biting into it was a challenge due to all the extra baggage, and I would not recommend attempting this without a large pile of napkins at the ready.  The burger itself was nothing special - not over cooked, not under cooked, marginal seasoning.  The toppings were OK, and the bun was actually not that jacked up with soggy bits.  The pastrami had the flavor, and turned my notion of a good burger a bit sideways.  I wouldn't call it pure genius, but I would call it damn tasty.  Made me feel like a man.

Crown Burgers was my first attempt at a dive burger joint and in the end hit all the marks.  I left the Crown happy, a couple pounds heavier after the Royal Burger and Mixed, but lighter overall having filled the hole in my resume.

Crown Burgers is located at 2192 S. Colorado Boulevard, and has a junk website at crownburgers.org (as if they are a non-profit or something).  Treat yourself to some special sauce.