Rocky Mountain High

Denver
Sept 6, 2015

I’m sitting in the Denver Botanical Gardens, a 60+ acre oasis in a city of abundant oases, trying hard to stay awake. Water barely slips over a pedestal of native red rock, and the burble and splash are soothing as a lullaby. The late afternoon sun angles in over the front range and lays like a blanket on me and the quilted floral palette that surrounds me. Intoxicating aromas of spruce and pine, flowers and spice, conspire to knock me senseless.

 

 

 

 

Oh. Yes. Hmmm. Where was I?

 

 

Lovely bike ride this afternoon. If you’ve been to a major city anywhere in the world in the past few years you’ve seen the future—bicycles and cars for rent to anyone (well anyone with a credit card). This is the first time I’ve tried the concept and I loved it! After swiping my card, I pulled a bike from the rack, adjusted the seat (very easy) and pedaled off.

I downloaded the app for b-cycle locations, and found my way to the Cherry Creek Trail, a many-miles long path that runs along, you guessed it, Cherry Creek. Like all the outdoor spaces here, this one is well-travelled but big enough that it doesn’t feel crowded. More like, you’re out there enjoying life (and exercise) with like-minded people (and the occasional stoner).

I rode from the gardens to downtown, through several parks, neighborhoods, and along the Platte River. I traded my bike in every 30-60 minutes at a new kiosk. Here’s how it works: you pay 9$ per 24 hours to rent a bike, then nothing more if you return the bike to any kiosk within 30 minutes, a dollar more if you keep it 30-60 minutes. Frequent breaks were good for a little rest, a drink of water, or a look around.

Downtown I abandoned the bike to stroll for blocks through the shopping areas and Union Station, where the Amtrak trains come and go. This was so convenient –not having to go back to where I parked, just picking up new wheels at another station when I was ready to take off. Every bike has a basket, so I could take water and my purse. Very handy.

The only bad part is I wanted to stop for food or drink at every restaurant I saw. There were happy hour specials on grande lime Margaritas shouting “Hola!” from awning-covered terraces as I pedaled past in the 85 degree heat (but it’s a dry heat…); there was butterscotch ice-cream for free if you made a 15$ donation to a local charity; and “our famous char-grilled grass-fed bison burgers” being consumed by happy customers seated at umbrella tables; and don’t even get me started on the pastries. I would be the heaviest person on earth if I indulged all my eating whims. I indulged none that afternoon…but boy am I hungry now! How about you?

But that reminds me to tell you of my meal at Tamayo last night. Downtown. Outdoor deck. Beautiful view of the mountains. Upscale Latin chef recently toured Mexico and was showcasing a Guadalajara tasting menu. That’s what pulled me in: for a limited time only—guacamole from different regions—try a sampler platter! (Rob will tell you I am a pain to go out to dinner with in strange cities. I drag him from place to place reading menus. If I don’t like what I see we continue to wander until I find a menu that’s appealing, or we faint from hypoglycemia. Actually, he wouldn’t tell you that at all, he is that indulgent of my gastronomic obsessions. Or maybe the low blood sugar has an amnesiac effect…).

There were 8 different kinds of guacamole to choose from. Who knew? There was baja, and sur, and other geographically named options. One had kiwi and strawberries, another had pineapple and onion. There were inviting and peculiar combinations, each with a bewildering mix of peppers and seasonings. I choose the sampler, as the chef intended. They were quite busy, and it was loud, but most likely it was just distraction on my part (seeing the rockies at sunset always induces awe in me, which can be mistaken for idiocy), but I forgot to ask the waiter to explain exactly what the description grasshopper meant on one of the items. Leaping into my head was a wonderful dessert called grasshopper pie which is a minty, chocolatey ice-creamy thing. My Rocky Mountain high revelation was grasshopper = green! I mean, it’s guacamole! By the time I escaped my mental detour, the waiter was gone.

I think you know where this is going.

The platter arrived with fresh tortilla chips and scoops of creamy avocado delights, surrounded by delicate porcelain spoons full of chopped tomatillo and pickled onion, roasted tomatoes and herbs. I had already warmed up my palate with a house margarita—lime and chili pepper salt on the rim—mmm, mmm, good. But I was not so lubricated I couldn’t recognize the little decorations on one of my green mounds as insects. Even if they were french fried.

Now you can say that a word like grasshopper describing a menu item is not one you would ever miss, or fail to clarify before ordering. And I would believe you. I am very particular what goes into my mouth with regard to health and calories. But not so much exactly with what it is. I have tried blood pudding, brains, pancreas, intestine, snails, haggis, liver and kidneys. Love liver and kidneys. And the haggis. The rest, not so much. I wasn’t sure where insects fit into my world view.

I peered at them, this way and that, marveling at how such slender legs could make it intact onto the plate. I picked one up. It was crispy. Didn’t know if that red was a natural color, or L’oreal. I was examining it as though I was about to do a dissection when the waiter happened by. “They taste like chili and lime!” he laughed. Hmmm. Well.

What would you do?
You know what I did.
The real question is, would I do it again?