The places we visit are more than just physical locations that grant us visitation. They contain a multitude of memories and moments that penetrate the bounds of the physicality of the place itself, entering every one of us into a sphere of individual remembrance. A single location can mean a thousand things and trigger a million moments, often existing as a site of simultaneous sentiments. The magical quality of places is that they never simply hold one experience and thus are never a definitive perspective of the site itself.
Locations are both constructed and thrive out of their unquantifiable containment of innumerable reminiscences. Bricks, smells, chairs and tables are the material manifestations of the intimately evocative, subconsciously and unexpectedly pressing upon us the memory of years and moments collected and gone by. To visit certain places, to both enjoy the present and the past, to construct new memories, and to evoke the old. As we pass through the door of a restaurant once visited, it instills in us a moment of remembrance, where years have passed and logical time moves conventionally, but where memories are closer and the passing of recollected time feels comfortingly slower. To appreciate the places we encounter and the memories we make within physical locations is to appreciate the unconventional found in the cementing of the unforgettable within the architectural. To travel to places is to create one’s own foundation within the foundation.
My numerous experiences with dating have allowed me to view places through a multitude of emotions and experiences–lust, heartbreak, contentment–allowing me thus to view one singular place as a multiplicity. I may not be a professional tour guide, but I know a thing or two about the binding of moments to buildings. In a state of unconventionality, I offer up my suggestions for places to visit, in hopes that you will cement your own memories in the same location that I have, diversifying what the very foundation and its contents mean to individuals of all ages spread out across the Boulder and Denver metro area.Â
Salt – Boulder, Colo.: Located on Pearl Street, this local farm-to-table restaurant is simultaneously quaint and upscale. Both tavern and high-class dining, Salt thrives on many a rich meal-lean and luscious brioche bun burgers, decadent peach goat cheese salads, sparkling tropical mocktails, and, dare I say it, the reigning premier french fries of the Boulder and Denver metro area. Perfectly greased, with an exemplary girth-to-crisp ratio, and a sprinkling of salt that tingles in the warm grease and on your tongue whilst cavorting with the tang of house-made ketchup, these fries are perfect for the picky fry purveyor. If it is an upscale tavern you seek, look no further. The inner dining room is both casual and classy and the outdoor side patio is rustic yet refined, decorated lightly with baskets of colorful flowers and strands of lights.
The restaurant thrives on an aesthetic that is rustic and antique, exposed brick and all, yet constructs dishes and drinks that revamp it into relevance. It was these very first-rate fries that connected me to quite a strange fellow. Following a flirt-filled interview for a newspaper article that I had been writing for CU, I could not, much to my chagrin, write a piece that was both objective and emotionally vulnerable. I unfortunately felt myself falling, succumbing to the quirkiness of this graduate student’s tongue-and-cheek, bougie vintage dad shorts and wire-rimmed glasses. Was it a charming dad aesthetic or an arrogant collegiate? I hoped to find out. He was part engineer and part artist, a dangerous combination of pursuits that had a potentially lethal amount of ego.
I was living on the edge. We had unexpectedly connected over our love of Salt’s supreme french fries. Already in agreement concerning the salt-to-grease ratio, the perfection of the fries’ girth in its allowance of a crispiness of utter perfection, I felt that it was to be an evening that I would look back on fondly. We met at Salt on a Wednesday, during the day. The air was warm and as the air cooled down only a twinge of humidity remained from the sweat-inducing suffocation of a Boulder late summer afternoon. Nestled in the heart of Pearl Street, Salt is at the heart of the hustle and bustle of the city, and that allowed me an in-depth view of the passerby amidst the intimacy of my dinner.
As soon as he arrived he was everything I remembered he was–messy and sartorially era incongruent in the pulchritudinous way of artists, elegantly gangly, dark and shiny black hair that laid yet flopped in a manner that perfected the desirable aesthetic of a starving artist, all with dangerously dark eyes and wire-rimmed spectacles that were both kitschy and somehow patronly. Yet, as I ate, I became more interested in the food rather than the guy. He spoke with the bravado of an individual admitted to an apprenticeship with Chopin rather than a 23-year-old artist engineer in an American master’s program. I suckled the grease and savored the extra crisp fries at the end of the bowl, a culinary distraction from his proclamation of being the “Asian Harry Potter.” Trapped in the aesthetic corner of a floral-lined side patio, I speared peaches and fries, while nodding to the phrases that traveled from out of his mouth, one that seemed only capable of speaking the language of pretentiousness. He pushed his hand through his hair, as if a readjustment was more a necessity and most definitely not a seduction tactic of the nonchalant kind. I was in a weird seduction; yacht dad shorts, vintage spectacles, and flirtatious grabs for fires. Later, after he kissed me, an attempt to seduce me when I had been more successfully seduced by the food, I felt that I wanted to return to the patio that magically inundated me with glittering strands of lights, baskets of flowers, and attentive and kind waitstaff, rather than relive the kiss. If one is in the mood for indulgence and flavors encompassed with the most juicy of meat and sauces, casually gazing at the funny passerby of Pearl Street, then look no further. I highly recommend Salt, for it allows one to trade in dates with guys for indulging in fries.Â
Mazevo – Denver, Colo.: A small, but lively almost Grecian, Amalfi yet hipster aesthetic inundates the every recess of this Denver Mediterranean restaurant. Located amidst the trendiness of Tennyson, Mazveo introduces diners to a world of succulently spiced hummus, tender, richly peppered, and oiled lamb, tangy pickled onions, aromatic stuffed grape leaves, and much more. It is here that diners can experience an inundation of the exotic right in their very own backyard of Denver. As it exuded an exemplary experience of the foreign, what was better for an impulsive first date, where mystery dripped and oozed like the oil off the edges of the stuffed grape leaves? Amidst the confusion of a situationship with a rock-climbing, evening purveyor of sour-dough baking, obsessed PhD student, I in a state of rebellion unbeknownst to my pestering paramour, decided to go out on a date with someone new.
We had matched on Bumble and connected seemingly with ease. In an act quite unlike my normal self, I impulsively agreed to a first date within 24 hours of messaging him. He was 26, an architect at a small firm, and lived in Denver. With dark hair, dark eyes, and gloriously tanned skin, he was the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. Not only was this restaurant perfectly foreign just like this connection and man, but it was right between us distance-wise. We met at Mazevo on a chilly and snowy Friday night in March. The restaurant was bright, glittery, and warm, with a mixture of scents, spices, and music. I sat at a small table right in the front of the restaurant’s window front. The table was small and wooden, but comfortable and cozy, a perfectly pre-coordinated proximity appropriate for the intimacy and flirtation of a greatly anticipated first date. Above me was a decorative pergola built into the ceiling of the restaurants, glittering light strands and fake grapes and leaves intertwining to create a memorable ambiance of a seductive Mediterranean evening.
When we finally arrived he sat down next to me. As we started conversing, a state of seductive complimenting was burgeoning as he looked at me with a sense of playful desire and complimented my hair, eyes, and the way that I spoke with such passion about my academic and casual interests. The lights of the pergola shone down on us and reflected in the addictive mahogany of his eyes. As I (barely) ate, the more we talked and the more I blushed, unsure if it was the spice of my food, the intimate, desirable fervor with which he complimented me, the bold and flirtatiously unrelenting manner in which he gazed at me, or a combination of all of the above. The food was spectacular, my lamb perfect- tender but cooked, spiced but not over-spiced. My hummus was indulgently creamy, but with enough spice that it retained flavor dimensionality and by extension textural dimension. The environment of the restaurant was perfect, as it was loud enough to not make me feel so singular and vulnerable on a first date, but yet quiet enough that engagement between two individuals was more than able to thrive. Still, throughout the evening my body felt sparks as we laughed.
Whenever he leaned closer, I could smell the burn of alcohol from his Negroni on his breath. Yet, as he talked, he suspiciously sweet-talked me with his love of queer theory podcasts and bragged about ownership of a copy of Marxist texts–because, sarcastically speaking, terribly pretending to identify as a communist was sure to turn on this radical leftist gal, and purposefully spending time trying to understand the communist manifesto. Dare he socially progress so much that he was naught but faux, performative progressive, or was he really a twenty-something architect who escaped a traditionally macho Mexican household to come to terms with a more evolved version of masculinity and listened to podcasts and educated his friends on queer theory?
As I continued to mentally rave over the perfection of my spiced lamb, he shared that he was comfortable enough in his masculinity to wildly explore sartorial fluidity, meaning he had a mere three vintage pastel floral shirts. Owning just three unique shirts most definitely did (not) show an evolved sense of masculinity. I cured my suspicion of his character with dollops of the divine hummus, perfectly thick, smooth, and not overly spiced. What was more believable, that I had been convinced to love Mediterranean food, or that he dreamt of and was working his way towards designing luxury affordable housing condominiums? It was most definitely that I had been convinced of a cuisine, as I was having trouble believing that a 26-year-old man who exuded a concerning amount of bravado and a slick ego, had a dream that concerned charity work and authentic selflessness.
At the end of the night, the restaurant’s aesthetic glow above its trendy sleek sign, he leaned into me, inundating me with cologne that I knew had a name that solidified its synonymy with off-putting masculinity. His kiss exuded ego rather than skill. While the date was ego more than connection, I recommend a visit to this sweet little Denver spot. The perfect balance between spice and quality of texture made me, a Mediterranean food skeptic, flip-flop and fall in love with the cuisine. I recommend it if you are trepidatious about food that is flavored boldly, as the balance between spice and cognizance of the quantity of the food being spiced is thoroughly considered and apparent when sampled. Perhaps, if you are a skeptic it will do the same for you, and if you already love Mediterranean cuisine, perhaps it will make you love it even more, and if you, like me, were stuck conversing with a performative progressive, you can engage in a self-discovery of cuisine, thus giving little weight to your company’s beloved crocheted tops.
Chautauqua Park – Boulder, Colo: Large, open, and last, Chautauqua park is the perfect place for walking for individuals who love a balance of ease and challenge in their walking, as well as for those who have a penchant for cinematic views. The majestic view of the mountains offers a stunning experience, pressing the individual who walks head-first into spiritual awe, transcending past the boundaries of nature and being. Although I had ventured once before into this park, I threw myself into truly feeling the landscape, exploring the landscape during spring break of my freshman year of college, upon venturing home and meeting an Aerospace Engineering junior at CU on Bumble. He appeared kind and humble, nerdy in a cute way. Visually, he was the collegiate Super Why, glasses, messy short brown hair and all! He loved ABBA and his enthusiasm surrounding the song “Gimme Gimme Gimme a Man After Midnight” was a manifestation of enthusiasm that made my heart sing.
Since my spring break was a mere few days, we quickly decided to meet up for a morning walk at Chautauqua. It was a cool, crisp March morning. The morning sun was fresh, casting a perky glow over the flatirons, making them appear as if they were rising from a slumber, ready for a new day ahead. He was everything like his photograph; short brown hair with messy cartoon young boy character ends, used jeans and Doc Martens, and a flannel paired with a Duluth Trading jacket, a label that appeared to be worn in an aesthetic similar to that of a Surf Rock enthusiast’s vintage irony. We walked through the landscape, chilled but enjoying the conversation. The walking paths in front of the mountains were perfect for someone like myself, someone who did not enjoy over-exertion.
The paths were mostly flat but with a subtle incline, perfect for anyone who doesn’t enjoy the typical laboriousness of Colorado outdoorsiness, but nonetheless wants to dabble in it. The frontal view paths lend themselves well to pauses to digest the view, offering a multiplicity of nuanced angles from which to inspect the beautiful incongruencies and natural characteristics of the mountains. Much to my disappointment, although his aesthetic screamed environmentalist, he told me that he had no interest in politics or activism. Just when I had assumed that his scuffed-up Doc Martins had seen the steps of a Planned Parenthood, or his flannels had been tugged on by police officers during a BLM rally, he distanced himself from the radicality that accompanied my beloved values.
Although disappointed and sad when he told me he thought we didn’t have much in common, I felt excited that I had now more fully discovered a prime walking spot. I recommend Chautauqua, specifically the paths along the view of the front range, to anyone who wants to engage in the typical outdoor activities of a Coloradoan, but does not wish to overwork their body. I also recommend this front part for people with physical limitations, either by oneself or with assistance, it is more friendly to different kinds of bodies and physicalities, and thus offers a more inclusive walking and outdoor experience! I also love this particular park because of the uniqueness the view brings to the overall experience. While the view technically remains the same, the flat irons succumb to the transformation effect of the sun’s distinct glow at different times of the day, transforming the view of the flat irons into completely different aesthetics and thus experiences. Although I recommend Chautauqua for a memorable and meditative walk where observance is distinctly at the forefront, I do not recommend these mountain-facing trails as an ideal location to share a kiss. Like me, you may find yourself falling into picky plants and natural trenches of the terrain, where romance becomes as rocky as the very mountains you are standing in front of are in terrain as well as are in their given name.
River and Woods – Boulder, Colo: Located in a quaint and cozy cottage, situated between apartment complexes, River and Woods provides a farm-to-table dining experience nestled between elevated high-class and comfort food. If you are seeking a dining experience that is elevated cozy cabin, look no further. The interior is elevated cottagecore, where diners can feel as if they are feasting within the interior of a tree trunk-turned residence. The food is extravagant but comforting, offering large homemade marshmallows and graham crackers with chocolate bars over a tiny fire in a make-your-own s’mores experience, cheesy meaty veggie omelets, succulent cuts of duck, juicy and sticky bacon fig wraps, and much more.
I truly learned the wondrous extent of this restaurant’s cuisine when I nabbed a spot for their five-course Valentine’s Day meal with a CU PhD student from China I had, at the time, recently started seeing. He was quiet and short, and although his penchant for khakis was dad-like in obvious nature, he somehow made them endearing, and attractive. His minimalist, simplistic approach to life and outerwear did not make him boring, but rather desirably nerdy. He had a distinct computer lab aesthetic about him, but somehow I found myself nonetheless attracted. We met at the restaurant and found that we were situated in a tent in the back decorated with a floor of pristine fake grass, roses, and tiny strands of light. It was as if we were in a dystopian-like conceptualization of a perfect Utopian suburban Valentine’s Day.
Our table had a wonderful spread of sparkling dishware, a small but gleaming candle, and shining glasses. It felt like a movie and although the ambiance was high class, the waitstaff was nothing but informally warm in the best of ways. As we ate our way through the night, we surrendered to leaping out of our culinary comfort zones into unique territories of fish eggs in sour cream on tiny Russian pancakes, crispy artichoke hearts with a wondrous lemon aioli, juicy buttery cuts of meat, and tart raspberry jam and custard. The food was perfect, for it complimented the excitement of the night, of finally having a Valentine’s Day where I did not sit alone watching a rom-com.
As we cut into the tender meat, our lips dripping with fat and sauce, he gifted me homemade strawberry macarons that he had stayed up until one in the morning to make for me. His slightly awkward but dimpled smile made my heart melt over the melting custard that had a sublime texture and lack of sweetness. I managed to combat his rock climbing obsession with the saltiness of salmon eggs, an explosion of oceanic fluid. The food at River and Woods is perfect, for it is the consummate balance between exploration and comfort, new and old. You are able to venture out and yet harken back to your comforts.
If one wants an ambiance that is simultaneously casual and formal without a sense of stuffy formality and uptight attitudes, then River and Woods is a high recommendation. Although I am no longer with the individual that I shared the night with, I highly recommend visiting this restaurant as it provides a balance between casualty and formality, a formality that does not sacrifice humanity and compassionate personal treatment, all while offering a dining experience that allows one to ebb and flow, travel to new flavors and return to old ones. For the apprehensively adventurous diner, River and Woods is ideal, as most of the food alludes to flavors familiar but reconstructed, allowing one to travel not too far from home. Although it is more in the pricey range, I recommend trying out this restaurant if any family members visit for homecoming, family weekend, or graduation, as well as if any out-of-town friends visit for a special occasion!