Rioja, Denver
Sitting with my back to the wall at a table in the middle of the long, main dining room, I have a 180° panoramic view of the Thursday dinner service at Rioja. The first word I write in my notebook is….“circus”.
For the last two weeks, I’ve subsisted on stereotypical American foods. Pancakes / waffles for breakfast; Reubens or similar $15 sandwiches for lunch; steaks, ribs, or deep-fried thing plus potato of choice for dinner. I’ve kept scurvy at bay only by carting a bag of emergency oranges around with me. Tonight, my last night before heading home to Berlin, I’m hoping to end things on a gastronomic high. I’ve come to Rioja, which purports to be a ”mediterranean restaurant”. It’s 19:45 and I’m ready to indulge.
The restaurant is 90% full. I count seven swiftly perambulating waiters dressed in casual grey polos. To my right are three or four toiling chefs….it’s an open kitchen concept. I spot two couples on dates, a few families, a group of four gal-pals (looking very Sex and the City like), and directly ahead of me, a hen party consisting of two hair-stroking, twenty-somethings, some pink balloons, LEDs, and one white, sequined cowboy hat. Circus.
At first contact, my waiter is a little imperious. He looks at me like he doesn’t quite know what to make of me. In his defence, I am somewhat underdressed for dinner. In my defence, it’s the last night of my road-trip and I went with my least wrinkly shirt. Moving on….I order an aperitif, a large glass of Rotari Rosé Brut, from Trento, Italy, weighing in at 9oz. Before it arrives, serious waiter is back and looking to take my order. Things are moving apace.
I receive a jumbo glass of sparkling rosé that is very biscuity on the nose, sharp with berries, and far more orange than pink. On an empty stomach, it starts to work its magic within a few minutes. But minutes are all I have before the first course, goat cheese tart with huckleberries and hazelnuts, is foisted upon me. This is too fast. I fear I’m being single-cover fast tracked. The tart looks great, sitting proudly on simple but tasteful Earthenware, with no drizzle, dusting, or contrived swathe embellishment. This tart is….tart. The goat cheese is strong, very capric and dominating. The roasted hazelnuts do nothing to temper it and as such are largely irrelevant. Huckleberries are new to me, so I’m intrigued. They’re a little sweeter than blackcurrants and do manage to round off the cheese quite well. The pastry is 10/10, thin, buttery and crisp. In my humble opinion, this dish needed a less aggressive cheese or a suggestion of honey. I have just one mouthful of it left, when a different waiter arrives with a selection of breads. I take a slice of lavender sourdough and black olive bread. The former really works well without the proffered salted butter. Lavender seed is apparent, but not overpowering. A very nice idea. The olive bread is strongly fermented and crisp. Delicious with said butter.
This really is a hive of activity and there is an assembly-line, Amazon fulfilment centre intensity to the place. Not exactly the relaxed dining experience I’m seeking. I ask to see the wine-list again as I’ve made short work of the fizz. Among various Italian, Spanish and French options, I see three Californian whites and one red. Alas, nothing from Colorado (which I’ve learned has a noteworthy wine region). I decide to stick with Northern Italy and order a large glass of Daniele Conterno, Barbera d’Alba Superiore, Piedmont. I have just a minute or two to appreciate it before my next course arrives, but even in this short time I am completely sold. It has an unmistakable aroma of cherry, a peppery top note, a roundedness to shame Giotto, and a puff of tobacco at the end of every mouthful. I am delighted with this choice.
I’ve ordered Amish chicken with wild mushrooms, lardon, potato puree and Paprikasch. Is this an Amish recipe? Or was the chicken reared by an Amish person? I suspect it’s the former, but ought to have asked. Either way, it’s divinely juicy with a golden crispy skin and certainly tastes like it led a blameless life. With one morel buried in amongst a pile of cultivated chestnuts, I’m not sure it’s accurate to call these mushrooms “wild”. They are nevertheless quite tasty and get a little lift from some slices of cornichon. The puree is French style, buttery and just seasoned enough to off-set the heft of the sauce. This is a man-sized plate but it’s much too delicious to consider defeat, so I take my time and watch the circus. The two girls opposite me have brought their own celebratory cake, decorated with a not-so-miniature silver disco ball. I can’t be sure which of them is the bride to-be, as they seem equally animated. I’m entertaining the idea that they might be marrying one another, when I hear the party of four to my right talking about ayahuasca holidays and “overcoming barriers to the next level”. This is more interesting. I’ve noticed my waiter chatting it up with them about….what else?....his homemade jewellery collection. He seems to be thawing toward me too when he comes to test my interest in the dessert menu. At his firm recommendation, I take the coconut angel-food cake with pineapple and caramel, apparently a “fun take on a piña colada”. Why not?
The cake is a yeasted Bundt and reminds me of a rum baba. It’s extremely light, strong in toasted coconut flavour, but painfully sweet with what feels like an unnecessary excess of caster sugar….and easily big enough for two. Pineapple is dehydrated and compressed into a beautifully crisp sunshine disc. Meanwhile, chunks of fresh pineapple freshen up the caramel sauce. A cool coconut sorbet dribbled with lime juice makes this a party that I’m happy to stick around for. Note to self, pineapple and red wine do not mix well at all.
I choke down the last of the dessert at around 21:00 and notice the restaurant now feels very much calmer. The din has diminished, and the chefs look to be winding down for the night. The sought-after feeling of relaxation is finally upon me. When the waiter comes back, it’s my turn for chit-chats. I express my need for a digestif and after a moment, he declares he has just the thing, and marches off. The fact that I’ve essentially just handed him a blank cheque is a little disconcerting, but he seems delighted in my trust and returns just a few minutes later with his big reveal. He presents me with an elegant tulip flute containing a dark amber liquid. It’s Amaro Montenegro, which avid readers will recall I enjoyed a few restaurants back (see Trattoria Sarda, Berlin). This circularity pleases me no end, as does the slick, sticky taste of orange peel, hazelnut and cocoa. A master-stroke.
My fervent note taking (or deranged grinning) has drawn the attention of the ladies to my right. We spark up a cute conversation about my writing, their SATC-looking dinner (a reunion), ayahuasca retreats in Orlando, and more, that takes me just into a third hour. This has been a very stimulating evening and I’m ending my adventure on a huge high….so much more than I could have asked for. Grateful.
My final tally.
Atmosphere 8/10
Food & Drink quality 7/10
Service 8/10
Value for money 7/10
7.5 / 10
“Start all future meals with 9 oz of something fizzy, dress for dinner, appreciate the Amish.”
