My mile-high adventure continues. Before I get into it, let me make one thing clear: dinner at Rioja last night was fabulous. The food was inventive with purpose, the service attentive without being obsequious (it was a press dinner, so too much service tends to be more of the problem than anything else).
But the name. When I say I had dinner at Rioja, aren’t you picturing rustic Spanish dishes? Some tapas? Plenty of earthenware cassuelas? Seafood a la plancha? Saffron all over the place? The owners chose it because they love the wines of the region. Fair enough. But the name in no way adequately or accurately reflects the food they serve. The highlight of the meal–and I apologize to everyone in the kitchen there who has got to be sick to death of prepping and cooking this signature dish, but you y’all make it too good for me to ignore–was a bit of pork belly gently braised to melt in its fat before being seared to a crisp with a cardamom rub served atop a pureed of fresh chick peas flavored with a bit of curry powder. Sounds weird, I know, but it works. It really works.
The chef will be adding a smoked corn risotto as soon as Colorado corn is ripe. (After smoking the corn and cutting off the kernels, she infuses the cream for the risotto with the cobs to deepen the smoky corn flavor of the dish.) If I were in Denver this summer, I’d certainly stop by and give it a try.
“Rioja” doesn’t really fit any of that, does it? I’m no Name Inspector, but I find such a mis-match distracting. But then, the name doesn’t matter when you’re shoveling the candied lemon gnocchi–crispy and light–into your mouth….
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