For reasons I seem unable to adequately explain, I am in Denver. Last night I ate a dinner-of-never-ending-small-plates (thank goodness they were tasty, one and all) that began with this large plate of cured meats, marinated vegetables, and cheeses. Commonly known, as you well know internets, as an antipasti plate (or platter, if you or it are feeling grand). The rose jelly was particularly refreshing with the salty cured meats, of which I am always a fan.

*Let me publicly state my intention of developing a recipe for such a jelly.*

Much of the dinner conversation centered on whether or not the house frites (that’s freedom fries to you and me) were thumbs-up or thumbs-down. The Bistro Vendôme in this Rockies-adjacent city crisps up an excellent base fry, which the kitchen then coats with gastrique (vinegar and sugar mixture) before tossing with too many herbs. Other diners were more caught up in the pro- and anti-gastrique camps. But me? I found the herbs a bit much.

But when I really seemed to lose the group was when I found out there is an acre-large bar outside of town “off the highway” (off the highway, people!) called The Grizzly Rose where line dancing and cheap beer throw down together every night. I thought we should ditch the vaguely Mediterranean-themed jazz club/restaurant/bar in the ballpark-revitalized section of downtown where we were having after-dinners drinks and head to The Rose immediately. I was alone with these thoughts.