I live in Denver, which is in Colorado. All the folks consider me pretty rad. I look like an Alex. My name is Alex.
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Lately, I’ve been inadvertently eating at Denver restaurants about a year after I first ate at them. Tables, a very hidden gem in the Park Hill neighborhood (where I teach), was the site of the Springs crew’s first Denver jaunt last year. I found myself back there on Wednesday after a long day of teaching to treat myself before watching the first presidential debate. (In fact, Obama’s hotel was less than a mile from Tables.)

The restaurant is, in a word, lovely. It’s got tiny paint-chipped buckets of bread, a white picket fence around the outdoor dining area, mismatched tables, and rickety old chalkboards. Oh, and Comic Sans on its receipts. The food, as Westword and I agree, is almost comically good for its ZIP code.

This dish was so classically Denver—scallops from afar, carrots from the backyard, green chiles in the risotto, homemade Parmesan crisps, with slices of a homemade sausage burrowed deep under the lot. It was the best Main Dish I’ve had in a while.