By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
My father is one of those artists. He can open an unfamiliar menu, scan it, and come up with a coherent meal for himself in a matter of minutes, beautifully complementary from start to finish, and chances are, what he orders is what everyone else at the table will be envying for the rest of the evening.
You want the meal to make sense--to not load yourself down with three cream sauces and flan for dessert because those dishes sound the most intriguing or because the waiter recommends them. On the other hand, you want to let the kitchen show its stuff---your favorite food (a steak sandwich, for example) may not always be the best example of what a kitchen can accomplish.
Dad is a menu connoisseur--a lifetime of reading menus has honed his naturally correct instincts about what to eat into a dependable skill.
So he opened his menu at Roaring Fork, noticed immediately that it listed "creamed turnip greens," which he'd never seen before on any menu, and decided what he was going to eat before I'd finished reading the appetizer list. And it turned out, as it often does, that his food was the best we tried.
Roaring Fork is the name of the river that runs through "downtown" Aspen--a bad sign, I thought, for a restaurant that is north but not that north. It's too pretentious an allusion, it implies a little too much elitist attitude. My own attitude softened, though, when we walked in and saw the fork theme was taken so literally: the entry is completely lined with forks, covering the walls in tine-to-tine rows. At the hub of the restaurant, where the bar, two dining rooms, and the semi-open kitchen converge, there's a Claes Oldenburg-sized fork stuck through a leaf the size of a dining-room table. It will probably remind you of the giant artichokes or the asparagus fence at Natura, another restaurant owned by Roaring Fork owners Phil and Janet Cobb.
The Cobbs vaguely describe Roaring Fork as "an American grill" serving innovative American food, specializing (redundantly) in fresh fish specialties and regional American favorites. That's PR-speak, but Roaring Fork is a pleasant change from the too-noisy, too-big, casual-chic cafe style most new restaurants adopt.
Roaring Fork is an old-fashioned restaurant with new-fangled food--a restaurant for grown-ups. You'll see more navy blazers than band collars here, and lots of high heels.
The space is not that different from when it was Atlantic Cafe Too!, with dark-wood dividers, and elegant booths providing more privacy than most restaurants assume diners want these days. Its arrangement doesn't encourage table-hopping and the bar is completely separate. It's untrendy, but unstuffy, a style of restaurant enjoyed by the generation ahead. (I took my parents--who taught me everything I know about food--to dinner there.)
Past the giant fork is the raw bar, a big, fishmonger-style bed of crushed ice displaying lobsters, mussels, shrimp, stone crabs and oysters (Malpeques and Blue Points the night we were there), flown in fresh every day.
There are several dining rooms; one was occupied by a party of 80 that particular Friday night, absorbing a considerable amount of the kitchen and staff's attention. Along the wall of one dining room there are little, private dining rooms--small, mirrored alcoves where you can draw the curtains and eat in privacy. Watching the groups who have reserved these rooms adds a little vicarious drama to your dining--one couple entered happily and ordered champagne. Too soon, she left, then he left, bubbles still rising in the flutes on the table.
The Cobbs' executive chef is Mark Morrow, who oversees the food at Mi Piaci next door and Natura downtown, as well; Chef de Cuisine Lance Young is the man directly in charge of the Fork's food. Perhaps he instructs the waiters to push the "duck cigars" as an appetizer--we accepted our waiter's suggestion and then recognized them arriving at nearly every table. Crisp won ton-wrapper sticks stuffed with shredded, stewed duck and invisible-tasting jalapeno are served sticking out of a martini glass filled with plum sauce and diced-melon salsa. The condiments were difficult to scoop up with the tube and the rich duck tidbits needed their cool, fruity contrast--you actually managed this finger food best with a fork.
Dad started his meal with the house-smoked trout--two snowy fillets, moist and thoroughly permeated with the aroma of wood smoke, garnished with mild aioli, oven-dried Roma tomatoes and slices of crisp toast, studded with pine nuts. You put a dab of the garlicky mayonnaise on a piece of toast, topped it with a forkful of trout and a tomato round...dinner could have ended right there as far as I was concerned, but, of course, it wasn't officially my dinner, was it?