It’s 2004. We’re sitting in the lounge of the steakhouse across the street from the restaurant, the owner and me, the chef. The place is dimly lit, and the owner, who’s been MIA for most of the restaurant’s existence, stares down at his brandy snifter and tells me tonight was our last night of service.
The landlord, he says, has been unreasonable and un…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Denverse Magazine to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.