Where we first met

It’s been eleven years ago, almost to the day. Dawn and Karen had invited me to join them for dinner at a new little restaurant in Capitol Hill called Potager. I walked into this space- which used to be a Laundromat- now converted into an open and inviting eatery with brick walls and white table clothes. There were about ten of us having dinner, spread out at this long table that ran along the bar. I said hello to the ones I knew, introduced myself to those I didn’t. I tucked myself at the end of the table between Karen and Fierros. “Who’s the straight girl with Dawn”, I inquired to Karen. She laughed and said something about Dawn’s new friend Terry. I assumed she was an attorney, or had some connection with Dawn in that capacity. She was wearing a white tank top with spaghetti straps, her hair was jet black and her eyes were utterly captivating. But I didn’t give it a second thought. By the end of the night, two of the people at the table had already asked for her phone number. One of those people was not I. I will leave the rest of this story to another day....

Last Wednesday, as I drove down Corona, past the Priscilla- the apartment building where Terry lived when we met and where we spent a good deal of time courting- right onto 11th, right into the alley to park behind Potager. Every time I walk into this place, I feel something- comfort, solace, peace and a deep sense of gratitude and love. We eat here for special occasions, but sometimes for no reason at all. This night we bellied up to the bar. They don’t take reservations, and for some reason tonight was bustling.

Potager means “kitchen garden” in French. Teri Rippeto opened this place wanting it to (in my opinion) be an establishment in which the food was fresh, sourced locally and allowed that to showcase itself. She did something right. The restaurant is going on eleven years and people still wait (with no reservations) for a table upwards of an hour sometimes. She grows some things out back in the summer. But you will always find her on Wednesdays and Saturdays at the Boulder Farmer’s Market, sourcing from some of the best organic growers on the Front Range. This thoughtfulness is always present in the food. She was doing ‘local’ before the word ‘organic’ was the buzz. She’s Denver’s closest version of Alice Waters.

That night we started with a salad of fresh green beans, tomatoes, corn and ricotta salata- with the full realization that those things were coming from right down the road, the cheese made in the kitchen from local milk. We then split the ribeye atop a corn patty. Finished off the meal with a brownie with toasted coconut and ice cream. We both agreed that it wasn’t the best meal that we had ever had there. We agreed that we could probably have done this at home. We reminisced about that night we met- about countless meals we have had there. Some bites would get the eyebrow raise from T, which is to say ‘perfection’. The soufflés, the mussels, the fish, the tenderloins, the carpaccios, and Jane with her damn delicious desserts- there have been a lot of tasty things. There has been a lot of laughter, a lot of hard discussions, and a lot of gazing- in this space across white tablecloths and cutting boards full of bread and glasses of well-selected wines.

Eleven years we have had this relationship with a restaurant, a movement, a space, and a friend and with all relationships it has had shining moments and some dull moments. As T and I approach our eleven years of being in a relationship, we have shared the same variety of moments. And every time we walk into Potager we are reminded of what we love and how we love- and it sinks in ever so deeper.

Photo by Paige Elizabeth