Boulder Blahs

There are a few things that I like about Boulder and many that I don't. For example, it bothers me that Boulder exists where it does, snugged up tight against the base of the Flatirons, frantically humping the leg of a mountain range that would be that much more splendid if the whole town just buggered off to the plains. But then, I like the view of Boulder as you come up over the big hill on I-36 and see the town all laid out with its predominantly low-slung buildings and tidy landscaping. From a distance, it looks so idyllic -- like a fantasy postcard painted by a landscape artist dosed to the gills on NyQuil and Prozac.

The town is filled with pretty girls, and that's good. It's also filled with pretty boys, all carrying Rollerblades or freshly returned from a thirty-mile hike and a spa visit, and that's not so good. Makes the pretty girls that much less likely to shoot a smile or pass the time of day with a scowling, scrofulous, chain-smoking, perpetual ex-New Yorker with a fatal allergy to any outdoor activity that doesn't involve a barbecue and a wet bar.

Inexplicably, I love the Pearl Street Mall. Probably because of the unrestrained, Aquarian, all-world utopian quality of it, the combination of bustling commerce and grimy street theater, the trust-fund proto-punks grubbing change to gas up the Escalade and the guy out front of Juanita's hustling the gawkers who stop to watch his one trick -- getting his cat to ride on his dog's back while two white mice sit comfortably atop the cat. All things considered, the stunt's a pretty good dodge and very Boulder in its allegorical subtext. But right next door, in the space that used to hold Triana, there's a new restaurant that's got the stupid-pet-trick guy beat hands-down in terms of gimmicks.

The Kitchen opened in March under the command of Kimbal Musk and Hugo Matheson. Musk, a former Internet gazillionaire who made his mint with online restaurant guides and then sold out early, adopted a second career as a chef trained by some of the masters of the trade (André Soltner and Jacques Torres are high on his curriculum vitae) and hit Boulder in 2002. Matheson's a Brit from the Leith school who can claim the dubious honor of having cooked under Jamie Oliver at London's River Cafe before coming to Boulder and working as an exec chef at Trios, Triana and Mateo. And they've done their level best to out-Boulder Boulder with their restaurant's earth-friendly foodie consciousness and think globally/eat locally business practices.

For starters, the Kitchen's kitchen is 100 percent wind-powered -- first time I've ever seen that. Its used cooking oil is recycled as biodiesel fuel for that handful of cars whose owners find some atypical joy in driving a vehicle with a top speed of 40 mph that smells like a plate of french fries even standing still. The menu, which changes daily to one degree or another, strives to be all organic, all natural and all local. It fails in this, of course, because lacking the necessary supply chain, no restaurant's menu can be all three most of the time -- or even any one all of the time. Still, the Kitchen's attempt is valiant. And it also tries to be very low-key about its do-goodery. The wind power, the biodiesel, the close-to-the-land organic purchasing -- all this is writ small, presented in fine print like an afterthought, as if to say, "Right, we're a restaurant, but we're a better kind of restaurant than you expected. Just keep it under your hat, okay?"

Which I would have been happy to do, until I noticed that it's writ small all over the place -- on the menu, the website, the front door and windows. It's presented subtly, but in a way you can't help but notice -- a neat bit of sleight-of-hand. The exception to this modest presentation is a big chalkboard on the wall that boldly pronounces which local farmers, which hometown producers, which good-guy purveyors of everything from hanger steaks to microgreens have provided the raw materials for the day's repast. Colorado Natural Meats, Haystack Mountain, Niman Ranch, Izze Beverages, John's Farm ice cream -- the usual suspects, proudly credited for their artisan products. It's all very nice, very it's-a-small-world-after-all, so, long before I get a chance to order, I already know everything there is to know about the cow, fish or pig I'll be eating save its name and favorite color. This makes me wonder how long it'll be before I sit down in a restaurant and am formally introduced to my main course. Hello, Mr. Sheehan. This is Bessie the veal calf, and she'll be your entree this evening...