The River Room........Part XI

The Great Flood of 1927……The Dustbowl of the 1930’s...The Tsunami of 2003….Hurricane Katrina - natural disasters of Biblical proportion; events that define disaster.

Colorado was also witness to a natural disaster so profound, so horrific, that the elders will only mention it in hushed tones; contemporaries tremble and turn ashen at the memory.

The Great Colorado Pot Shortage of the fall of 2008

No one knows for certain who or what sinister series of events conspired to cause the shortage. Was it the prolonged Mexican winter of 2007? Possibly it was the recent locust infestation on Maui, while others suspected the Jamaican Drug Embargo. More than likely it was none of the aforementioned; rather, the shortage happened to coincide with the recent State election which legalized medicinal marijuana in Colorado, causing most of the 4.8 million unhealthy Coloradans to flee to their doctor for some much needed relief. Just like that, overnight, the demand for weed far exceeded the supply. There wasn’t a joint left to be had in the State.

Dhoubi took the pot shortage hard….. very, very hard.

His carefree, fun-loving demeanor took a nasty turn for the worse; he became quiet, sullen and quick to temper. His alcohol consumption, already epic, went off the charts. During the dinner shift, whenever I was out of the bar in the dining room, he would go into the bar, grab a bottle by the throat and swig gulps from the Hornitos Reposada Tequila or Johnny Walker Red - his brands of choice. On a positive note, he was very picky about the booze he’d chug, preferring not to drink if we were out of his favorites. This knowledge caused me to begin hiding the Hornitos and the Johnny Walker in my bedroom closet; made for a bit of a trek when someone ordered a top-shelf margarita, but so be it, as hidden away in the bedroom, I’d at least have top-shelf booze to serve.

He began all but accosting people – anyone and everyone, including our guests – as to whether or not they had any pot he could buy. At the slightest rumor of there being pot, he’d hop in his truck in pursuit; there was a midnight run to Aspen, next a three-day trek to Durango. I swear he would have climbed the nearest 14-er in a raging blizzard at the hint of a possibility of scoring a roach.

To say this lack of weed had a negative affect on his job performance is a few kilos short of an understatement. His kitchen deportment was horrific, to the point of everyone threatening to walk out if he didn’t get some control. His food preparation became so sloppy that I’m certain it cost us our third Michelin star. I strongly considered firing him, but with the holidays coming up – sold out weekends, group Christmas parties – I had no other choice but to put up with his God-awful behavior.

In mid-December, Christmas came early; not only for Dhoubi, but for all of the ailing Coloradans – weed had suddenly reappeared. Like a Times Square New Years Eve, the smoky streets of Boulder were filled with revelers, (although they were like way more laid back than those New York Times Square revelers) a healthy, hazy fog hanging over the pie-eyed throngs.

I was glad for this change in fortunes as I felt it would get Dhoubi back on an even keel - but such was not the case. The constant combination of a freshly stoned-again Dhoubi and a liquid diet of pricy tequila made for a brand of intoxication heretofore unknown to the consuming public. Even some of Grand County’s finest drunks were aghast at Dhoubi’s perpetual, high level state of self-medication, “Sheesh, but that guy can shure put away the saush…what a booze hound…hic….shimply shamelesh.”

His menu choices, while already a little on the eclectic side for Grand County, became so over the top that Thomas Keller would have been perplexed. “Yes Dhoubi”, I’d say when looking over the evenings specials, “perhaps if I was smashed on my ass and hadn’t one solitary functioning brain cell would I then be tempted to order the Ox Tongue Stew with Candied Jicama and Hot Buttered Groat Clusters. Honestly, where do you come up with this stuff?” He would then try to tell me, through a tongue that was as thick as a 4’x4’ and eyes that were glazed like a fat man’s dream donut, that the reintroduction of pot into his life had awakened his senses and expanded his mind and his culinary imagination to unimaginable levels of creativity. I certainly couldn’t argue with the ‘unimaginable levels’ part.

The last night Dhoubi worked at The River Room was Saturday, February 14th, 2009 – Valentine’s Day. The hotel was booked solid, and the restaurant was essentially sold out with reservations. Dhoubi had a special menu full of Italian-themed obscurities that were guaranteed to furrow the brow of every Grand Countian who would dine with us that evening. Try some of these on for size:

Cappezoli Mucca con Limoni e Salssicia

Brasato di rana pescatrice con i Piedi Maiali e Broccoli

Zuppa di Lumache, Noci e fagioli Lima

Mmmmm. Makes you hungry, doesn’t it? It was one thing trying to read it; having to pronounce it and explain it to our patrons that evening was next to impossible.

A sample of one of my many exchanges with the paying public that evening: “The Zuppa di lumache, noci e fagioli Lima is a soup of snails, walnuts and lima beans. I know it sounds a little unusual, but our chef told all on the staff that it is sublime.”

"Have you tried it?" the patron asked.

"Uh, no, not in hell. But I hear it's really good if you like snails!"

“Think I’ll pass on that. What is the Brasato, ....how do you say the rest of it?”

“The Brasato di rana pescatrice con i piedi maiali e broccoli, is a delightful little dish of braised monkfish, known as 'poor man's lobster', with pigs feet and broccolli. Again, an unusual combination, but I’m told by the chef that it’s quite tasty!”

“Whoa! Could maybe I get like an Italian hamburger or something?”

And on it went.

At the end of Dante’s Valentine’s Day Inferno at The River Room, and in true post-pot shortage fashion, Dhoubi was absolutely, positively 100% trashed to the max at the end of the evening. He literally couldn’t speak; I’d ask him a simple question such as “Hey Dhoubi, can you get up off of the floor and help Danny and Anthony clean the kitchen?”, and he’d look in my general direction, make a pained effort to open his mouth and form words, and say something like “plawd mullied gippo roaberdy.”

I simply couldn’t take any more of it, and however difficult for all of the parties involved, I knew what had to be done. Danny had the Sunday night dinner shift, and we were closed the following two days, so I had to agonize over the inevitable until Wednesday morning when Dhoubi arrived at the hotel. He seemed moderately sober, as I was able to understand a ‘morning’ as he flew by my office. I was quick to track him down and give him the news that I no longer required his services. Simply put, he did not take the news well. I recall that “F-you” was possibly the nicest thing he said to me as he exited our hotel for the final time. The honeymoon and the wedding had come to a disastrous end – Thank God.

The mantle of ‘head chef at The River Room’ was finally passed on to its rightful heir, Chef Danny. He’d worked for a year now under two capable trainers, and he’d soaked up all of their good habits like a sponge, and fortunately hadn’t seemed to pick up any of their bad habits. But he was going to need some help in the kitchen, especially on busy weekend nights……enter Chef Carrie, a hippie chick from Minnesota who came to Colorado in the 70’s, looking for snow, slopes and….have I mentioned the Colorado weed thing?

To be continued…….