A Night Under the Hay Moon: Beckon Presents a New Way to Dine in Denver

       Restaurants Beckon and Call sit on a tiny plot of land, side by side, like two black and white cottages out of Hansel and Gretel. Maybe you’ve heard of Call? Bon Appetit listed it as one of their top ten restaurants in America for 2018. Eater Denver also named it one of the city’s 38 essential restaurants. 5280 Magazine labeled it as a “Delicious Disruptor” for Denver’s top 25 in 2018. Now, with Beckon (opened in November 2018), chef Duncan Holmes invites Call regulars and curious newcomers to experience one of Denver’s first fully curated and seasonally-adapting tasting menus. 

        So far the $115 (add another $65 or $95 for a standard or reserve wine pairing), eight-course adventure has been well-received; I was told that since its opening, almost every seating (5 each night) has been sold out. While Beckon is only eight months old, chefs Holmes’ vision stays steady and confident as he attempts to leave his mark on the Denver food scene. Thus with curious combinations and alluring, sensible flavors, citizens of the Mile-High are slowly falling for the restaurant’s beckoning siren song (see what I did there?). 

I arrived at 8:15pm. The entryway to the restaurant was divided by a set of curtains, but a peek in the dining room revealed a perimeter of 18 seats that surrounded the cooks in the center. Towering above them was a fixture of a moon, the assumed focal point of the restaurant as each menu supposedly corresponds with its cycles (I was about to enjoy “The Hay Moon”). Like New York, the people of Denver seem interested in the process of creating and plating composed restaurant dishes. The restaurants I had visited thus far were structured with an open kitchen, but the culinary stage at Beckon was definitely something different. Taking my first look around the dining room, this concept and environment felt very new, a much more immersive and implicitly performative way of eating.

Duncan Holmes (center) and his team at work under “The Hay Moon”. The snakes, I was told, were just “for a cool effect.”

After settling in, it became even clearer that I was not the only one feeling the newness of the situation—the cooks kept their heads down, voices quiet, and eyes averted. The opening dish—a tiny, hot fluffy orb of a sourdough pancake with a dollop of caviar served with a juice made from rhubarb—was a greeting just as awkward. The next dish was a bit more cohesive. In a bowl were pieces of a white turnip (the menu later revealed it was a harukai turnip) topped with bright orange, smoked trout roe. These were partially submerged in an herby green broth that had been infused with a bit of buttermilk. Its presentation is pretty but blatantly unassuming—that may be part of the point. At first I was neither enticed nor excited to eat 3-4 chunks of a vegetable I sometimes find bland and watery…But then I tasted it. The Japanese turnip had a nice, firm crunch and a slightly peppery flavor that jubilantly highlighted the sweet and salty roe popping in my mouth. What prevented this dish from tasting like an earthy plot from a turnip garden, though, was the gentle touch of buttermilk. With that, I got the enthusiastic “welcome to Bekcon” I was looking for: the bit of acid and tang elevated the toothsome yet silky texture of the turnip and augmented the deeper, smokier notes within those little orange umami bombs.  

         Next on the menu came a dish called “Summer Greens.” Similar to the preceding plate, this bowl of sliced sugar snaps and onions were poured over with a green broth. This one, however, tasted utterly different, in a way that truly showcased the kitchen’s talent. The “herb soup” was made from tomato, marigold, cucumber and dill. I took a sip from my spoon and was overcome by iterations of freshness. The cooling sensation of the cucumber washed over me while the subtle, anise-like qualities of dill triggered a certain sharpness across my tongue. The taste of tomato affirmatively rounded out the dish with an undercurrent of mellow sweetness. This provided the support needed to highlight the essence of the marigold which—both technically and creatively—was the perfect finishing touch. 

Then the bread. The marvelous, tangy, crusty and perfectly-risen sourdough bread. It came to me sliced (about 5 pieces…dangerous for just one person!) on a small cutting board with a bowl of shimmering cultured butter. The entire recipe is kept a secret, but baker Tamra Tompkins has revealed that these heavenly loaves are only possible with the assistance of birch bark. I’ve since learned that birch containers may be used for food storage…I hypothesize that the mother of the sourdough slumbers in a luxurious wooden box, absorbing the earthy flavors of the forest to enhance the bread’s delectable taste. I tried to limit myself to two slices…and failed miserably. 

         Before getting too full on bread, my server brought me two tiny filets of poached trout wearing a tiny rectangle of its skin, lightly fried. Its pale pink flesh gave way easily when pressed by my wooden spoon. The skin, however, did not crack away (as I had hoped) like the perfect shell on a crème brulee. I used my fingers to break the skin in half—luckily no one seemed to judge. A complete bite was crunchy, salty, and sumptuous. The warmed flesh of the fish was buttery and its deeper umami notes were brought to the forefront when tasting it with the broth. The peppery and savory chopped chives were thusly a necessary aid, bringing some lightness to the all-enveloping comfort of a mid-summer dish. I then encountered monkfish for the second time this summer, but unlike at Kith/Kin, these half-moon shaped morsels were served with two tiny bites of mussel and submerged in a milky white broth. The fish’s texture was similar to lobster but also managed to fall apart in my mouth as any well-treated fish would. The mussels were firm yet silky and possessed a sturdy flavor of brine that worked very well with the mellow licorice taste found the broth (most likely fennel). Pro tip: save some of that crusty sourdough to sop up any leftover liquid. 

        More than halfway through my meal, Chef Holmes explained to me that this dining concept is one that Denver hasn’t really seen before. Denver diners don’t quite feel that they can walk down the avenue of the tasting menu consistently and comfortably; they’d much rather prefer to read through a menu and find something both satisfying and familiar. Holmes’ answer is to therefore accommodate accordingly…but not always fully. There aren’t any candy balloons or sounds of a forest floor at Beckon. But there is a ground mixture of venison and mushrooms wrapped in cabbage, presented with cherries and a dollop of a spicy, mustardy sauce. It sits centrally on the plate in the shape of a small cylinder a little more than an inch in length. It is a humorous bunch of shapes and sizes that ignites curiosity, with just enough to gastronomic pretention to assure you that every aspect of the dish was planned and executed. The slight crunch of the cabbage makes the rich, juicy meat a truly sensual experience. The mushrooms pull you deeper into an earthy paradise that idyllically conjures an image of a vast and thriving forest surrounding the Colorado Rockies. I told Holmes to turn this dish into a hotdog to serve at Call. 

“We can make that happen,” he replies. 

Now I have a reason to go back. 

        The final savory course was a thick sliver of lamb served with salsa verde and carrot. Although not as impressive as the dish before, the progression made sense—the slight spice of the salsa verde, the almost caramel-like sweetness of the carrot, and the less intense flavor of lamb helped to revamp my palette and prepared me for the dessert courses (2 of them) to come. The first was a fromage blanc: this white, whole milk cheese was chilled and manipulated to achieve the consistency of a light, airy, and delicate mousse. On top was a beautiful reconstruction of a rose made from rhubarb—a nice way to come full circle from the juice in the first course. The final desert was a two-for-one deal. The first tiny bite was a stroopwafel the size of a quarter. It had a little too much filling but was a playful idea. The second was a chocolate, French meringue that crumbled away in 2-3 small bites, its sugary goodness dissolved on my tongue to spread a pleasant and joyful sensation through my body. 

       Although just a tourist in Denver, it seems that Beckon teeters on the edge of breaking through the norm to achieve acceptance. During my stay, I visited other establishments such as Citizen Rail, Chow Morso, Safta, Avelina and Annette. While all these restaurants imbue a selected motif through region, style, and season, there was a certain boundary these menus did not want to cross (aside from Annette’s life-changing beef tongue and marrow toast). I think that Coloradians like to be in control to a point where consistency eclipses curiosity. After a long day of biking, dog-walking, bouldering and concert-going, you just want to enjoy your heritage grain bowl in peace. The multitude of food halls and “industrial chic” restaurants is pretty immense. But the eight courses I was served at Beckon did something miraculous. As is at Call, Beckon stays true to its understanding of food and flavors. But the tasting menu route is able to showcase an entire team of young and curious creatives trying to uncover the hidden potential in the Denver dining scene. What’s most special about Beckon, then, is that it is not an aggressive, “holier than thou” assault on the local food culture. The menus manage a tasting experience that is inclusive and comfortable as much as it is fun and thought-provoking. Beckon’s performance therefore reimagines what Denver can get out of its chefs, regional ingredients, and dining out. Go down the road that beckons, and you’re bound to get something delightful.