I love when a friendly server assumes you’re thirsty and brings you water without you having to ask, so my lunch was already off to a great start. But who’s just going to drink water when they’re doing a good review? So if the place bills itself as a down-home place to eat like a Southerner, I’m going for the throat.
“I’ll have a sweet tea, please,” I requested to the green-eyed server who cheerfully obliged. What she brought back was a light brew in a Mason jar with a slice — not a wedge — of lemon. (It’s the little things.) And damn, was that tea perfect. Not the molasses that becomes of a staple when outsiders try it and fail, but a well-balanced bev that glides over enthused tastebuds.
I ordered the Cajun Benedict, and I’m not sure what gods I’d pleased to have made that choice, but I’ll be sure to make an offering of a few hundred calories on the treadmill later. The eggs — round and poached perfectly — were so wonderfully prepared that I felt a tinge of guilt pressing a fork into them. The liquid gold that spilled over my seafood cakes, however, dissolved that shame and piqued every bit of culinary curiosity I possess.
Have you ever eaten food so good that your brows furrowed at the first taste, as though it’s made you angry? That’s exactly what happened. The yolk, the Gulf shrimp and lump crab that comprised the cakes, the smoked cayenne hollandaise … I was a goner. Then, in between bites, a fresh-fried oyster that took me back to my days in Gulf Shores, Alabama. Magnificent. Absolutely magnificent.
Because I’m watching the carbs, I only tested the side of grits for consistency. They nailed that, too. In spite of the name, they’re not supposed to be “gritty;” they’re meant to be slightly creamy, yet thick enough for savor for a moment. They weren’t too salty (another mistake some folks make) and they came with a pat of butter, as you do when you get it right.
The interior feels like you’re in a house. That’s because you are. It was built by a gentleman from New York by the name of William J. Dunwoody in 1889. He amassed a good bit of dough in the soap business before contracting tuberculosis. Like many others with TB, a westward migration toward higher, cleaner ground went underway and he coalesced enough here in Colorado to go home, marry, and bring his wife back. Here, he built the house that Sassafras now calls home. After massive renovations — but not enough for the place to lose its homey feel — plates started flying out of the kitchen in 2012 and business has been good. And deservedly so.
Normally, I’m a stickler for adding something that could use an improvement, but I got nothin’. Get your butt seated on a wood bench inside Sassafras, or plant it in a patio chair outside, and see what it’s all about.
