It took some time for people to work up the courage to sample my wares. This was 1974 remember, and the standard opinion about Denver, even among those of us who lived there and loved it, was that it was a cow town -- “Omaha with mountains” -- which, to be honest, was not too far from the truth. Most people in the Mile High City couldn’t tell a crêpe from a baseball bat, and the notion of eating something off a pushcart was utterly foreign. So to begin with, I had to educate my public on the glories of the French flapjack.
“What are them creepies you’re sellin’ there, son?” asks the man in the cowboy hat.
“Crêpes,” I say.
“Craps? What’s that?”
“Sort of like a French burrito.”
“What’s in ‘em?”
“Today we have Boeuf Bourguignon and Mediterranean Chicken.”
“Buff. That the same as beef?”
“Yes sir. Like to try one?”
“Oh, hell, why not? Gimme one of them there beef craps.”
“Crêpes.”
“Like I said, son.”
I remove a piping hot, foil-wrapped crêpe from the oven, hand it over and await the verdict.
“Ain’t half bad, son, ain’t half bad a'tall. Gimme another’n.” |