2830 W. U. S. 160, Monte Vista, CO, 800-771-9468, www.bestwesterncolorado.com

The only combination drive-in movie theater/motel I know of is located in Monte Vista, and would probably be the town’s claim to fame except for the fact that there is a major stopover for sandhill cranes in the vicinity. The drive-in dates from 1955, and the motel came about a decade later. Speakers in the rooms sync roughly to the movie shown on the big outdoor screen. The windows are positioned for a view of the movie, but alas they also have curtains, which my mom yanked shut here when she felt Cheech and Chong were intruding on our family vacation.

Arriving by way of New Mexico, the spicy stew known as green chile is something of a religion in Denver, and like many Denverites, I’m a bit of an extremist. The hotter, the better, just keep my water glass filled and the beers coming. I want to feel the pain; I want to go to the other side. Brow sweating, endorphins rushing, hunkered down over an especially hot bowl or plate, worshipping the fire god by letting him dance on my tongue, I’m in rapture, simultaneously heavenly and hellish, but mostly the former. Denver eateries that are known for their green chile each have their own unique spin on the dish, ranging from vegetarian to pork-centric, from mild to inferno.

Best places to get a bowl or plate: I’m partial to Jack-N-Grill (2524 Federal Blvd., Denver, 303/964-9544), Brewery Bar II (150 Kalamath St., Denver, 303/893-0971), and El Tejado (2651 S. Broadway, Denver, 303/722-3987).

The origin of this three-egg, ham, green pepper, and onion diner staple is somewhat hazy. It seems eggs would often go bad on pioneer expeditions out west, so onions and spices became popular ingredients in egg dishes in order to mask the deteriorating flavor. Meanwhile, Chinese cooks on railroad crews would approximate egg foo yung with available ingredients (i.e. ham, green pepper, and onions) as French Basques in the Sierra Nevada brought real omelet traditions to the Wild West. In the early 1900s, these traditions intersected and evolved into egg sandwiches and omelets alternately labeled Western and Denver. Today, Denver omelets are available in just about every greasy spoon in the country, but the exact reason for their moniker remains a mystery. 

Best places to eat one: Either 1950s relic Davies’ Chuck Wagon Diner (9495 W. Colfax Ave., Denver, 303/237-5252) or the more 1970s, 24-hour, and very orange Breakfast King (1100 S. Santa Fe Dr., Denver 303/733-0795).

6715 W. Colfax Ave, Lakewood, Colorado, 303/232-5115; www.casabonitadenver.com

Said to be the largest restaurant in the Western Hemisphere and without doubt one of the tackiest, Casa Bonita opened in the ’70s as a flagship for a chain that stretched from Little Rock to suburban Denver, the Mile High City’s Casa Bonita is 52,000 square feet of sensory overload, centered on a two-story faux cliff with a pool underneath where costumed high-schoolers perform skits, inevitably ending with several if not all of the characters soaking wet. There are also fake caves, a mariachi band, a bizarre monkey mascot, an arcade, and little flags you raise when you want more food, which isn’t held in high regard. I sneak salsa and tequila in when I go, which helps a little.

The year 1976 saw Elvis Presley and his entourage jet to Denver to gorge on the house specialty at a since-shuttered restaurant called the Colorado Gold Mine Company. The King’s beloved delicacy: the $50 Fool’s Gold Loaf, a slab of a sandwich consisting of a buttered, browned, and hollowed-out loaf of Italian bread stuffed with the unholy trinity of peanut butter, jelly and bacon. Elvis allegedly consumed one loaf himself (estimated calories: 3,000 for a jar of peanut butter plus 1,250 for the jam plus 2,500 for a pound of bacon plus 700 for the bread, for a grand total 7,450, good enough for three days, give or take). Personally, I’ve made the Fool’s Gold Loaf at two Elvis birthday parties I’ve hosted. They were both good but gooey while hot and absolutely addictive when cold. But I’ve never finished one on my own.

2776 Speer Blvd., Denver, Colorado

Denver is not the only alleged birthplace of the cheeseburger—Pasadena, California, and Louisville, Kentucky, also make the claim—but it is the city that went to the trouble of erecting a granite monument to commemorate the landmark culinary event. Louis Ballast, proprietor of the now-defunct Humpty Dumpty Drive-In, tried to trademark the word “cheeseburger” in 1935, and he may have succeeded, but he never sued anyone for using his name. Nevertheless, the bickering over the cheeseburger’s origins continues as if the innovation of cheese on a hamburger was akin to atomic fission and not just a major step for the U.S. in its remarkably successful campaign to become the most obese nation in the history of the world.