Lo-Fidelity: Casa Bonita — a triumphant return to my childhood

I’m sitting at the kitchen counter watching a fly eat my scrambled eggs when the email magically appears on my phone: “Your reservation at Casa Bonita has been confirmed!” Right up until that part of the morning, the world seemed cruel and remorseless. The confirmation message filled me with a buoyancy I hadn’t felt in a long time. 

You can judge people who consider themselves Aspen “locals” pretty well by casually mentioning Casa Bonita and studying their reaction. Being versed in Casa Bonita to me feels like knowing an inside handshake. A pretty popular inside handshake mind you, but even so …

Going to Casa Bonita as a kid in grade school on field trips to Denver is an experience I’ll never forget. Except I did. I spent the rest of my morning behind a lawnmower trying to piece together foggy vignettes of our school bus pulling up to the pink palace, the kids rushing out, the cliff divers, the dingy caves, and sopapillas dripping with honey.

Returning to Casa Bonita as an adult was like diving into an emotional, seven-layer bean dip, the kind where you plunge the chip in, and it instantly breaks. Since my first visit nearly 40 years ago, I’d grown from a child to an adult, traveled the world, been married three times, and divorced twice. As proof, I had two adult children, a wife, and an ex in tow, who were all equally as excited as I was to go to Casa Bonita. For an emotional appetizer, we’d spent the day at Elich’s, another classic Colorado throwback.

If you grew up in Colorado in the ’80s, you know the legend and lore of Casa Bonita is a chunky nostalgia salsa. On the drive down Colfax Avenue — in area of Denver that felt left behind — I experienced the nervous anticipation and excitement of going to the Celebrity Sports Center as a kid, a rock concert at McNichols Arena and Red Rocks as a teenager, or the Ball Arena and Mile High as an adult. 

Upon our recent arrival, I was in a mild state of shock. I was desperate to soak everything up.

The check-in process is very Vegas-esque in the velvet-rope sense that they know how to control the flow and build the hype. The moment I walked in, I felt like I’d entered my childhood history museum. It took me nearly 10 minutes to make it the 50 feet from the front door to the hostess stand. I still felt rushed. Like I missed stuff and need go back. 

Every detail from floor to ceiling has been painstakingly curated in a successful effort to tag that nostalgia part of your psyche. For a split second, I was transformed back to that innocent kid on the Aspen youth hockey team, whose days were measured in packs of Bubble Yum, slices of R’Peas pizza, popping wheelies, and my net worth was valued by how many quarters I had in my jeans pocket at the Pinball Palace. I felt a mischievous urge to hide under one of the tables, stay until everyone had left, and let my inner child roam the place all night like a rogue, misfit security guard.

Our attentive and casually cool server Mark was a Denver native who lived nearby, and one of the food runners was an authentic Casa Bonita nepo baby — his grandmother played the Amazon Annie character (one of the six costumed alter-egos who roam the restaurant entertaining diners) when she was a young woman. 

The menu at Casa Bonita is surprisingly involved. I went with the chicken enchiladas (my benchmark being those at the Woody Creek Tavern which, I must say, is another tourist attraction where the bad-to-good arc of the food is very similar), which were delicious, but frankly, I was so preoccupied just being at Casa Bonita my sensory buds were overriding my taste buds. The kids at a table next to us were crying over their chicken tender meals for dinner to end, so they could run around the restaurant unsupervised. I felt their pain. Cue sopapillas.

Last Saturday night was the only time I can ever remember leaving a restaurant soaking wet. I was perched at the water’s edge when the cliff divers did a cannonball and annihilated me. I looked like I had just done the log ride at Disneyland. 

I’d strongly urge everyone to see the award-winning documentary “Casa Bonita Mi Amor,” a real Hero’s journey that chronicles the rise, fall, twists, turns, and ultimate rebirth of Casa Bonita. I saw the movie during Filmfest at the ISIS and was literally driven to tears. If you’ve never been to Casa Bonita as a kid, this movie is a pre-requisite. If you’ve been to Casa Bonita before, this movie is also a pre-requisite. 

Going down to Denver for the weekend is an overstimulating experience for a high-country bumpkin like me. The drive. The crowds. The noise. The smells. The heat combined with the nervous energy of the city. I always feel drained and sluggish when I get back. Right now, I’m nursing a satiating Casa Bonita emotional hangover. 

My triumphant return to Casa Bonita and my childhood was about the journey as much as it was the destination. Casa Bonita reminded me why I love Colorado so much. I’m wearing my Casa Bonita T-shirt now. I kid you not. Big thanks to Matt Stone and Trey Parker for keeping the fever dream alive. Long live Casa Bonita!

Contact Lorenzo via suityourself@sopris.net.