Lo-Fidelity: Rocky Mountain oysters — let’s go nuts!

Now that the tourists are gone, let’s talk candidly amongst ourselves. 

The general consensus amongst our fussy, little city’s local population is Aspen’s suffering from overtourism. A popular narrative is: We’re dying in traffic, drowning in a sea of e-bikes, and there’s nowhere affordable to eat. If you’re one of the people who complain about Aspen all the time, which seems to be all the rage, I have a solution for you, but it’s going to require ironclad gastronomic guts and a big swig of Pepto Bismol.   

If this culinary caper works like I think, there’ll be no traffic, no tourists, STR’s will dry up and blow away, commercial rents will plummet, and the restaurants in town will be dirt-cheap. There will be tumbleweeds rolling down the streets and signs rattling in the wind like a ghost town in an old Western. Local landlords and developers will be on the ropes. 

All we need to do is declare Rocky Mountain oysters (bull testicles) the official food of Aspen, and everyone start eating them. I don’t know about you, but I’m not rushing out to spend money on a vacation or invest in a luxury property in a town where everyone eats the low hanging fruit of a male cow. I don’t care how good the sauce you dip them in is or if they “taste like chicken.”

I came up with this cattle-brained idea while sitting at an actual oyster bar in Half Moon Bay, California, this Labor Day. A nice lady asked me a simple, innocuous inquiry after I stated with an unbridled sense of pride I was from Aspen, Colorado — the beating heart of the Rocky Mountains. “What’s the local dish there?” she queried.

Uh, gulp. The culinary question stumped me. I donned my thinking cap. Was it game, or was it trout? How about green chilies or Mexican food at Casa Bonita? Lamb? Love it with mint jelly but rarely eat it or order it out. Peaches and corn? Too seasonal. Steak? Too ambiguous.

Then in a very un-ladylike way, my wife blurted-out: “Rocky Mountain oysters.” Before the stranger could register what those were, I quickly changed the subject to skiing. After all, we were junior ambassadors of Aspen traveling abroad. Any notion of Coloradoans and Aspenites feasting on bull’s balls was pure tourism kryptonite. 

I don’t know about you, but I don’t necessarily want to go on vacation and spend my money in a town where the local populace gorges themselves on RMO’s. Same with investing; I’m not going to buy property in a testicle-fuelled township either. A municipality in Colorado where they do celebrate the Rocky Mountain oyster is proof of my theory: Severance, (which literally means to cut-off) Colorado. Never been there, but the brochure looks nice, and they have a fortuitous proximity to the Monfort meat packing plant outside of Greeley — a virtually inexhaustible Rocky Mountain oyster bed. I don’t suppose Severance has Aspen’s inherently First World problems. 

Here’s how my nefarious scheme will unfold: First, Aspen declares Rocky Mountain oysters are our official food. Next, we come-up with a logo, a flag, and flood the zone with a social media and advertising campaign through ACRA. We mandate that every local establishment with a food service license must have Rocky Mountain oysters on the menu, including all on-mountain dining establishments. Think: Cloud 9 “Rocky Mountain Oyster tower.” We then declare an official festival, where all the townsfolk and what smattering of tourists are left here, gorge on bulls testicles in Wagner Park. 

Vegetarians aren’t off the hook. We make the teetotalers eat a meatless substitute “impossi-balls.” Neither are small children. We grind up the oysters and press them into dinosaur-shaped “nuggets” for little Jack and Jill to pig-out on. For the high-end crowd, we push Rocky Mountain oysters Rockefeller.

You know how the Detroit Redwings hockey fans throw octopus onto the ice? Guess what we hurl onto the field at Aspen High School football games? It’ll be a horror show. There will be no escape from these things.

Food & Wine becomes “Balls & Wine.” Think of what wine makes for a nice “pair-ing.” Winterskol is now “Nut-Skol,” complete with costumes, a Rocky Mountain oyster chili cook-off, an all-you-can-eat contest, and a canine fashion show. The slogan potential here (We’ll have ourselves a ball or two!) is an endless feed of comedy silver and gold. Watch the tax revenues plummet like a lead balloon.  

Imagine getting off a plane at the Aspen airport and being greeted by smiling, ball-breathed ambassadors holding steaming platters of fried Rocky Mountain oysters with a toothpick stuck into them. I’d go directly to the United counter and change my flight straight outta here. 

Aspen has yet to declare a local food. What an opportunity for city council and our mayor. We don’t even have a sandwich or a signature burger, for chrissakes. All we claim to the best of my knowledge is a boozy milkshake called the “Crud” (named after the cold you get once a year in the winter without fail) at the J-Bar. Interestingly enough, the Ajax Tavern dabbled in the dastardly danglers by hosting a Rocky Mountain oyster Festival — for eight years — until finally someone in upper management said, “Ix-nay on the alls-bay.”

Fascinating to me, Colorado has yet to proclaim a state food. Maine has lobster, Alabama has Lane Cake, Idaho has potatoes, and we got jack-squat. I’ve never tried Rocky Mountain oysters, and I don’t intend to. I’m not touching those things with a 10-foot pole. 

Contact Lorenzo via suityourself@sopris.net.