[Editor's Note: The hardest-working food critic in the business needed some time off. He explained some sort of strange circumstance involving an abduction, which we're sure he'll illuminate further in next issue's column. Until then, enjoy these nuggets from the past.]

DOMO
1365 Osage St.
303-595-3666

Walking into Domo is like stepping into an ancient Japanese Dojo. Rustic furniture stone tabletops and artifacts abound. Outside there's a beautiful and serene Japanese garden, and an active Aikido Dojo framed by a Tea Ceremony War Memorial. But kids, that's where the fun ends....

There have been numerous rave reviews written about this place by respected magazines and papers through Denver. I submit that none of these publications or these writers can ever be trusted with pen, paper, or fork under any circumstances without the supervision of a tattooed adult. To put it another way: Domo sucks.

Every meal came with a platter of side dishes. I opted for the seafood/vegetarian plate. Everything they brought out was nearly inedible and mostly unidentified ... alas, there was no seafood to be seen. In its stead I found pork and beef, possibly from a Japanese pig or cow fish that I'm not aware of. One of the platters we were subjected to carried the distinct odor of something that had already been eaten once.

The Reishi Gandema Mushroom Tea supposedly had some sort of healing properties, but all it truly offered was a place to hide my nose from the smell of the side dishes. Two of my friends ordered Iced Green Tea and were only given one tiny pot to share. After asking several times for more tea, they gave up and split it. They also had to valiantly guard their tea from the water girl, who was adamant about filling their tea glasses with water.

For the main course, I tried the hamachi with a marinade of wasabi tobiko and avocado. Basically, it's a bowl of rice with a few strips of fish and some over-cooked mystery vegetables. Friends, I've had better hamachi at the Sushi Shack in the L. A. airport.

We were rudely told that dessert is not served at Domo, which is too bad, because for the first time during one of these reviews, I was still really hungry.

It was hot and muggy enough in the dining room to expect rain, but everywhere else in the building was cool. As if waiting in a hot, half-empty restaurant for an idle waiter to notice us wasn't enough, we were dealt with by three different waiters, none of which communicated with one another. The last of the three, a polite and soft-spoken man, attempted to explain what we were eating and make it seem edible, but he was never seen again.

The few other diners there were fairly yupperific: cell phones here cell phones there, ring a ding, blah blah blah ... accented by a screaming child whose parents tittered in delight at how articulate the little yupplet was. My suggestion is that every tattooed freak get the tattooed posse together, go down there, and drink all the hoo haa yada yada saki you can until Domo gets the idea that our money is as green as their tea.

My tattoo grade is a homemade scratch job that just won't heal, and my wrestling grade is a debilitating injury in front of an empty arena. Oh, and just in case any of Domo's Aikido guys get wind of this review, the picture at the top of this column is not actually me ... nor is that my actual name ... in fact, I'm not even actually a real person. F

ROY' S
Cherry Creek Mall
303-333-9300

Having lived in Hawaii for eight years, I was looking forward to some traditional Hawaiian cuisine at Roy's. It wasn't very traditional, but in retrospect I suppose there isn't much mainstream intrest in poi, spam, sticky rice slathered in mayonnaise and the like, so we will call this "da kine tourist stuffs." I actually saw a few Hawaiians on staff and asked about some traditional fare, and was assured that with a little advance notice, "we can make 'em like you like 'em."

Not that I didn't like 'em how they made 'em on this visit. The ambiance was straight up Chinese minimalist modern with a touch of Hawaiian flair-- slightly surreal, but not Daliesque. Our server, Laura, sat us and even placed napkins on our laps, which came in handy for the appetizer...

... baby back ribs. There was a hint Seschwan afterthought, Hue Sin and sashimi flavoring, traditional brown sugar, sesame, basil, and ginger. Succulent and flavorful. So good, it made me contemplate the redeeming qualities of pork as an art form (note to self, pig painting ... hmmmm).

The main course arrived as I was sipping on my cheesy umbrella-laden Virgin Lava Flow (make sure you order something to wash this thick drink down). I ordered macadamia nut encrusted Atlantic salmon with lobster sauce. This expensive dish was good, but nothing special. The real treat was underneath my salmon, where I uncovered a little taste of heaven on earth called Wasabi potatoes. Absolutely outstanding! Just a little bit of butter and just enough wasabi to make you say ... waaaaah-saaah-biiiiiiiiiiii!

The freak content of Roy's is zero, but no attitude from the staff, even after screaming "waaaaah-saaah-biiiiiiiiii!" My tattoo grade is new school with attention to detail, and the wrestling grade weighs in as an easy work out but enough high spots to make the crowd stand up and shout. B dining

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