It’s the wee hours of a Denver weekend. Maybe you’ve gotten out of a show, or perhaps you’ve just heard the old “you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here” line. You might not have laid enough of a base before drinking as much as you did, or maybe you’re just hungry in that irrational but intensely serious way that hits after a night of carousing. So where do you go, if not home?
For decades of Denver residents, the answer for late-night needs is often our kitchen away from home: Pete’s Kitchen, of course, diner extraordinaire, a greasy spoon with a Greek heart and community love served up in every bite. Servers you know, and who remember you. Food you know, and which will easily sate the cravings of any meal, any time. Stools with counter-service, or booths with pleather history and a place to hang your coat. Smiles. Coffee. Hot sauce — three kinds! — with Pete himself smiling back at you from the label. In short, it’s the sort of place that you love as a city dweller and miss when you move away. An American classic, right on Colfax, with the neon flapjack-flipper on the sign out front.
But now Pete’s — by its own admission — is in a jam…