swanky new chophouse in an old mountain town is this winter's hottest après-ski indulgence.
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We're halfway up the Apex Lift - skis dangling, our legs on fire - en route to the day's final run. Tears freeze and cling to my eyelashes when I remove my foggy goggles to marvel yet again at the snow-covered San Juans. Oblivious to the western flank's beauty, the husband pokes at his watch. "If we cut over to Zulu Queen or Chongo's, we can make it to the bar by 4:30."
Ugh. Double-black diamonds. While I've spent many years chasing those thrills, my old knees are begging for the sanity route - I suggest See Forever to Butterfly. "You know that's going to add at least 30 minutes," he replies. "And we still need to catch the Gondola to Telluride Station. That puts us at the bar well after 5 o'clock."
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He has a point. And I am so ready for a drink. I can't stop thinking about The Grand's incredible steak tartare, made with heavenly Wagyu beef from a farm in Hesperus, near Durango. And that gorgeous Sakura pork chop with Colorado huckleberry jam. My stomach growls.
I forgot to make a reservation in the dining room before we booked our flights. Our best shot now is the first-come, first-served bar, which will surely be thronged. We have no choice. I switched my downhill playlist from Orville Peck and Future Islands to Camouflage and Depeche Mode.
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The après-ski scene in Telluride has always been lowkey, fun and diverse. It hasn't changed for decades. We've frequently decompressed at Cosmopolitan, just across from the Gondola, the cozy 221 South Oak around the corner, or the tony Timber Room in Mountain Village. Sometimes it's Allred's at St. Sophia Station. And then there's The Chop House at New Sheridan, and La Marmotte, the perennial French bistro.
But something's happened lately. In August, longtime-local chefs Erich Owen and Ross Martin launched a modern, laidback chophouse called The Grand – and instantly altered the balance of power in Telluride's food scene.
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It's not their first venture. My best friends also run an under-the-radar bistro, Petite Maison. But more ambitiously, before the pandemic, they first debuted The National, which dramatically reset the bar for dinner in this town. In very short order, however, their landlord got greedy and jacked up the rent. So, the chefs bailed and vowed to start over. They quickly found a better space at a fair price (practically across the street) on Colorado Avenue, the picturesque main drag. But it came with a catch: The interior, formerly home to a rowdy pizza joint, had to be completely gutted and rebuilt. It would take years, not months.
The dramatic copper light fixtures, leather chairs, glass wine vault and stunning artworks that previously defined. The National now illuminate and animate the even buzzier 98-seat Grand – that's 30 seats more than they had before. And déjà vu: The entire crew is here.
As much as I love to see it, I quietly cringe at their success. I worry they have opened the town's floodgates. Aspenites and Jackson Hole free riders: "Look away! Nothing to see here."
The lights are dimmed low. But when the steak tartare and pork chop land on a nearby table, you'll easily notice the dishes that lured me down the mountain at breakneck speed. You will want them all for yourself. And when yours arrive, you will beastly devour it - and set off the dominoes for everyone else in the dining room.
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If it's not those items that start the trend, it'll surely be a platter of oysters and chilled crab legs. Or an ice-cold martini with Castelvetrano olives and a bump of caviar, or a cocktail called common law, a pink margarita made with mezcal, peach nectar and Zirbenz Stone Pine Liqueur, hence the vibrant hue. Town regulars will recognize Diamond David DeRinzy and Trevor Howell behind the bar - local legends of après ski. I jolt awake in the dead of night. "We forgot to order the spicy tuna!" I blurt into the darkness, our blackout curtains drawn tight. "And the burrata," I whimper. "We have to go back." I glance to my right and vaguely make out the shape of a husband, sound asleep.
The Grand makes an excellent burger, too, which is especially popular at lunchtime. It's one of those monsters that, as I grip it with both hands and heave it toward my gleefully smiling face, I know it isn't going to fit. "Fuck it. Here goes." When you summon the courage to bite into it, be sure to have a napkin in your lap and a bloody Mary within reach. And please maintain at least some modicum of composure. Everyone's watching - and you're about to set off another trail of dominoes.
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