I cry a little when I think about the double cheeseburger at Brass Tacks — which I’d wolf down in maybe four or five bites and chase with their sloe gin fizz (always a tall). It was the perfect burger in the perfect bar, and if I hadn’t already debuted Denverlicious with an ode to a bygone burg, that one would have found its place in these pages.
When Brass Tacks went away and another bar took its place, I eventually made my way over and tried the food with an open mind. It was terrible.
Fast forward another year or two, and I read in Westword about a “horror-themed bar” opening up in the old spot. “Not really my vibe,” I thought.
And then.
Instagram — in all its algorithmic wisdom — served me up an image of a menu from something called Samosa Shop. I idly performed the two-finger zoom to check it out, and then… I saw it. I rubbed at my eyes and looked again. I clicked through to check the link in bio.
Holy fuck.
And when I got my ass over the bridge and into Lodo, finally bellying up to the bar at Honor Farm, the first person I saw was Glancey on the stick, which immediately warmed me to the place. She smiled when she saw me and suddenly it felt like the room was on fire. My happy hour negroni was a delight. And as I took in my surroundings, I realized the place was exactly my vibe.
The bar has a welcoming energy despite the spooky theme, the décor is detailed and eclectic, the bartenders are friendly and funny.
I strolled over to the food counter to place an order with Chef Dave — who greeted me with real kindness.
“You’re going to love it, man,” he said when I told him I’d been dreaming about his lamb burger since I saw it on the ‘gram.
Spoiler alert: He wasn’t wrong.
The Samosa Shop lamb kabob smashburger comes simple and unadorned in a compostable clamshell lined with fake newsprint. The split bun glows in amber softness atop strata of melted cheese and tell-tale lacey edges of meat, with bright green sprigs of fresh dill appearing here and there like happy little trees.
The first drippy bite is pure joy as the bun compresses over the innards, a medley of umami richness with a hint of acid heat from the sauce and dill that keeps the gooshy burger from getting cloying. Those crispy edges channel a gentle lambiness like a walk in a pasture, while the crunch ensures the whole thing won’t dissolve while you eat it. The bun is soft enough to smoosh but with the cohesion to keep everything from squishing out the other end.
And it goes so quickly. A few perfect bites and then you’re faced with an empty container.
You might supplement with the secret samosa or an order of Bombay fries, but really, you want that burger to be the last taste of the meal.
I can’t believe it took me so long to get over to Honor Farm for that first fateful visit. Now I’m a regular.
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