By: Edi Rullet
While trying to find my niche in Telluride, I took on a variety of jobs. I rented skis to tourists at the old Day Lodge, cleaned rooms for Telluride Lodge, drove wagons for one of the town’s first attempts at mass transportation, and waited tables at the Powder House. Even in the 1970s, Telluride offered haute cuisine. The Senate, Ice House, Chez Pierre all outclassed the mining town turned upstart ski resort in those early years.

The general consensus is that people come to Telluride for the scenery or, in winter, for the skiing. I won’t argue. Monstrous mountains, quaint town, pristine setting and hip tag line—"The place where people come to play"—it’s all valid. Some fear that without the ski area, the community would flounder; without the airport, the economy would stagnate. I argue that without good food, no one would come back.

Whenever this publication conducts a reader survey, the dining index ranks as the numero uno read. Everybody has to eat. Dining out is an amenity Americans take for granted, yet it can make or break a vacation. It can color a memory, heighten a night out with loved ones or embellish a celebration. When you’re hungry, after a hard day of skiing or carrying a shopping bag, it is the ultimate reward for a day well played.

Somehow, Telluriders never took a hankering to the typical cafeteria style cuisine so popular in other resort towns. From Telluride’s fledgling days as a resort town, chefs such as Annie Vareille Savath and Monika Callard turned tables by bringing French and foreign flavors to a mining town that had been accustomed to chicken fried steaks and biscuits and gravy. People who managed to find Telluride—and it wasn’t easy—left intimidated by the skiing, but raving about the food.

That tradition of better than good has flourished. Telluride has yet to sport franchises or drive-throughs. Fast food is a tostada of organic ingredients or a not-dog worthy of a Yankee’s fan. Sure, you can buy a burger, but it doesn’t seem so appealing on a menu that also offers a grilled Pacific wild salmon on homemade olive bread with basil dressing and fresh-from-the-woods king boletes.

Local restaurants are housed in historic train stations, old icehouses and mountain lodges that can only be reached by gondola. They are dressed in paintings by local artists, eclectic furnishings, and eccentric maitre d’s. A casual atmosphere permeates even the most expensive establishments. You can show up for dinner at nine in your ski clothes, although for your sake, I hope you don’t still have your ski boots on.

What I love most about dining in Telluride is that very European pride in offering. Chefs want to know that you’ve enjoyed their fare. They want to know you. Bertrand Lepel-Cointet of La Marmotte greeted everyone as if he was welcoming them into his home. At Rustico, thick accents flow through smiles of genuine concern. Chefs, such as Chad Scothorn and Bob Scherner who have earned guest appearances at the James Beard House in New York, aren’t afraid to saunter through their dining rooms. Honga Im’s Lotus Petal brings her Korean heritage and Asian poise to your table. Day after day, cooks, sous chefs, waiters, bus persons and dishwashers bust ass to feed the discerning.

It’s been said that running a restaurant is like a marriage. Vareille Savath, who ran Chez Pierre in the 1970s, said it was like having a baby that never grows up. It’s hard work. It’s an expensive proposition that requires a large staff, a perishable product and an expensive space—no scrimping on the heat. Days start early and end late. I don’t know anyone who’s getting rich. Is there a greater reward? The act of taking care of people’s primal need’s? The compensation of giving pleasure? The art of creation? It’s a drive that you can’t put your finger on, but which you can appreciate.

Every time a good restaurant closes or changes hands, I fret. With the loss of the Silver Glade, Julien’s and Campagna, would the selection of extraordinary fare wane? Will there be enough offerings to keep visitors happy for a week? After years of sitting idly behind closed doors, the Powder House is reopening. I remember the people I worked with, the family we became, the sound of tinkling classes and conversation—the aromas. This news makes me hungry.

In each issue, we honor one of the hard-working chefs who have, with little fanfare or limelight, made Telluride a haven of good food. I also extend my thanks to those who bring fresh produce to the Farmer’s Market in summer, the fish man who delivers seafood to our landlocked hamlet, and everyone else who has a hand in the garden. I don’t think my years in Telluride would have been half as special if I didn’t find chocolate mousse sushi and seaweed salad on the menu.

No one is going to advertise “Telluride, the best place you’ll ever eat.” But maybe they should.

Bon appétit,

Edi Rullet

Telluride Visitor Guide