Page 34 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
"Ruth Fletcher. My family's owned this place since 1912." She gestures to a faded photograph behind the bar showing a much younger version of the building. "Back when this was a proper mining town."
The ale is surprisingly complex, with notes of pine and citrus balanced by a smooth maltiness. I comment on this, earning a slight softening around Ruth's eyes.
"My nephew's brewery. Started in his garage five years ago. Now he supplies half the restaurants in three counties." She wipes an already clean section of bar. "Including your chef friend's place up at The Haven."
The possessive warms me despite myself. "Hunter seems committed to sourcing locally."
"Saved more than a few businesses around here doing that." This comes from a man at a corner table, white-haired and weathered as the mountains themselves. "When the mine closed in '89, this town nearly died. Tourism's all we got now."
A plate appears before me—a burger that makes a mockery of the gourmet versions I've critiqued in Manhattan steakhouses. Hand-formed patty on a house-made brioche bun, melted cheese that stretches when I lift the top, handcut fries still glistening from the fryer.
"Morgan designed this burger for us." Ruth's voice carries unexpected pride. "Taught my cook how to grind the right blend of cuts, how to season it proper."
I take a bite and close my eyes. It’s the perfect ratio of fat to lean, seasoned with a hand that understands restraint, the bun substantial enough to hold together without overwhelming. Nothing pretentious, nothing unnecessary—just honest food executed with care.
"He did this for you? For free?" The critic in me is always suspicious of motives.
Ruth snorts. "Wouldn't take a dime. Said it was payment for all the free advice his granddad gave him over this very bar."
"Hunter's grandfather was a fixture here?"
The question opens a floodgate. The white-haired man—Jim, retired from forty years in the now-closed silver mine—moves to join me at the bar. The story of Hunter Morgan and his grandfather unfolds in fragments from different voices as other patrons drift over.
Old Man Morgan, as they call him, was the town's unofficial caretaker after the mine closed. Head cook at the original Angel's Peak Hotel, he fed people who couldn't pay during the hardest times. When the hotel burned down in 2001, he kept cooking from his home, teaching his orphaned grandson everything he knew.
"That boy would follow him into the woods, learning which mushrooms were safe, which berries were sweetest," Ruth says, refilling my ale without being asked. "By twelve, he could field dress a deer faster than most grown men."
"When he got that fancy chef job down in Denver, we all figured he'd never come back," says a woman who introduces herself as the local librarian. "But luck has a way of circling around here."
"Luck had nothing to do with it," Jim interjects. "That business partner of his was a snake. We all saw it when he visited, though Hunter was too trusting to notice."
I think of the article my editor sent, the bankruptcy and scandal that followed. How different it sounds here, among people who've known Hunter his whole life.
"Lucas Reid was smart, bringing him back to run Timberline," Ruth says. "Old money recognizing real talent."
Another round of stories follows—how Hunter convinced Lucas to institute a local employment preference at The Haven, how he established a culinary internship program with the regional high school, and how he still finds time to help Ruth's nephew improve his brewing techniques.
I recognize the Hunter they describe—dedicated, generous with his knowledge, deeply connected to this place and its people. But there's something disconcerting about hearing it from others, realizing how little I know him beyond our intense physical connection and the glimpses he's chosen to show me.
The conversation shifts as a woman bursts through the door, breathless with excitement. "You'll never guess who confirmed for Mabel's fundraiser today! That food writer from Denver Monthly!"
My blood freezes in my veins.
"Another fancy critic?" Jim scoffs. "What do they know about real mountain cooking?"
"It's exposure," the woman insists. "And we need all we can get if we're going to save Mabel's place."
Ruth notices my confusion and explains. "Mabel Wilson runs the only guest house in town proper. Historic building, been in her family for generations. But it needs serious renovation to meet county codes. Town's been fundraising all summer."
"And Hunter's cooking," the newcomer adds, eyes bright. "Said he'd feed a hundred people if that's what it takes to keep Mabel going."
I check my watch, suddenly needing to be anywhere but here, where my professional identity feels like a betrayal of these people's trust.
"Is this fundraiser open to anyone?" The question slips out before I can reconsider.
"Four o'clock at Mabel's. Corner of Pine and Aspen." Ruth studies me with shrewd eyes. "You thinking of coming?"
"Maybe." I leave enough cash to cover my meal and a generous tip. "Thank you for the history lesson. And the excellent burger."
