Marie Monde, Mange et Mode

by Marie Monde

A brief note, because food is always part of how I experience a place. Even in a season of stillness, meals mattered—warm, thoughtful, unpretentious, and well-timed. The kind that complements conversation rather than competes with it.

At Copper Table, it began simply. A Colorado goat cheese fritter—golden, crisp, tender inside—paired with huckleberry jam and a single sage sprig that did double duty: aromatic, grounding, quietly confident. A reminder that when ingredients are treated with care, they don’t need much else. A fresh salad followed, clean and balanced, and later a taco that felt easy and satisfying rather than showy—the kind of food that understands its role in the evening.

Moving through the property, that same sense of intention carried across spaces. I passed the Ramen House more than once on colder nights, and Garden + Grain felt like the kind of place you’d return to for breakfast without thinking twice. Throughout the resort, seasonal pop-ups appeared quietly—holiday cafés and warm cocktails tucked into spaces styled like a winter barn. Temporary by design, and all the more charming because of it.

At Old Hickory Steakhouse, the pace slowed further. Lobster bisque arrived tableside, poured from a warm copper carafe, finished with sherry, lemon, and crème fraîche—rich but measured, comforting without being heavy. An Aperol spritz sat nearby, bright and uncomplicated, a small nod to celebration without excess.

The main plates reflected the same philosophy. Pan-seared diver scallops with butternut squash, blood orange, fennel, and leek—sweet, earthy, quietly layered. A bricked half chicken, deeply flavorful, paired with royal trumpet mushrooms, Swiss chard, and caramelized lemon jus. Food that didn’t rush you. Food that assumed you were staying awhile.

I also found myself lingering in the marketplace—drawn to Colorado-made classics meant to be taken back to the room. Hammond’s candies in particular stopped me in my tracks. Handmade marshmallows, ribbon candy, and familiar confections that instantly bring you back to childhood: watching through glass as sugar becomes something joyful, the air thick with sweetness and possibility. A reminder that good food doesn’t have to be rare or precious to be meaningful—it just has to be made with care.

And then there was dessert—but not in the dining room. A chai white chocolate cheesecake, boxed for takeaway, made its way upstairs instead. Less about presentation, more about timing. Under soft lighting, wrapped in a silk sleep shirt and robe, shared between conversation and a movie playing in the background. Proof that sometimes the most memorable meals aren’t plated for display—they’re eaten slowly, comfortably, exactly where you are.

Because knowing when to linger matters.
And knowing when to retreat does too.

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