If you’ve been here once, you’ve been a thousand times. That’s because the experience at this would-be hole-in-the-wall — divey vibe aside, it’s too famous to qualify as a true hole — never changes: The burgers are classic, the music is classical, the crowd is chill, and the service even chiller.

This Ballpark cantina has been kicking it vieja escuela — yep, that’s “old-school” in Spanish — since 1962: Come for the fried tacos and red beer, stay for the fried tacos and red beer. (Or menudo and a marg. Or a combo platter and a cold Modelo. It’s all worth the inevitable wait for a table.)

One of a handful of restaurants that helped transform LoDo into a destination when it launched in 1996, Jax is still a hopping neighborhood hub as well as a regional leader in sustainable sourcing. A full raw bar isn’t half of what it does so well: The seasonal menu integrates global influences to offer the likes of fried catfish with bacon-braised collards and hush puppies, spaghetti alle vongole, and grilled salmon with miso-roasted potatoes and charred Chinese broccoli in one fell swoop.

Googie architecture circa 1958, Rat Pack memorabilia, sugar steaks, oversized martinis, and all, this dim-lit, neon-edged throwback to the supper clubs of old still feels like a date-night secret — one that starts with soft breadsticks and ends with pie a la mode.

In 1988, the late great Pete Contos took over a 1940s-era diner on East Colfax, where Pete’s Kitchen still stands an icon of the genre. Snug vinyl booths, check; chrome stools along the counter, check; old photos lining the walls, check — and check above all for a menu that likely hasn’t changed one iota since the cooks began slinging gyros and souvlaki, patty melts and pork chops, beef chili and green chile all those years ago.

Because, just once, everybody should visit a landmark established in 1893 to eat elk, bison, and bull testicles while making eye contact with the mounted heads of other elk, bison, and angry-looking bulls.

Housed in Capitol Hill’s historic Colburn Hotel — which is reputed to have been quite the Prohibition-era speakeasy — this onetime haunt of Kerouac and Ginsberg hasn’t lost a drop of its color. From the antique tchotchkes lining the bar to the singalongs around the piano to the covered patio where smoking’s still allowed, it’s a refreshing vestige of Denver’s grittier days — complete with two-for-one happy hours as well as potato skins and prime rib platters.

It opened in 1985, but as far as hardcore fans are concerned, the big bang happened and then there was this lemon-yellow taqueria. To this day it doles out smothered chile-relleno burritos and taco platters as reliably as the sun rising in the east. 

At nearly 50 years old, this cozy Alamo Placito hangout is part shellfish shack, part red-sauce parlor, and all charm. Start with the chargrilled oysters; move on to pizza or pastas like the chile relleno ravioli; and never say no to a glass of limoncello.

With a legendary wine cellar and a service team who — led by employee-turned-owner Ryan Fletter — knows it inside and out, this white-cloth Northern Italian destination has held its slot on the short list for special occasions since 1992. That’s thanks not least to longtime chef Darrel Truett, whose seasonal menu is a study in effortless luxury: lobster tajarin in shellfish crema with chile pangritata here, braised veal cheeks with root vegetable–farro hash and orange gremolata there, and truffles, truffles everywhere.

If Denver’s cowtown days are over, no one told these guys. To walk into this midcentury roadside is to dine by its long-standing rules: Don’t ask for a wine list, don’t hog the jukebox in the bar, and order the porterhouse — anything smaller is not the same experience. 

Always crushed but never rushed — perhaps because the menu’s so wide-ranging that most guests need half an hour just to figure out what to order — one of Denver’s oldest Vietnamese restaurants still happens to be one of its best. Pro tip: Start with a platter of wrap-your-own rice-paper rolls, and don’t shy away from frog’s legs or snails.

“If you don’t like garlic, go home”: That’s the motto of this Bonnie Brae joint, which has been doling out red-sauce comforts like meatballs, chicken parm, and stuffed shells Florentine in its equally red-checkered dining room since 1964.

In 1984, brothers Toshi and Yasu Kizaki embarked on a mission to turn this landlocked city into a sanctuary of raw seafood in the Rockies — and nearly four decades later, they’re still going strong. No one does trout rolls or aburi toro better. 

It’s a 50-plus-year-old biker bar that serves wontons and egg foo young as well as pitchers and wings (long story). The televisons are on, the pool tables are waiting, and anyone who can’t have fun here can’t have fun anywhere.