A dozen years ago, on my only prior visit to Crested Butte, I tagged along to an extravagant summer party. Someone had rented a large downtown restaurant for the night. Italian, I think, but it didn’t matter because that night it was sushi. Our party host had flown in about 10 chefs from his favorite New York City sushi restaurant—10 Japanese transplants flying to the Colorado Rockies with fresh-from-the-NYC-fishmarket carry-on.
I marveled that even before the cost of food and saké (stacked cases of fine-quality, help-yourself sake) and airfare for the fish toters, the bill for the party included closing two restaurants (one each in “CB” and NYC) on—at least—this Saturday night.

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