When the first group of my friends told me about their rabid fandom for HBO’s Game of Thrones, I didn’t hesitate to condemn them: I thought them cable whores and TV bitches and proclaimed without hesitation that I would not be party to their madness.

“Kitchen, Cocktails, Sports” is the tagline being employed by Junction, the new effort from the owners of Catamount Bar & Grille and Amavi Restaurant and chef Megan Tucker, and the latest venture to hit the Railyard. That’s a junction for sure: a trio of themes and circumstances that’s a collision for some and a smooth cloverleaf interchange for others.

Most New Mexico and southern Colorado ranches are too small to provide a consistent supply to major grocery chains or busy restaurants, but Sweet Grass represents a group of ranchers bound by similar pasture, principles and practices.

The patio of Las Fuentes Restaurant & Bar at Bishop’s Lodge Ranch Resort & Spa is as fine a place to sit in the cool evening air as Santa Fe has to offer. Every Thursday night, from 6-9, the restaurant becomes a churrascaria, a Brazilian-style protein-fest, during which meats and fish are sliced from skewers onto charred cutting boards.

David Chang’s Lucky Peach quarterly, published and distributed by McSweeney’s Insatiables, is self-indulgent, ego-driven, masturbatory food hipsterism at its worst—but, adhering to the fundamental contradiction that follows Chang around like the scent of donuts and booze, also at its best.

Armand Ortega, son of the Armand Ortega whose name dominates billboards for trading posts along Interstate 40 in New Mexico and Arizona, has opened a new restaurant called Balconies on the Plaza.

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue—the popular Victorian wedding poem fits Azur like the sea inside the Mediterranean shore.

Every food blogger, policy wonk, nutritionist, restaurant critic, farmer, grocer and concerned parent has weighed in on the government’s new graphic representation of dietary guidelines. One end of the spectrum is crying foul—saying the whole thing is food-industry propaganda—and the other end is congratulating the United States Department of Agriculture on its progressive leap forward.

After spending last week describing how the term “supper club” is code for an unsanctioned restaurant, I now am forced to present a completely legitimate and on-the-level supper club.

Supper club is the polite term for an unsanctioned, unlicensed, irregular underground restaurant, the kind of thing OCD food inspectors have nightmares about, and food and drink aficionados reserve for wet dreams. These days, queuing off the technological trend, such things are often more brief and less organized; the typical term is “pop-up” restaurant. Some regular businesses have capitalized on the trend by changing up the décor and menu with certain degrees of extremism and frequency, but the term generally implies a fleeting, momentary, had-to-be-there presence. It’s the food version of hacking or culture jamming: Come out of nowhere, serve up some choice material and vanish just as quickly as you appeared.