NOVEMBER 21, 2025 | FEATURES | By Asa Gartrell
Here it is. At long last, I’m ready to lay down four years of experience with the most visible burger restaurant in downtown Colorado Springs. Frequented by freshmen, but lionized by many a Tiger, The Skirted Heifer—for some—approaches auxiliary dining hall status. This review is a collage of six or seven sittings in its hallowed pews, centered on my recent sojourn with their Pimento cheese special.
A note: I eschew making any assumptions about a restaurant’s quality. Instead, I hope to chronicle a particular moment with a particular sandwich and the flurry of feelings it inspires; my purpose is to put the message in the hands of the people and move on. Bear this in mind if you find controversy in the following appraisal.
Should you enter The Skirted Heifer, you will inevitably ask yourself: “Should I throw a skirt on that?” Ordering a burger ‘skirted’ gets you a three-inch perimeter of burnt cheese, turning your sandwich into an Unidentified Flying Oilbomb. It’s the magnet that drives burgrotourism in Colorado Springs, Colo., and earned them Guy Fieri’s stamp of approval—twice.
And so, racing against a sinking November sun and craving greasy plunder, I darkened the Heifer’s door and dared again to ask such a question. I peered down my genetic hallway to impending hypertension, looked around at the shining foreheads and fingers enjoying their parasols of cheese, sighed, and went for it. It was time for a date with the skirted special: Uno Momento Pimento.
Whewff. That’s a lotta cheese. Under a jalapeño cheddar bun, this thing rocked the largest burnt cheddar tutu I’ve seen them sling, blanketing a battlefield of pimento crumbles. But what to do with such an appendage? One employee said she tucks it beneath the bun, another advised rolling it like a tortilla and dipping it in ketchup.
For my part, I went in straight and suffered the frisbee of cheddar with quiet fortitude. In another act of rebellion against a smooth eating experience, the housemade ‘pizza dough’ focaccia bun packed an unfortunately small crumb, weighing down the handheld with the wet density of an undercooked pancake. I ploughed on.
The burger’s other elements were masterful, from the delightful zip of the pimento to the patiently griddled grassfed puck. I lemon-tekked the Half and Half fries (50% sweet potato, 50% russet) with a complimentary juice packet (presumably for sodas, nice touch!) to great appeal, and reveled in the pickle juice at the center of their fry sauce.
As most house dips do, it really shook my hand. However, my experience was again blemished by the displeasure of eating a burger in a room full of burger eaters — looking right in the mirror at my gluttony, my haste, my utter absorption in the hot wet mess falling through my hands.
On the whole, I’d liken this haloed heart attack to a stoop: begrimed, beloved and an essential addition to the community. More than half the tabletops stick to your water glass. I don’t so much like that. Nearly half the seats in the joint face the street and the neighbors walking by. I’m all about that. Though I anticipate one or two more trips to The Heifer, I think I’ve skirted my last. My best to you and yours.