One recent evening in Fort Collins, before the snow started again and as a late sun came pouring in, Little on Mountain began to fill. Diners scooted over, packed in and then spilled onto a side rail. Introductions were exchanged, plates of crab tostada and glasses of Sardinian red served. By the end of the meal, the two-month-old, corridor-sized dinner spot had reminded me what I love about Fort Collins all over again: One, that it feels like home, always.