Late Night Dinner at Craigie on Main.

If you bump into Keith, do me a favor: ask him what his favorite Boston meal was of 2008.  If he doesn’t say the dinner we had at Craigie Street Bistrot over the summer, I’ll buy you a drink.  It doesn’t count if you ask him after he’s read this, by the way.

In all seriousness, the meal was so fantastic that we’ve both been thinking of reasons to get back to the restaurant.  We knew Craigie was relocating out of its Harvard Square neighborhood and into Central Square; we wanted to wait and check out the new space.  Also, we had read about the the new bar and its late night menu (available until midnight) so we headed into Cambridge to check it out.

Before I get into the food, a quick note about the aesthetics: the new Craigie, which is now known as Craigie on Main, has a definitively more modern décor than its previous incarnation’s outdated eighties look.  The walls are a soft taupey gray, and the bright kitchen is amongst the first things diners see upon entering.  I can’t wait to go back and eat in the dining room; I’ll specifically ask for the seats overlooking the shiny surfaces and glossy counters of the kitchen.

There were a few different items on the bar menu that caught my eye; Keith and I decided to share three plates: a potato galette, mussels and pigs’ tails.

I was a little nervous about the galette, as the menu described it as being finished with a horseradish cream — I didn’t want to order anything that was going to send needles up into my sinuses.  After I was reassured of the cream’s mildness, I immediately daubed a bit of it onto a bite of galette; the horseradish was very subtle, lending a faint zing to the mellow potato, crispy bacon, chives and salmon roe ($7.00).  It was a great dish, something like a grown-up latke.

The mussels, with their toasted garlic and dashes of miso, were nice ($12.00) but not nearly as mind-blowing as the pigs’ tails ($9.00).  Braised in red wine and topped with skinny, crunchy onion rings,  it was incredibly tender and flavorful.  The meat was most certainly at the perfect falling-off-the-bone doneness, and shot through with the perfect amount of fattiness.  The menu changes frequently at Craigie’s regardless as whether you eat in the restaurant or at the bar; if the pigs’ tails are available, you don’t want to miss them.

A note:  If you drop into the bar at Craigie on Main, do be prepared to stand in the bar’s entrance until a seat is available, unless you arrive extremely early.  We walked in after ten and while we were able to have a drink while  you wait — water for me, the designated driver, and an Arak Toddy for Keith (Fennel Seed, Citrus, Bittermens Pepper Cake Bitters, $10.00).

Craigie On Main
853 Main Street
Cambridge, Massachusetts 02139
617.497.5511
craigieonmain.com

Café Round-Up: Crema Café.

What: Crema Café
Where: Harvard Square, Cambridge
When: Three and a half hours spanning early morning to just before lunchtime.
Ordered: Toasted plain bagel with lox and plain cream cheese, and a latte with sugar-free vanilla for $8.51
Info: Extremely busy, though there are a few undesirable tables — wobbly, cramped, in tight corners.  The crowd doesn’t let up at all; there doesn’t seem to be a quiet period.  I pounce on a table near a socket but have to drag another table over since the one in the covetable spot is wobbly.  Very loud, what with customer chatter, background music and employees calling out names for latte pick-up, but I like the commotion.  Wireless limited to certain hours.
Conclusion: Only for those who don’t mind writing amidst hustle, bustle and preying on empty tables.

Crema Café
27 Brattle Street
Cambridge, Massachusetts 02138
617.876.2700
cremacambridge.com

Coming Soon… Boston Area Café Round-Ups.

My laptop and I have been spending a lot of time in cafés together lately, taking up as little space as possible and clickety clickety clickety-ing our little hearts out. It may be cliché, but I recently remembered how much my writing and I both thrive in an atmosphere like this.  The steady hum of the surrounding conversations, the robotic ticking of the registers’ printers, the continual current of people fluttering past, mugs chinking and clinking against plates and spoons, the rich smell of freshly-ground coffee — all of these things help me write.

The sad truth, however, is that not all cafés are equal. Since I’ve been popping into so many lately, I figured I should share my findings. I’ll be summarizing my thoughts on some of Boston’s independent coffeehouses and cafés* here once a week. I won’t pretend that I’m familiar with them all, so if you have a particular favorite, let me know.  I’m always interested in finding a new writing/coffee-drinking spot, so please drop me a line in the comments…

* I’ll focus exclusively on independently-owned businesses, but a few nationals might sneak in.

With Bold Knife + Fork by M.F.K. Fisher.

I took a shameful amount of time getting around to reading M.F.K. Fisher‘s works, but once I did I realized I had encountered an authoritative force in food and in writing.  Seriously.  I’m not just throwing words around here.  This woman can write.

If you’ve not read anything by Ms. Fisher, With Bold Knife and Fork is an utterly perfect place to start.  Run to the bookstore, click over to Amazon, get thee to a library — I don’t care which method you prefer* as long as readership of this book increases by a significant amount.

Part cookbook and part memoir, With Bold Knife and Fork is almost novelesque in its structure, starting with Ms. Fisher’s research of turn-of-the-century recipes and their communal lack of specificity, advancing on to her own youth under her puritanical grandmother’s roof and continuing with her daughters’ culinary endeavors.  Interspersed throughout the anecdotes and observations are recipes relating to the topic at hand; some are Ms. Fisher’s, and others are credited to friends, family and her mother’s cook.

While I have an almost unnatural fondness for Ms. Fisher (it feels strange, calling her Ms. Fisher, but what am I supposed to do, refer to her as M.F.K.?) I can’t deny that she and her writing keep on popping up during coincidentally convenient times.  Take the first time I read one of her books: I meant to pick up a copy of Gastronomical Me, as per my friend Beth‘s advice, and the next day my friend Marcella gave me the book as a present.  Then there were those days a few weeks ago when Ms. Fisher seemed to be talking right to me, from the Great Beyond, as I made risotto and contemplated consuming brains.

Then there’s this, a quote from With Bold Knife and Fork which sums up precisely how I feel about inventing my own recipes, something I do with great infrequency:

Perhaps I should feel more actively ashamed, that I am so torpid. Why do I sit back and let other people sweat to do all my figuring and inventing? I am a clod.

Honestly, this is a woman after my own heart.  With grace and wit and candor, she just gets me.  And I love that.

* Technically speaking, this is a lie.  Support your local independent bookseller!

Kate’s Kitchen in London.

Where do you live?
I live in a Victorian flat in North London with my boyfriend Jeremy and new favourite American friend, Darlington.

How often do you cook or bake?
I cook lunch and dinner most days and like to do some cake baking every week or two.

What is your favorite kitchen utensil?
My favourite kitchen utensil is the potato ricer. I find it a little tricky to use but am always amazed at how creamy it makes your mash.

Which part of your kitchen do you like best and why?
The best bit of our kitchen is the stereo (even though it is melted and does not work properly) as singing Abba and cooking is so much fun — there are so many dance moves you can incorporate!

What was your biggest kitchen accomplishment?
I’m not really sure what my biggest kitchen accomplishment might be — it could be best to ask someone else — however one of the most enjoyable is definitely Delia Smith‘s Chocolate Bread and Butter Pudding. I’ve pasted the recipe below, however I never include the cinnamon or rum.

Chocolate Bread and Butter Pudding, from The Delia Collection: Chocolate by Delia Smith
Makes six portions

9 slices, each ¼-inch thick, good-quality white bread, 1 day old, taken from a large loaf
5 ounces dark chocolate, 75 % cocoa solids
3 ounces butter
15 fluid ounces whipping cream
4 tablespoons dark rum
4 ounces caster sugar
good pinch cinnamon
3 large eggs
double cream, well chilled

1. Begin by removing the crusts from the slices of bread, which should leave you with 9 pieces about 4 inches   square. So now cut each slice into 4 triangles. Next, place the chocolate, whipping cream, rum, sugar, butter and cinnamon in a bowl set over a saucepan of barely simmering water, being careful not to let the bowl touch the water, then wait until the butter and chocolate have melted and the sugar has completely dissolved. Next, remove the bowl from the heat and give it a really good stir to amalgamate all the ingredients.
2. Now in a separate bowl, whisk the eggs and then pour the chocolate mixture over them and whisk again very thoroughly to blend them together.
3. Then spoon about a ½ inch layer of the chocolate mixture into the base of a buttered 7 x 9 inch ovenproof dish and arrange half the bread triangles over the chocolate in overlapping rows. Now, pour half the remaining chocolate mixture all over the bread as evenly as possible, then arrange the rest of the triangles over that, finishing off with a layer of chocolate. Use a fork to press the bread gently down so that it gets covered very evenly with the liquid as it cools.
4. Cover the dish with clingfilm and allow to stand at room temperature for 2 hours before transferring it to the fridge for a minimum of 24 (but preferably 48) hours before cooking. When you’re ready to cook the pudding, pre-heat the oven to gas 350°. Remove the clingfilm and bake in the oven on a high shelf for 30-35 minutes, by which time the top will be crunchy and the inside soft and squidgy. Leave it to stand for 10 minutes before serving with well-chilled double cream poured over.

A Baking Weekend.

Marcella and I had A Plan for my Valentine’s visit.  For several weeks we had been swapping recipes, talking about kitchen tasks and asking each other questions about cookies, so it seemed only natural that we would have a baking weekend — in addition to our normal to-dos like catching up, gossiping and eating out.  Not too long ago, Marcella had purchased a new cookbook — Baked: New Frontiers in Baking — that was calling our names, and I had been wanting to try another madeleine recipe, so I packed my pans in my bag before leaving home.

After thumbing through Baked (which, I should mention, is from the men at the eponymous Brooklyn bakery), we decided to make brownies, which apparently is one of Oprah’s favorites.  Since we didn’t have quite the right size pan, we doubled the recipe — big mistake.  Normally, having twice as many brownies is a scrumptious and wondrous thing, but in this case it was terrible.  You try dealing with two times as many fudgy-on-the-inside, crunchy-on-the-outside chocolate bombs and then tell me how you feel.  Honestly.  We cut them up into bitty bites for a reason.  These suckers are intense.

Also intense are David Lebovitz‘s madeleines: a lemony glaze amps up the sunny citrus flavor, and each little cake walks along, holding hands with her friends Moist and Dense, combining to make the most perfectly textured thing ever.

We gave a shell-shaped sweet to Marcella’s mother; not knowing what she was eating, Mrs. Hammer said, “I’m sitting underneath the Eiffel Tower.”  When we told her what she had in her palm was a classic French treat, she beamed.

Indeed, I can’t tout this recipe enough, though when I make them again I will omit the baking powder to compare the difference in its consistency.  I’m not worried though — like Marcella says, “You can’t go wrong with a recipe from David Lebovitz.”

So true.

“Baked” Brownies, from Baked: New Frontiers in Baking by Matt Lewis and Renato Poliafito
Makes twenty-four brownies

1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons dark unsweetened cocoa powder
11 ounces dark chocolate (60 to 72% cacao), coarsely chopped
1 cup (two sticks) unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch pieces
1 teaspoon instant espresso powder
1 ½ cup firmly packed light brown sugar
5 large eggs, at room temperature
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

1. Preheat the oven to 350°.  Butter the sides and bottom of a 9-by-13 inch glass or light metal baking pan.
2. Whisk the flour, salt and cocoa powder in a medium bowl.
3. Put the chocolate, butter and instant espresso powder in a large bowl and set it over a saucepan of simmering water; stir occasionally until the chocolate and butter are completely melted and smooth.  Turn off the heat but keep the bowl over the water; add sugars.  Whisk until combined, then remove the bowl from the pan.  Cool the mixture to room temperature.
4. Add 1 egg to chocolate, whisking to combine.  Repeat with remaining eggs, whisking each egg thoroughly into the chocolate before adding the next.  Whisk in vanilla.  Do not overbeat.
5. Sprinkle the flour mixture over chocolate.  Using a spatula, fold flour into chocolate until just combined.
6. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and smooth the top.  Bake in the middle of the oven for 30 minutes, rotating the pan at the halfway point, until a toothpick inserted into the center of the pan comes out with only a few moist crumbs sticking to it.  Let cool completely before cutting into squares.
7. When tightly covered with plastic wrap, the brownies will keep at room temperature for up to three days.

Lemon-Glazed Madeleines, adapted by David Lebovitz from his book The Sweet Life In Paris: Delicious Adventures in the World’s Most Glorious — and Perplexing — City
Makes twenty-four cookies

for the cookies
3 large eggs, at room temperature
2/3 cup granulated sugar
rounded 1/8 teaspoon salt
1 ¼ cup flour
1 teaspoon baking powder (optional)
zest of one small lemon
9 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled to room temperature, plus additional melted butter for preparing the molds

for the glaze
¾ cup powdered sugar
1 tablespoon freshly-squeezed lemon juice
2 tablespoons water

1. Brush the indentations of a madeleine mold with melted butter. Dust with flour, tap off any excess, and place in the fridge or freezer.
2. In the bowl of a standing electric mixer, whip the eggs, granulated sugar, and salt for 5 minutes until frothy and thickened. Spoon the flour and baking powder, if using, into a sifter or mesh strainer and use a spatula to fold in the flour as you sift it over the batter. (Rest the bowl on a damp towel to help steady it for you.) Add the lemon zest to the cooled butter, then dribble the butter into the batter, a few spoonfuls at a time, while simultaneously folding to incorporate the butter. Fold just until all the butter is incorporated. Cover the bowl and refrigerate for at least 1 hour. (Batter can be chilled for up to 12 hours.)
3. To bake the madeleines, preheat the oven to 425°.  Plop enough batter in the center of each indentation with enough batter which you think will fill it by ¾’s (you’ll have to eyeball it, but it’s not brain-surgery so don’t worry if you’re not exact.) Do not spread it. Bake for 8-9 minutes or until the cakes just feel set. While the cakes are baking, make a glaze in a small mixing bowl by stirring together the powdered sugar, lemon juice, and water until smooth.
4. Remove from the oven and tilt the madeleines out onto a cooling rack. The moment they’re cool enough to handle, dip each cake in the glaze, turning them over to make sure both sides are coated and scrape off any excess with a dull knife. After dipping, rest each one back on the cooking rack, scalloped side up, until the cakes are cool and the glaze has firmed up.

Storage: Glazed madeleines are best left uncovered, or not tightly-wrapped; they’re best eaten the day they’re made. They can be kept in a container for up to three days after baking, if necessary.

Note:  If you use baking powder, they may take another minute or so to bake since the batter will rise higher. They’re done when the cakes feel just set if you poke them with your finger. Avoid overbaking them.

Very Fine Design.

Ben and I have been friends for almost thirteen years now, and so we know each other pretty well.  When he sent me an email recently with nothing in its body but a link, I knew it would be directing me to something good.

I was so right.

Graphic artist M.S. Corley “redid” both J.K. Rowling‘s Harry Potter books and Lemony Snicket‘s A Series of Unfortunate Events in the style of Penguin paperbacks of the 1960s.  I think they’re tons of fun, and so well designed that I kind of wish they were real.

Actually, I really wish they were real.

You can see the rest of the Harry Potters here, and the rest of the Snickets here.  For a similar film-related project, check out the “I Can Read Movies” series at Spacesick.

Will She Make It In Time? (Or, Albany to Boston.)

4.06 pm: My train is scheduled to leave in four minutes and Marcella is driving faster than the legal limit and I’m convinced I am going to miss it.

4.07 – 4.13 pm: Marcella pulls up to the train station’s front entrance and I jump out before she has even put the car in park.  I yell to her as I grab my bag out of the back seat, “Thank you so much, Marcella, but I’m sorry we can’t say goodbye properly,” and then I’m running through the station.  An attendant is making announcements about the departing trains — there are three of them and I can’t tell which one is mine so I barrel down the escalator.  When I reach the bottom I discover I’m on the wrong platform and take off running towards the stairs, which are off course at the opposite end.   Before I can make it there, I catch sight of the elevator and throw myself in.  As I’m jabbing the buttons with impatient fingers, another conductor sees me and asks what train I am trying to catch; when I tell him I’m Boston-bound, he walkies to the other platform, “I have a late arrival in black heading your way; hold the train.”  I want to kiss him, but instead I say “thank you” over and over until the elevator doors close.  The elevator takes forever and when I get out, yet another conductor is waiting for me.  “Right down here,” he says.  “They’re holding the train.”  As I run by, shouting my thanks over my shoulder, I see that Marcella has come to make sure I catch the train.  She shouts goodbye just before I catapult myself down another escalator; there’s third conductor waiting for me, and he slides the carriage door shut after I hop on.  The train is crowded and I consider just plopping down into the first available seat when I see, at the very end of the car, that there’s an unoccupied window seat and I dash toward it.  I have to stand on the armrest in order to stow my bag and jacket the overhead rack.  After I’m seated, one of the on-board conductors comes through the carriage to collect our tickets.  He asks me, “Are you our late arrival?”  I smile sheepishly, say yes, aware that I smell like the most unsavory combination of my breakfast (garlic bagel, lox, cream cheese) and my lunch (four-cheese macaroni and cheese, Caesar salad).  “I’m glad you were able to make it,” he says.  I nod vigorously, feeling droplets of sweat squeeze themselves out of my hair and into the collar of my sweater.  Sit back.  Try to breathe.

4.18 pm: This is the bumpiest train in the world and I am still out of breath.

4.35 pm: Not bumpy anymore, breathing normally again, perspiring still.

4.43 pm: Across the aisle from me is a young couple; she’s in a blue hooded University of Rhode Island sweatshirt, and he’s wearing a melon-and-white striped button-down.  They are cuddling but ignoring each other; she’s playing with her laptop and he’s copying something off of his BlackBerry and into a spiral notebook.  Outside the sun is starting to set and shining an orange-gold light on the barren trees and brush-covered ground.  Soon I’ll have to turn on the overhead light, and later I won’t be able to see anything that isn’t lit up.  For now, I can see wooden sheds housing a trio of John Deeres.  Their windshields reflect the sun and blind me.

4.50 pm: The conductor who asked me if I was the late arrival comes through the car, asking if anyone here is called Asia Smith.  Now I need to know who she is, and what she did.

4.56 pm: Still too keyed up, even to read.  Pull up TiVo Desktop and start Trainspotting, which I haven’t seen since high school.  When I got to college, almost everybody — well, almost all the boys, anyway — had Trainspotting posters up in their rooms.

4.59 pm: The kid diagonally across from me is watching Madagascar, no headphones, at such a loud volume that I hear his film much more clearly than mine.  And we are stopped, for reasons unknown.

5.01 pm: Apparently we are about to switch onto a single track, but must wait our turn as there is a freight train currently coming through.

5.06 pm: Okay, I can’t do this with Trainspotting.  My volume is maxed out, my earphones are (disturbingly) only working in the left earbud, and the story isn’t nearly as effective with Ben Stiller yapping away in the background.  Switching to Eat Drink Man Woman, because at least then I can read it.  Besides, the opening sequence is amazing.  My favorite part is at the very end, stuffing the dumpling.  Oh, and we’re moving.

5.09 pm: I wish I had cleaver skills.  It would be helpful to have a cleaver, to develop said skills with.

5.17 pm: No sun above the horizon.  Getting dusky.  Just frozen-over marshes and naked trees, highways with cobalt-blue semis streaking by.

5.31 pm: I can’t even imagine not have functioning taste buds.  I’d rather give up an arm.  It would have to be my left, though.  Pittsfield, by the way.

5.43 pm: Getting dark, everything’s got that grayish blue tinge, like being very far underwater.

5.46 pm: When Keith and I were in Shanghai, we encountered so many dishes with non-translatable names, or names that were lost in translation.  Some of these were delicious, and others were too terrifying to try.

5.58 pm: Almost completely dark, and the snow is glowing like under a blacklight.

6.17 pm: Solid black outside, don’t know for how long.  Imagine, living somewhere that the only light for miles would be from your porch, or your window?  Unfathomable to me.

6.34 pm: Something near me is squeaking, don’t know what but it sounds like mice.  Suddenly this train ride seems unbearably long.  I’m looking forward to sleeping in my own bed tonight, without a dog on my head.

6.49 pm: Springfield.

7.05 pm: Still Springfield.

7.06 pm: Moving!  On the road (rails?) again…

7.08 pm: Done with Eat Drink Man Woman, and onto Emily Post: Daughter of the Gilded Age, Mistress of American Manners.  The book group girls and I have been discussing it, and it appears as though no one is much enjoying this month’s book.  I had heard all of these rumblings before picking it up myself, but I’ve got to say I’m really enjoying it.  There’s not much, if any dialogue, but I still find it fascinating, mostly because a large chunk of it takes place near where I grew up in New York.

7.20 pm: As more and more travelers walk past me to and from the café car, our carriage smells more strongly of hot dogs, something I’ve always loved.  (I think it is the Filipina in me.)  I refuse to give in, though I am fittingly listening to Morrissey’s “The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get,” off of Vauxhall and I.

7.43 pm: I think it might be time for a little nap, though I’m hoping it will be one without dreams.  Lately I can’t get through the night without one, and they’re all so tiring, often involving me being chased by or running from The Law.

8.14 pm: Worcester.  No dreams yet, but the melon-and-white shirt is talking to someone on the phone about trading gold and the stock market.  It’s boring me back to sleep.

8.22 – 8.27 pm: Am awakened by a text message from Marcella.  A short period of frenetic texting ensures, the topic of which is our favorite of the weekend, aside from baking: boys.

8.29 pm: I hate looking out the window and seeing my reflection.  Unrelated: time for some My Bloody Valentine, and back to Emily Post.

8.36 pm: Ashland Commuter Rail station… there are stretches of utter black in between stations but we’ll be at Framingham next, and there are far more lights all of a sudden.

8.50 pm: Framingham.  Apparently we are running early, and will arrive at South Station in about forty minutes.  How bizarre — even with my holding up the train in Albany and the delays on the way, we’ll be twenty minutes ahead of schedule.

8.58 pm: Reading Emily Post had given me an idea for another book group road trip — to Newport, to visit the Breakers.  I haven’t been since grade school, but I’ve always loved that sort of thing.  I can’t even conceive of living in such a house, and the Breakers was one of the Vanderbilts’ vacation homes, another concept I’ve trouble grasping sometimes.  What if you can’t get to your second house often?  I guess these are the problems of the idle rich.

9.04 pm: Wellesley Square Commuter Rail — getting closer and closer to home, and my bed.  The train is going by so slowly, and giving me plenty of time of examine the backs of many short and squat brick apartment buildings, and a Mobil station.

9.12 pm: Now riding alongside the highway, the same one Keith and I take to and from New York — I think it’s the Pike but I honestly don’t know.  We’re keeping pace with a shockingly white Mack truck.  How fast are we going?  How fast is he?  Am I wrong to assume it’s a man behind the wheel?  I don’t know anyone personally who would enjoy the profession, male or female, but I still want to lean out the window and call over to the driver, “Where are you going, where have you been?”

9.20 pm: Slowly going through Allston before coming to a stop directly in front of the New Balance building.  Just got off the phone with my dad, who was calling to make sure Keith would be picking me up at South Station.  He’s very old-fashioned, my dad, and was quite disconcerted when he heard I was going away for the weekend without Keith.  My father finds it hard to believe that his daughter, or young women in general, are capable of doing certain things without the aid or company of men.

9.25 pm: I’m at a point in the Emily Post book that takes place almost exactly one hundred years ago and it is utterly fascinating.  I’ve always said that if and when time travel is invented, I’d love to go back to New York and spend a few days during each of the huge, history-making eras; the Gilded Age is definitely on the list.

9.26 pm: Back Bay.  Time to pack it up.

9.35 pm: South Station.  And soon, home!

Dinner at Harvest + Hearth.

Before I even got to Saratoga — possibly even a week prior — Marcella sent me a link to a possible restaurant to try for last night’s dinner.  Located a little ways out of the city center, we thought Harvest & Hearth would be our best bet for avoiding the Valentine’s Day crush of kissing couples.  We were absolutely right, joining families and small groups similar to ours in a large room overlooking Fish Creek.

Marcella and I decided to romantically split a starter salad, while her sister Lindsey went with the soup special of butternut squash and pear; I had a taste, and while it was nice, I much preferred our salad: Mamie’s Poppy ($6.95).  Both Marcella and I loved the dressing in particular — it was intensely flavored, but not at all cloying.

“What’s this sweetener?” I asked Marcella.  “Is it honey?”

“It might be,” she said, “but it’s different.”

We pondered this for several minutes until our server happened to pass by; we waved her down and I inquired after it, but she told me the owners refuse to give away the recipe, a family secret.  It was definitely the highlight of the salad, which was also comprised of organic pears, roasted pecans, goat cheese and organic mesclun greens.  Though I did really love the salad, I wish it had included more pears, instead of four slim slices.

Before we had even gotten to H + H, I had already studied the menu and chosen the pizza I was most looking forward to trying:  The Shrooms — wild mushrooms, caramelized onions, Fontina, Mozzarella and organic herbs ($7.95 for a small, $15.95 for a large).  The three of us agreed and ordered the larger pie, which was a combination of sweet and savory.  I couldn’t really taste the Fontina, but since it’s such a mild cheese I suppose it wasn’t surprising, though it made me wonder why it was included at all.

Aside from the Shrooms, the three of us also decided to share two additional small pizzas.  We agreed upon the Natural (sun-dried tomato pesto, caramelized onions, organic mushrooms, maple-fennel sausage, Mozzarella, and herbs, $8.95) and one of the night’s specials (bacon, arugula and Gorgonzola, I forgot to make note of its price — actually, we weren’t told the price, and I forgot to check the bill).

The sausage in the Natural was excellent; the fennel added a wonderful hint of anise essence to each bite.  Lindsey especially liked the sausage, saying its crumbly texture was the perfect and the only way she liked to eat it.  The big surprise, though, was the special — it was by far the superior pizza of the three we chose.  As we devoured it, we lamented the fact that we had ordered a large Shrooms and only a small special.  The medley of sweet and salty bacon, peppery greens and tangy cheese was a thoroughly wonderful combination, an utter success.

While I’ve heaped praise upon Harvest & Hearth, I would be negligent if I didn’t mention something: the kitchen is unbearably slow.  At one point, ages after the scraped-clean plates of our starters were cleared away, our server came by the apologize for the delay.

“There’s been some confusion in the kitchen,” she said, not elaborating.

It was such a shame we had to wait so long, and not only because I lean towards the impatient.  The food really was stellar, and our server tried to do the best she could to make us more comfortable.  The truth is, the only thing that would have made us happy was our food, on time.

“Well,” said Lindsey, once the pizzas were in front us, “at least it’s hot!”

That’s what I think she said, anyway.  Her mouth was full.

Harvest + Hearth
251-B County Route 67
Saratoga Springs, New York 12866
518.587.1900
harvestandhearth.com

Valentine’s Visit, or Boston to Albany.

11.51 am: Very crowded train, surprisingly so.  Don’t have a window seat, sadly, but hopefully my very nice neighbor is getting off before me so I can shift over.  The window seat is highly desired real estate, which its advantage of both privacy and sockets, meaning I can watch one of the silly movies I downloaded onto my laptop from the TiVo without anyone seeing my predilection for romantic comedies.  For now, I suppose, it’s just me and Emily Post: Daughter of the Gilded Age, Mistress of American Manners.

11.56 am: And we’re off.

11.59 am: Back Bay.

12.03 pm: It is a gorgeous day, the kind that makes me wish I was either running around outside, or at home, asleep on the sofa.  On an unrelated note, the conductor just announced he’s expecting it to be an extremely crowded train.  Have my hopes for an eventual window seat been thoroughly dashed?

12.00 pm: Another conductor on the intercom now.  Apparently what I am on, this train, is only the “Massachusetts extension,” which will connect with the “New York extension” in Albany, therefore tripling its entire length before heading out to Chicago.  How fascinating — this train is like the necklace of snap-on beads I had as a girl.

12.13 pm: Oh no.  My neighbor is disembarking at Albany too.  It appears as though I am destined for a windowless ride.

12.22 pm: I think I might be onto something here.  The couple sitting in front of me is getting off somewhere initialed SPB.  Where could that be?  Is it before ALB?  If it is, I am totally getting that window seat.

12.24 pm: Framingham.  We have just passed a bar called The Happy Swallow.  I love it.

12.37 pm: When I was younger, I was hooked on a series of books called The Secret of the Unicorn Queen, which were reissued recently with horrible new cover art.  Regardless of their outward appearance, the books were about a girl from our world who gets transported (long story) to another full of magic, mystery and unicorns; whenever we went on long car trips, I would imagine I was instead riding a unicorn.  This didn’t make the ride any shorter, but it was fun nevertheless.  Oh, and my unicorn was solid black with white stockings and a perfectly symmetrical blaze in the center of his forehead, from which his silver horn would emerge.  He didn’t have a name, by the way.  I used to just call him My Unicorn.

12.42 pm: Passing a frozen marsh with sleeping trees sticking out of the ice like needles on a porcupine’s back, if the porcupine had the mange.  You know, I’ve never seen a porcupine in real life and don’t know if they can even get the mange, but let’s just say they can.

12.47 pm: Depressing-looking warehouse on a shabby rust-colored parcel of land.

12.54 pm: Worcester.  How did that word ever start getting pronounced Woosta?

1.04 pm: I am getting sleepy but I’m scared that if I give in to my tiredness, I will lose the opportunity to swap seats.  But my eyelids are so heavy.

1.11 pm: Woods, ice-covered hills, sheep and horses whose steaming breath I can imagine casting shadows in the sun.

1.24 pm: All right, I’m going to sleep.  For the record, Emily Post didn’t do this to me; I find the book very interesting, and am really looking forward to chatting about it at book club next weekend.  My drowsiness has more to do with my going to bed past two and waking up at seven.

2.00 pm: Apparently we are coming up to Springfield, which is supposedly what SPB stands for.  I must pounce on those seats.

2.04 pm: Ah, a window, how lovely.

2.08 pm: Springfield, under a sky streaked with clouds.

2.12 pm: I’m watching I.Q., which I remember enjoying very much when I was in high school.  It’s about Einstein and love — what’s not to like?  Plus, there is a quartet of elderly men who speak in Germanic accents…  fantastic.

2.17 pm: Moving again, this time over water, via a bridge of course.  How strange would it be if suddenly the train could levitate, or operate over water?

2.24 pm: The kid who took my former seat is 1) a loud talker who 2) must be on the phone at all times.  I’ve got I.Q. on at maximum volume and yet I have more of a handle on this kid’s girl issues than I do on Tim Robbins and Meg Ryan.

2.32 pm: Apparently, the kid behind me wants to go to a party tonight with a certain girl, who has told him that she would like to go, but won’t because she only can stay for fifteen minutes.  He thinks this is a lie and is frustrated.  There is also something about eleven dollars, but I need to hear more before I can fully understand the problem.

2.42 pm: The kid is off the phone!

2.43 pm: The kid is back on the phone.  He kind of wants to see “that movie with Drew Barrymore.”

2.55 pm: The kid is picking up Kaylie at 4.30, after which they will go to dinner.  Then, they’re going to meet up with Steph and Rob and go to either He’s Just Not That Into You or Friday the Thirteenth, depending on what’s showing at the more convenient time.

3.03 pm: A bit of a waterfall, one that looks like it would be fun to raft.  After my maiden rafting voyage, I got off the river with a black eye, my very first.  I wore it like a badge, a brooch, a medal.  It was a great time.

3.17 pm: I’ve lost track of how many abandoned or abandoned-looking buildings we’ve passed.  What could they all have been for?  What were they full of, and why?  And why were they left to fall into disrepair?  How much have those windows seen, or those walls, or each brick?

3.23 pm: There is an adorable little baby on the train, maybe something like two years old.  I can’t remember how many times the people who I can only assume are his parents have walked him up and down the car aisle.  Honestly, until he passes, I’ve forgotten he’s even in this carriage because he’s so quiet and mid-mannered, unlike most babies.  He just walked up to me and placed his hand gently on my thigh.  Very forward.  His mother, quite young, gasped and said, “I knew he was a flirt, but this is ridiculous!”  He’s so adorable, his cheekiness is completely excusable.

3.33 pm: I have noticed that the kid on the phone says the word okay as though it has three syllables and not just two.  Oh-kay-ay.

3.40 pm: It’s always a little awkward when a person by herself, such as me, starts to giggle uncontrollably to herself, as I am doing right now.   Oh, romantic comedies!  Unrelated: Meg Ryan’s got this killer black and white dress in this film that I would happily wear today, tomorrow, forever.

3.46 pm: Pittsfield, where there is much more snow than in Boston.

3:53 pm: Marcella just sent me a picture of three of the dogs currently at her house.   At first, I think the photo is only of Chloe the Rottweiler/German Shepherd mix and Audrey the yellow Lab.  Upon second glance, I realize Amelia Bedelia the Peke-a-poo is in the photo too; it’s her curly butt visible next to Audrey.  Not pictured, Nathan and Niña, the Daschunds.

3.59 pm: Finished I.Q., back to Emily Post.

4.06 pm: I don’t think I would like to live so close to the train tracks as some of these houses.  It’s not so much the noise, which would undoubtedly irritate me most nights, but instead the thought of possibilities passing by.  People en route to a place which is not here, and all that — this would be unbearable.  We also just flew by six houses, completely identical in every fashion except for color, by which I mean different shades of white: stark white, creamy white, blueish white, yellowed white, pinky white, greenish white.  This is near Austerlitz, New York, by the way; now we’re running parallel to the Thruway, which makes me think, What did this all look like, before we put our irremovable stamp on it? Though there are patches thickly covered in trees, I don’t think that makes it any easier to imagine this land covered with nothing but.  There are traces of us everywhere, and by that I mean barbed fences, litter and oxidized signs nailed to the occasional trunk.

4:11 pm: Now listening to Ivy’s “Get Out of the City” off of Apartment Life, all of which is apropos (which is one of my all-time favorite words, along with vermillion, ecclesiastical and cacophony).

4.19 pm: Passing by another series of warehouses.  Each window has been smashed.  By whom?  When?  These are questions I will never know the answer to.

4.24 pm: Not that I’ve been spying on her or anything, but the woman sitting across from me has been staring ad her face reflected in a compact mirror for something like fifteen minutes.  She’s not putting on lipstick or retouching her eye shadow — she’s just staring.

4.33 pm: A field with snow melted on it in such a way it looks like glaze on a cupcake.  I wonder if any rabbits live there.

4.37 pm: We have stopped, for reasons unknown.  The last time I took the train to Albany we stopped just outside the city as well, but because buffalo were crossing the tracks and refused to pick up the pace.

4.44 pm: Moving again.  No buffalo though, that I can see.

4.50 pm: I’m here…!