DIGNITY OF LABOR • SECRETS FROM THE TRAINING CAMP

Oiling up in the Catskills for the second annual Labor Day Sunday Evening Greco-Roman Smackdown, Team Bolinas decamped from Brooklyn to rustic Cherry Valley, facilitating a time-homoured slow-food training regime; extreme privacy, punctuated by forays at dawn through empty valleys for raw milk and poblano peppers. Why take two days to make dinner when you can idle away three weeks? Meeting Four and Twenty Blackbirds in Kingston for a dose of Grizzly Bear provides the perfect backdrop for discussing stone-fruit. And what better forum for a corn-on-the-cob symposium than an evening ushering in the Apocalypse at the Demolition Derby, embroidered by the massed flocks of downstate photographers getting their backwoods Joel Sternfeld on?

And as we lollop up the final furlong like a harras of sleepy unicorns, indulge us in sharing a few snaps, a gauzy commonplace of our Month in the Country.

Details of the dinner – which we’re eager for you be part of – will follow shortly. But in the meantime …

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AUTOGRILL SHIRT • STOPPING BY RAMAPO ON A SUNDAY EVENING

Flicking through Penelope Brandage’s recent biography of Robert Frost (‘Frost on the Lobelias’, Random House, 2017) was surprised to discover the seminal poem ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’, previously considered ‘finished’ in 1922 (and published in the volume New Hampshire1923), was actually the product of an earlier draft composed during a visit to Woodchuck Lodgethe summer residence of John Burroughs, shortly before the conservationist’s death in 1921.

 

 

Exhaustive research by Ms Brandage within the archives of the Burroughs Foundation has turned up a previously unrecorded letter from the poet to Burroughs’ young wife Clara Barrus, composed shortly after his stay at their Catskills home. Whilst primarily focussed on a number of rambles undertaken together in the hills above Roxbury, during which Robert and Clara ‘delved headwaters of the Beaverkill, through slavering crack and crevice furred’the latter portion reflects upon the arduous journey Frost was compelled to endure following his weekend sojourn; to New York City, and a reading by the Dymock Poets (Ezra Pound, Edward Thomas, T.E. Hulme) at The Town Hall on 43rd Street. The deflating effect of several hours on the road stands in stark contrast to the poet’s eulogizing of his hostess’s ‘dumpling bosom, fresh briar-baked’, and the letter finishes with a short poem in postscript, clearly a draft of Frost’s later masterpiece. Once again, it seems, the life of the Catskill Mountains reveals itself to be the wellspring of creative genius.

•••

Whose Subaru is this, we sing,
Parked up here by the Burger King?
He will not see us stopping here
For Whopper Meal and Poland Spring.

We’re driving with some prancing queer
From Williamsburg or somewhere near
Who didn’t want to take the bus
And drank our farmhouse dry of beer.

The dog found something in the grass
Which now is belching from its ass.
The kids are bored to fucking tears
Of Sarah Vowell and Ira Glass.

The car smells like a cheese fondue.
But I have loads of shit to do,
And miles to go before I poo,
And miles to go before I poo.

•••

 

 

The new Table on Ten Autogrill t-shirt. Designed by Mark Ohe, made by Val Dudley. On pre-washed Hanes ComfortSoft in four sizes. $20 while stocks last.

 

Life Preservers Available | Whole Pies for the Holidays | 4 and | 20

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Hand-made by Gowanus Elves

•••

• salted caramel apple

• black bottom pumpkin

• buttermilk chess

• chocolate pecan

• salty honey

• black bottom oat

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$35

•••

607 832 4538 or inez@tableonten.com to reserve

We”ll be open specially from 6 to 7 on Wednesday evening (23rd) for pickup of reserved pies and maybe a glass of wine.

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Nate Smith | Emily Elsen | Sophie Kamin | Inez Valk | Burning Down the House

English polemicist Hobbes,
Took to bigamy in between jobs,
“I’d do less perspiring
And much more inspiring
If I had me four balls and two knobs.”

We’ve reached that bloodshot, coke-addled point in the political polemic when the Carnival of Assholes has become functionally unbearable. Last night the hours between 2.30 and 4.15 were spent gazing at the ceiling like Munch’s The Scream, sleeplessly contemplating the horror of being governed by a giant, bloated incubus muppet: whatever happened to the old chestnuts of financial destitution, lovelessness, cancer, infant mortality and the bomb?

We all need a break.

Friday night we register our protest at #peakdrivel by running screaming from our houses in pantyhose and fishermen’s cable-knits, wrapping the entire interior of the Table on Ten in newspaper and inviting Nate Smith and Sophie Kamin (from Bar Bolinas and Allswell) and Emily Elsen (from Four and Twenty Blackbirds) to man the existential barricades alongside Inez in a steadfast one-night cookathon which will employ every last scrap of vegetation remaining in Delaware County. Star Route, Berry Brook, Burnetts and Hellers will be rendered desolate wastelands. Further supplies will be pillaged from Key Training Farm, Cowbella, Bovina Valley, Greenane and Marguerite, along with the rude knobbly bits from fridges, shelves, sides of the road, Ollie’s matted flanks and the trunk of the Subaru. Scorched earth harvesting. What’ll remain when we’re done is rocks, stumps and grubby-handled toddler’s pull-toys, each missing a wheel.

No tickets, no invitations, tastings or pairings. No french linen sheets repurposed as tablecloths or backwoods banjo-string-quartets. You don’t have to simper like a poodle or prance like a dressage-pony.

No need to hashtag, like, follow, lie, cheat, namaste or lol. Neither to choreograph kittens or petals, crush persimmons, nor scatter ground-cherries onto beds of milkweed fluff. Leave your prohibition-era assless chaps, pomade and rolled-up cap-sleeves at home, there’ll be no biblical ram-slaughter. Hell, you could even contrive to forget your iPhone.

Call us up to tell us you’re coming, then come. Or swing by. Like any other pizza night.

The only difference is the whole damn menu.

And no pizza.

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Chewin’ the Cud with Nate, Emily, Sophie and Inez

Friday 4th November, Table on Ten, 6 to 9

Menu will Quite Probably Include 

SOFT BOILED EGG –  $5
spruce aioli, garlic chives, tarragon

URSULA KALE AND APPLE SALAD – $12
Alderney cheese, armagnac prunes

WINTER CHOPPED SALAD – $10
beets, cabbage, celeriac, cumin koji maple dressing, cilantro, mint

CAST IRON SOURDOUGH WITH PRESERVED TOMATOES – $10

ROASTED VEGETABLES WITH RED MOLE (the sauce, not the insectivore) – $12
potatoes, cardoons, turnips

SPICED LENTILS AND NETTLES – $10
tomatoes, yogurt, mint

ROASTED BROCCOLI RABE – $12
almonds, Cotija

TAMARIND PORK – $18
Cortland onions, pickled peppers

SALTED CARAMEL APPLE MINI-PIES – $7
maple syrup, fresh frozen yogurt, bee pollen

•••

wine

beer

prayer

•••

bring your own children and cigarettes

Lyme Workshop at Table | Latest Frontier in the War on Terror

A tiny squid from Pellestrina: deer ticks are uglier
A tiny squid from Pellestrina: deer ticks are uglier

Sunday 23rd of October, 1 till 3 at Table on Ten

UPDATE ON LYME with MARGUERITE UHLMANN-BOWER

PREPARE FOR NEXT YEAR

HOW ABOUT THIS WINTER?

$10 Donation

•••

The following questions may or may not be addressed;

• what is it?

• why’s it here?

• as if I didn’t have enough to worry about?

• I feel like an over-caffeinated zombie, blundering through life embalmed in kleenex wearing oven-mitts. I can hardly form words. Have I got it?

• or is that just Delaware County on a Tuesday afternoon?

• if I’ve got it, what can I do about it?

• if I haven’t got it, what can I do to keep not having it?

• if I have a fear of not missing out, what can I do to get it?

• my dog looks like an over-caffeinated zombie and she’s wearing oven-mitts. Has she got it?

• same with my kids.

• does it look good on Instagram?

• was it dropped by the government to eat the flies that ate the tent caterpillars?

• what the fuck?

• is it just some upstate Brooklyn badge-of-honor thing, like looking maybe to build a cabin on some land?

• or burying a pig?

• if I found it crawling in my butt-crack, which friend would I call to come take it out?

• if I drink colloidal silver will I be able to join Blue Man Group?

• is it married?

• is it one of the 207 Greatest Insects in the World?

• is it allergic to cheap brandy in large quantities?

• can I use this as a defense against a DUI?

• can it be pickled to garnish a salad of shiso-fermented turnip greens?

• would it help if my pants were tighter? I’m not sure that’s possible, just asking.

• did the immigrants do it?

• I haven’t seen my genitals in half a decade, how am I supposed to spot a comma crawling across the folds of my back under six layers of Spanx?

• if we opened on a Sunday night, would it come and eat pizza?

• is this the first time it’s been kind of useful that I’m bald?

• will it make America great again?

• if I set up a long table in a field on an evening with candles and wine and crucified sheep, would everybody who attends get it?

• there’s an insect in Africa whose life-cycle involves burrowing into the eyes of children and blinding them by eating its way out. Explain this in terms of a benign, omniscient God.

• is it allergic to pomade?

• did you just fart?

• Jesus, at the dinner table?

•••

Did You Discover What the Earth People Eat? | The Condé Nast Traveler 207

Act I, Sc. i.

The Upper House of the Extraordinary Assembly of the Munificent Senate of O’rb. A patrician array of Senators gaze down from an amphitheater upon a single figure, isolated on the forum floor. 

MAKYU G’NARTH:  Fellow O’rbians.  What you see before you is Earth; a minor planetoid in the Glabber Nebula of Galaxy N3541, dominated by a primitive life-form known as humans. These are carbon-based polyforms, increasingly fleshy in texture, adhering to a docile herd mentality. They have foresworn binary fission in favor of rudimentary reproduction praxis whereby a small protofrobulus in the median fuselage of one organism is rendered momentarily turgid before being inserted into the pre-moistened flabbulus of another. Gestation is approximately 43 quidlips. Offspring require an entire lifespan to reach maturity and usually fail.

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PRABRA V’NUIK:  Fascinating work, Comrade G’Narth. Are these creatures self-sustaining?

MAKYU G’NARTH:  They process the atmosphere with filters in the upper fuselage. This is supplemented by inhaling the fumes of dried foliage rolled into tubes, ignited and consumed through a vacuole in the anterior facia-orb, foreshortening lifespan but looking cool.

VOP’R BLAHNIK:  So the vacuole is used for both respiration and digestion?

MAKYU G’NARTH: Also communication and fornication.

VOP’R BLAHNIK:  By the Sands of Garblon, this is truly a busy vacuole.

MAKYU G’NARTH:  The orifice is irrigated, studded with small bones and contains a lurid fleshy protuberance not unlike an undersea nodule of Gloon.

(The entire Senate groans in disgust)

PRABRA V’NUIK:  And the reproductive vacuole?  Is it similarly embroidered?

MAKYU G’NARTH:  Whilst irrigated, the flabbulus is not ordinarily festooned with bones.

PRABRA V’NUIK:  Thank Jorplips for that!

MAKYU G’NARTH:  Indeed.

ANCH’L BRABNOB:  And are these organisms sustained by means other than respiration?

MAKYU G’NARTH:  Yes. They propagate and consume the dead bodies of genetically inferior species around them.

ANCH’L BRABNOB:  Consume?

MAKYU G’NARTH:  Stuff them in the food vacuole, my Lord, whereby they are masticated into nutritional slurry.

ANCH’L BRABNOB: (appalled) Hence the small bones and irrigated nodule of Gloon …

(general murmurs of astonishment and disbelief)

VOP’R BLAHNIK:  So let us be clear on this, Comrade G’Narth. These organisms systematically induce less evolved life-forms to reproduce for the sole purpose of placing them into suppurating bodily orifices and grinding them into nutritive matter?

MAKYU G’NARTH:  Correct.

ANCH’L BRABNOB:  And the propagation facilities? What kind of things are these?

MAKYU G’NARTH:  They call them ‘Farms’.

ANCH’L BRABNOB:  ‘Farms’? The same word we use to describe our excretory proboscis?

MAKYU G’NARTH:  The very same, My Lord. Inferior organisms are often combined and alchemized with heat, before being ritually consumed upon a sacrificial platform known as the Table.

ANCH’L BRABNOB:  So … ‘Farm … (disgustedly) to Table’?

MAKYU G’NARTH:  Exactly. We have recently discovered what appears to be a religious doctrine etched upon hammered vegetative matter which elucidates the prime geographical locations in which these ritual acts of sacrifice are undertaken.

PRABRA V’NUIK:  And what is the name of this odious screed, Comrade G’Narth?

MAKYU G’NARTH:  ‘Where in the World to Eat’ by Condé Nast Traveler. ‘207 of the Greatest Restaurants in the World According to Those Who Eat, Cook and Travel for a Living’.

VOP’R BLAHNIK:  Snappy title.

ANCH’L BRABNOB:  Is it written in a language we understand?

MAKYU G’NARTH:  Largely humanoid words of one syllable, my Lord, repetitive and replete with banal illustrations. It is easily assimilated.

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PRABRA V’NUIK:  Comrade G’Narth, can you provide us with examples culled from this scroll of horrors?

Makyu G’Narth places a metal briefcase on the stand in front of him. He disengages a secure clasping device and opens the lid. A hiss of stale air emanates from inside. The audience is rapt. He removes a small, loosely bound stack of papers, sifts studiously through a few pages, then clears his metal throat.

MAKYU G’NARTH:  ‘Noma. Copenhagen, Kingdom of Denmark. Hand-throttled trouser eel, still wriggling, served raw with a rosette of arctic fart radish and a pickled hemorrhoid’.

(a collective gasp of astonishment from the assembly)

PRABRA V’NUIK: (defeated) One more please, Comrade G’Narth. We must know what we are dealing with here.

MAKYU G’NARTH: (turns a few more pages) Table on Ten, Bloomville, New York. The best artisanal pizza I’ve ever had, and herby salads so fresh you can hear them growing. Yes, the owner Inez Valk was a model, and everyone is beautiful and funny and there are movie nights downstairs and guitar playing all summer long and, and …’

ANCH’L BRABNOB:  … and what?

MAKYU G’NARTH:  Difficult to say, Anch’l Brabnob. The speaker may have been butchered and eaten before she finished her sentence.

VOP’R BLAHNIK:  What in the Greasy Gonads of Krumpior is … Pizza?

MAKYU G’NARTH:  A bland disc of flattened carbohydrate upon which chopped viscera are placed before being incinerated in a fire of trees. It is consumed with the pressed and fermented body fluids of other organisms.

ANCH’L BRABNOB:  And ‘artisanal’?

MAKYU G’NARTH:  We are unsure. Our scholars suspect it involves humans expressing themselves creatively with excrement.

VOP’R BLAHNIK:  The description of screaming salads will haunt my dreams.

MAKYU G’NARTH:  Priests and priestesses are known to mark their own skins with regrettable hieroglyphs and to promote the establishment of fungus around each others’ food vacuoles.

PRABRA V’NUIK:  It is beyond comprehension. How can a culture become so debased? To have fetishized the merely functional act of nutrition to the point of pornography? What profound emptiness haunts their souls?

VOP’R BLAHNIK:  They are beyond redemption and must be annihilated.

MAKYU G’NARTH:  This should not be difficult, Vop’r Blahnik. Whilst savage in their appetites, years of decadence and cultural malaise have left them flabby and effete. Many even claim to be congenitally allergic to the tissues of the organisms they slaughter. Weak and infantile, addicted to vapid simplicity and two-dimensional prettiness, they will succumb without a struggle.

PRABRA V’NUIK: Arm the warheads. We must show no mercy.

•••

Delco Bell | Making America Mexico Again

Never let it be said that Table on Ten doesn’t shred the gnarlacious curl of the zeitgeist.

Pickled beet stems and caper buds. Cold brew, bacon, PG Tips, wine in mason jars, artisanal sriracha, bone broth, foraged this, foraged that. So much shredded kale you started to look like a brassica. Ramps. Kimchee workshop. Ironic Ass Beer.

Pull out your sauvecito pomade and your Mayan sun print bikini. We’re going mondo Mexican.

And in case you think we’re just another bunch of hipster Juanny-come-latelies, plundering some flavour-of-the-month food fetish, whereby stuff everybody’s been tossing on the BBQ for decades is now serious eats because we’re pronouncing it in Yucatan dialect and cooking it with flame … well, we want you to know we were at Coqui Coqui when it was just us, Heidi Klum and some campesinos raking seaweed off the beach. And while the Tuluminati were perfecting their Bharadvajasana at Bikini Boot Camp, we were blazing pioneer trails through the jungle in a 4-Runner with really shoddy a/c. An hour-and-a-bit to Valladolid, past poorly signposted cenotes and cut-throat snorkel traders, elbowing aside Instagram zombies to score Spiderman underpants from authentic artisans. Hey, we climbed that pyramid at Chichen Itza too, and Caleb lost his sarong! And barely made it back in time for whole-animal Grouper Ceviche de Wahoo and Dash Berlin’s set at Gitano. ‘La Pura Vida, muchacha!’ Wait, was that Costa Rica?

The 'Real' Mexico
The ‘Real’ Mexico

Saturday 6th of August  – 12 till 3 and 6 till 9 

Table on Ten and The Pines present:

¡ TACOS EL SABADO !

Featuring – 

La Pared Hermosa (Carne Asada) – Greenane Farm flank steak, chilis, garlic, lime

El Donaldo (Cochinita Pibil) – slow-cooked Home Grown Farmstead pork, sour oranges, garlic

Las Pequeñas Manos (Pollo en Mole) – blind mole on a stick. Or Key Farm chicken in mole sauce

La Melania (Vegetariano) – roasted Star Route cauliflower, beans, Bovina Valley cotija

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Tortillas de Asesino – hand-made with masa from Trevor Wilson’s local yellow heirloom corn

•••

Elotes del Extranjero Indocumentado – charred local first corn with butter, cotija and lime

Ensalada de Siete Cárteles – black lentils, avocado, pickled peas, arugula, honey, cotija

•••

Salsa Verde

Salsa Rojo

Salsa de Soplete Esteban – Burnett’s gizzard-searing smoked maple tomatillo sorcery

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Torta de Cuatro y Veinte – chocolate chili from Brooklyn with Table dulce de leche ice cream 

•••

Cervezas Mexicanas

Vino Francés e Italiano

•••

And there you have it! Grab your sombrero, your crossed ammunition belts and assless chaps, head over to La Casa de la Risa in downtown Pueblo Floración. The oil-tank grill will be roaring, there’ll be plastic party banners in the trees and mariachi in the air. But get there quick, before the Albondigas have turned to Pho and the mezcal back to bourbon.

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Saturday 6th of August 12 till 3 and 6 till 9 

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