I N • C A S E • Y O U • T H O U G H T • B E E R • W A S • B E E R

… because believe us, beer ain’t beer. But don’t feel bad if you thought it was. We did too. Until our new manager Andy Acker arrived.

See, Inez had just finished up an afternoon whittling the testicles off guinea-fowl, and had slipped out to the picnic table, having spotted a shard of sunshine refracted through a giant icicle dangling like the Sword of Damocles from the roof. On her way, she grabs a beer and shouts for Andy to join her. Which, shortly thereafter, he does:

Inez: Hey, I think Spring might actually be here …

Andy: What’s that?

Inez: Eh?

Andy: I said, what’s that? (He points to can of Narragansett on the table) 

Inez: Umm … it’s a beer.

Andy: Hmm. Domestic lager. So soon after the vernal equinox?

Inez: Oh, er … I dunno, is it? (smiles) They’re all the same, right?

Andy: Equinoxes?

Inez: Beers.

Andy: May I? (gestures towards it. She nods. He picks it up by his fingertips. Holds it aloft against the sun. Presses it to his cheek, closes his eyes, emits a low hum. Finally, wafting his fingers like a thrush’s wing over the opening, takes a long sniff followed by several staccato snifflets. Silence)

Inez: You okay?

Andy: Oxidized. Because you drank the first third rapidly, the remaining liquid has reacted with pocketed air within the vessel, throwing off the pH and initiating the first stages of a reverse Haber process.

Inez: Ah.

Andy: Whereby the surface of the lager is gradually becoming low molarity aluminium hydroxide in solution. Leave this can in the sun for fifteen years and you’ll be drinking bauxite.

Inez: Oh.

Andy: Would you like me to titrate you an IPA?


Remember when beer was just the short and glittering road to being shit-arsed? The longer the road, the shittier the arse? When a word like ale was as snort-inducing as mead, flagon or i’faith, draw me a tankard of sack, buxom serving wench? The provenance of short, pudgy hermaphrodites who dressed in plastic armour to beat each other with nerf-swords in fields outside Leicester? Or pockmarked university drama lecturers playing the celtic drum in Wiltshire pubs, singing about bonny shoals of herring with fingers in their ears? Well not any more. These days an otherwise unretarded-seeming Williamsburger in his thirties will barely blush when referring to beer by its mouthfeel or quaffability: behaviour which (in days of yore) would have got you a firm dart in the middle of the forehead, if not a golden baptism down the toilet-bowl in the Gents whilst involuntarily munching on a slice of moist urinal cake. Being a hophead meant somebody was actually hopping up and down on your head. In the car park. Amongst the discarded rubber johnnies.

Not at Table on Ten though, by golly! There’s no prophylactics in our car park. Hell, we don’t even have a car park!

But we do have beer, and we also have Andy – our new Virgil, fated to lead us by the sweaty paw through the labyrinth of the Craft Beer Inferno. Where all names begin with DOG or end in WHALE. And where half a gallon of last-summer’s paddling-pool water, fermented up a cow’s uterus with a handful of Polish zlotys and stirred with a limp celery stick constitutes a fine idea for an after-hours Spring brewski.

First up in the artisanal small-batch wet t-shirt contest: Southern Tier ‘Nu Skool’ IPA, from Lakewood NY, a short ambulance ride from Buffalo.

This one is characterized by middle-school spelling, bringing to mind notes of sweaty snowboard boot, overnight-wetsuit-in-the-trunk-of-mom’s-Subaru and jockstrap. Originally in the category of awesome, it soon became rad before settling into lit with shades of amazeballs. The perfect beer if you’re planning on free-climbing the pizza oven, base-jumping from the garbage cans or wingsuiting over to Sal’s for a breakfast sandwich. Have two or three. Go cray-cray.

Burial Beer Billows Hoppy Kölsch out of Asheville, NC.

This one combines heavy alliteration (Bradley burnished Bobby’s biggest bollock) with implied European exotica, crowned with an umlaut. Kölsch was apparently a serious mover-and-shaker in the Dusseldorf bondage scene; combined with the name Burial, we’re looking at some serious goth undertones here. Sleeve-tattoos, ear-gauges and two semesters at SUNY Oneonta. For more insight, look no further than Burial’s own product description: ‘it is our smoke signal to all brewers, our brethren in craft, and all who enjoy a light quaffable ale with hearty aroma: this is your beer.’ Yes, they said brethren in craft and quaffable ale. Two tugs on the nipplering-o-meter …

Von Trapp Vienna Lager comes yodeling down the Vermont berghang in tight lederhosen, honking its alpenhorn with eidelweiss in its underpants.

No, you’re not hearing voices from your secret show-tunes days. That’s von Trapp, as in Maria von Trapp. As in Captain von Trapp, seven children and a mess of funny Nazis. Yup. This one features high-notes of raindrops on roses with back-end whiskers on kittens. Four Vienna’s shotgunned in succession will make you lay-ee-odl-lay-ee-odl-lay-hee-hoo like Julie Andrews getting a Jägermeister enema high on a hill from a lonely goatherd; the aftereffects of which include brown paper packages tied up with string and a dream that will need all the love you can give every day of your life for as long as you live.


That’s it. Our first litter of craft beer triplets, all meanly wrapped in swaddling bands. They’re here now, gurgling away in a refrigerated manger, awaiting the plump ministrations of your immaculate nipples. Come on down to Bloomville and express yourselves.

2 0 1 7 • O P E N • I S • T H E • N E W • C L O S E D

On December 31st 2016 the staff of Table on Ten were cryogenically frozen in hermetically sealed pods and shot into outer space. By bending the time-space continuum, each was afforded a full-life on Planet H2T in the phlebotic region of the Crab Nebula, where society is organized according to tenets culled from the lyrics of Barry Manilow. Laura learned to sauté protoplotids in the ink of the flabberjubulus, while Inez had triplets with a blob of slime before inaugurating the Disco revival and taking holy orders. She walked out, tentacle in hand.

All in the space of two months.

But we’re back. Two gallons of green semi-gloss, a spanking new doorknob, some postcards from the kids (Qblib is teaching Slime as a Foreign Language on Gammaglobulin4) and we’re in the kitchen ready to go.

Right now, that is. Even as we write. Hours are as usual. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday daytimes. Pizza Night Friday and Saturday. And every Friday and Saturday ’til the sun peels the paint and the seat covers fade and the water moccasin dies.


Thursday – 9 to 3
Friday  – 9 to 3 then 6 to 9
Saturday 4th March – 9 to 3 then 6 to 9
Sunday 5th March – 9 to 3


Come on down. The price is right. What’s your name?

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.


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

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

Menu will Quite Probably Include 

spruce aioli, garlic chives, tarragon

Alderney cheese, armagnac prunes

beets, cabbage, celeriac, cumin koji maple dressing, cilantro, mint


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

tomatoes, yogurt, mint

almonds, Cotija

Cortland onions, pickled peppers

maple syrup, fresh frozen yogurt, bee pollen






bring your own children and cigarettes

Hey | It’s Nearly the Fourth | Do You Want to Make Pie?

☐ yes

We have The Four & Twenty Blackbirds Pie Book

☐ no

Yeah, I mean, it’s July 4th for God’s sake. It took you 7 hours to get to Yonkers. The dog had gas. You’re grinding Xanax into Montepulciano, slugging it down in quart jars and snorting the residue. You just made a pass at the lawnmower man in your underwear and he ran off into the knotweed. You’ve locked the kids in an old laundry hamper in the basement and can no longer hear their screams.

Now you’re going to make pie crust?

Spare yourself a lifetime in Attica. We have whole Four & Twenty Blackbirds pies.


Flavors as follows, while stocks last:

• Strawberry Kaffir Lime

• Black-Bottom Spruce

• Salted Caramel Apple

• Matcha Custard

• Strawberry Streusel

• Rhubarb Crumble

$35 for a whole pie. Big enough to feed one fat family of eight or two skinny ones.

Give us a call on 607-643 6509, or email us here

Dial P for Bloody Pizza | Table on Bloody Ten Extended Bloody Hours | Bloody Slave Drivers

‘The British are going! The British are going!”

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Welcome to Independence Day weekend. The one where we celebrate severing ties with a tiny, obscure island off the coast of Europe, known for warm beer, pre-masticated peas and blaming other people for their problems. Being something of a tiny landlocked island ourselves – Delaware County – we thought we could perhaps garner a spot of lost wisdom from our plucky ancestors over the sea: their rabid adherence to cultural homogeneity, quaint policeman’s costumes, groups of men in ladies’  clothes dancing around poles with sticks in their hands and bells on their feet. Their dogged resolve in the face of dentistry. But most importantly; their prodigious capacity for moaning.

To that end, we will be setting up Table on Ten noticeboards, each with a single word at the top:


In a basket underneath will be a selection of commonly-used suffixes, which participants will be encouraged to place underneath to form a familiar British phrase.


Participants will be asked to read their phrase out loud, to be repeated by the congregation. Once all initial phrases are exhausted, we will ask for contributions; thus facilitating a hands-on, Internationalist, cross-platform, multi-media, son et lumière, interactive experience, rivaling Mount Tremper’s World’s Largest Kaleidoscope. And a brief insight on how grim it can be to be British.

To afford maximum participation in this rich cultural exchange, Table on Ten will be extending its weekend opening hours to include:


So to be clear:

Thursday 30th – 9 to 3

Friday 1st – 9 to 3 then 6 to 9 (Pizza Night I)

Saturday 2nd – 9 to 3 then 6 to 9 (Pizza Night II)

Sunday 3rd – 9 to 3 then 6 to 9 (Pizza Night III)

Monday 4th – 9 to 3


Hope to see you here. Toodle-bloody-pip.

Pizza Night Extra | Say It With Peas






The Voice of the People has been heard. Let them eat Pizza.


Holidays | Just The Hours Please Ma’am


Thursday 24th December – 9 till 3

Friday 25th December – closed

Saturday 26th December – 9 till 3 then 6 till 9 (Boxing Day Pizza)

Sunday 27th December – 9 till 3

Monday 28th, Tuesday 29th, Wednesday 30th December – closed as usual

Thursday 31st December – 9 till 3


Friday 1st January – 6 till 9 (New Year’s Pizza)

Saturday 2nd January – 9 till 3 then 6 till 9 (New Year’s Pizza II)

Sunday 3rd January – 9 till 3


Touché Family Values | Out, Damned Spot!

For anybody who missed it: in celebration of All Hallows’ Eve, the floor of Table on Ten was turned over to renowned Commedia dell’Arte troupe – La Famiglia Touché – who brought their oversize personality, dubious gender disposition and filthy Grandma to Bloomville for two consecutive nights, inaugurating:

~ An Utter Farce, in Two Acts ~

Master Brian Bates / Mrs Goodie Touché
Master Brian Bates / Madame Goodie Touché
Master Robert Touché / Miss Sally Touché
Master Philip McCrevice / Miss Sally Touché
Mrs Mabel Lovely-Berchtesgaden / Miss Bessie Bates
Grandma Mabel Touché-Berchtesgaden / Nurse Bessie Bates
Mr William Touché / Mrs Pierrot Bates-Slappelul
Master William Touché / Doctor Pierrot Bates-Dronkenvrouw

Players (in attacco)
Madame Goodie Touché  – Mr Scott Neild
Miss Sally Touché – Mrs Lacy Johnson
Master William (Billy) Touché – Mr David Van Vorst
Master Philip McCrevice  – Mr Jason Lindow

(nella posteriore)
Nurse Barry Bates – Mr Josiah Johnson
Nurse Bessie Bates – Miss Winifred Richards
Sister Brenda Bates-Warbler – Miss Val Dudley
Master Brian Bates – Master Seth Johnson
Doctor Pierrot Bates-Dronkenvrouw – Mrs Inez Valk

(su per il culo)
Grandma Mabel Touché-Berchtesgaden – Mr Perkin Lovely

(le pizze)
• The Fresh Roadkill
• The Bloody Wound
• The Strips of Flesh
• The White Cadaver
• The Slugs
• The Drowned Man
• The Burnt Capsicum
• The Dead Man’s Sausage
• The Don’t Ask

(i mezzi)
• Fresh Salad of Greenies
• Salad of Roast Pepper Flesh

(l’ epilogo)
• Baked Apple Corpse
• Wound Ice Cream
• Gore of Grizzled Cranberry

Expunged from her long-term residency at The Novelty Lounge in Oneonta (following an incident with a Merino sheep and two pounds of asparagus) Madame Goodie Touché has bundled her family into a 1996 Subaru Forester and gone south, hoping to make it to her sister Daphne’s Blue Moon Topless in New Paltz before nightfall. A mangled head gasket, however, finds her marooned in the quaint, tumble-down hamlet of Bloomville New York, with an empty purse and Halloween on the doorstep. Ever the opportunist, Mme Touché offers her services at the only bulb burning for 20 miles around – the notorious Table on Ten, bastion of all things salvaged and glutenous. The proprietress, a shadowy Dutch woman of irregular height, has taken to roaming the dirt roads in her undergarments, swigging from a bottle of Chivas whilst communing with feral goats.  The single remaining member of staff – Phil McCrevice (handyman, Speedo model and Master of the Dark Arts) – is tending to an ever-dwindling coterie of absinthe-addled customers, stretching month-old pizza over a badminton racket and baking it over an old toilet bowl filled with Kingsford briquettes. He quickly accepts Mme Touché’s proposal – to take over the restaurant and run it through the holiday weekend – won over, in part, by the sultry charms of her teenage daughter Sally, who imagines herself the younger sister of Scarlet O’Hara and behaves accordingly. Borrowing McCrevice’s pickup, the Touché family go in search of decor, plumping for Late-Century Salvation garnished with dead Japanese knotweed. Billy Touché – 28 and still recovering from a frontal-lobe injury sustained whilst repairing a leaky lavatory flapper at a gas station in Roscoe with his teeth – is put in charge of the wood-fired oven. Sally does the drinks, Goodie runs the show. Grandma Mabel, wheelchair-bound and serially incontinent, is consigned to the basement where she delivers salads and pizza from the ever-widening gap between her waist-high hemline and descending pantyhose.  Kitchen staff are culled from the recently defunct operating theatre at O’Connor Hospital Delhi. They arrive having just undertaken a failed prostate transplant on an alpaca farmer from South Kortright. Sister Brenda Bates is on dough-stretching, Doctor Bates-Dronkenvrouw on pizza prep, Nurses Bessie Bates and Barry Bates on salads and dessert; and Brian, Master Bates on the dishes.  The lights go down. The customers assemble …