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It’s that time of year. And it came like some an arctic lemur, with a scalpel of ice in its tail.
Hours for the holiday season are as follows:
Thursday 22nd – 9 to 3
Friday 23rd – 9 to 3 and 6 to 9 (pizza night)
Saturday 24th (Christmas Eve) – 9 to 3 but NO PIZZA NIGHT
Sunday 25th (Christmas Day) – CLOSED
Monday 26th to Wednesday 28th – closed as usual
Thursday 29th – 9 to 3
Friday 30th – 9 to 3 and 6 to 9 (final pizza night of 2016)
Saturday 31st (New Year’s Eve) – 9 to 3 but NO PIZZA NIGHT
From 1st January 2017 till March 2nd, Table on Ten will be closed while the staff scour the cosmos for good stuff and inspiration. We’ll be back for show-and-tell at the first hint of thaw, tails quivering like bunnies.
Brrr. Put a second pair of socks on. And The Clash’s Sandinista! or Wire’s Pink Flag. That’ll do it.
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
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
TAMARIND PORK – $18
Cortland onions, pickled peppers
SALTED CARAMEL APPLE MINI-PIES – $7
maple syrup, fresh frozen yogurt, bee pollen
bring your own children and cigarettes
November 2, 2016. Posted in Events, Inspirers, Producers, The Menu, Underpants. Tags: Allswell, Bar Bolinas, Berry Brook Farm, Bovina Valley Farm, Burnett Farms, Cowbella, Emily Elsen, Four & Twenty Blackbirds, Greenane Farm, Inez Valk, Key Training Farm, Marguerite Uhlmann-Bower, Nate Smith, Ollie the Dog, Sophie Kamin, Star Route Farm, Thomas Hobbes.
Let it never be said Table on Ten is just about stuffing your face.
We’ve been nicely stuffing your ears with John Houshmand for quite some time. Stuffing your eyes with classic movies on the stone wall on pizza nights. We’ve stuffed your noses with chicken leek and bacon pot pies and trays of freshly-baked granola. Your hands with custom plastic fly-swatters.
Now we’re going to stuff your minds.
WEEDEATER • A Film by Eden Batki + Marty Windahl + Amy von Harrington
FORAGING THROUGH THE AMAZING WORLD OF NANCE KLEHM
Sunday 10th July at 1 pm | Table on Ten | $5
Now bear in mind, we know a thing or two about foraging. We’ve been out in the backyard with Marguerite Uhlmann-Bower more than once. Remember nettle balls? What about spruce tip soda? Ollie the Dog can spend hours chewing on a locally foraged piece of gravel. And one or other of us can frequently be found foraging a pack of Camel Lights and $1 lighter at the Mirabito in Hobart.
But we are minnows compared to Nance Klehm. Nance is a foraging tuna. She’s more than that. She’s …
… a self-described ‘steward of the earth’. She is an ecological systems designer, a permacultural grower, a horticultural consultant and a talented and much sought after teacher and speaker. She is respected internationally for her work on land politics and growing for fertility. Meeting her for the first time feels as though you are catching her mid-sentence and mid-stride.
Weedeater trots alongside Nance through various landscapes, gathering together a collection of her thoughts and philosophies on everything from wild, uncultivated weeds to human waste composting to ‘the dark cosmos’ soil. An accurate portrait of Klehm would be impossible to confine to a formal or traditional documentary narrative. Instead, Weedeater attempts to sketch Klehm’s character as well as reflect the depth and complexity of her intimate relationship with the earth and all its inhabitants, in the unique and intimate structure and style of this experimental film.
Like we said, Sunday 10th July at 1 pm | Table on Ten | $5
Come by bike. Come by Car. Come by Astral Projection. Have a bite of lunch, a glass of wine. Do the things you can’t usually do in a movie-theatre (within reason).
Filmmaker Eden Batki will be with us, so we’ll have lots of questions and – for once – somebody armed with answers.
Please come. You can let us know by email or on 607-643 6509
Or just turn up. We’d love to see you.
July 7, 2016. Posted in Events, Inspirers, Underpants. Tags: Amy von Harrington, Eden Batki, John Houshmand, Marguerite Uhlmann-Bower, Marty Windahl, Mirabito, Nance Klehm, Nettle Soup, Ollie the Dog, Spruce Tip Soda, Tuna, Weedeater.
Here’s the thing. There’s this old Italian precept that says you can only write about Lambrusco if you’re drinking Lambrusco. Maybe bear that in mind as you read.
No really, but listen, listen. What? Nah, I’m fine. I’m fine. That … happened earlier. In the cab, the bag opened up and. Y’know, some … yeah.
It’s not often we take to the interwaves to shill on behalf of a wine; ordinarily we pop it on the tea-stained list, ask everybody to shut their eyes and pin the tail on the donkey. But Lambrusco’s a funny marsupial. Needs to be coaxed out of its hole. And when it comes, it comes darkly, lurking at the fringes. You really need to get your thumbs under the curves of that cork before you’re going to see what it’s made of. Like taking off Lois Lane’s glasses.
Thing is, it comes out of the gate limping. Not its fault though. See, history hasn’t treated Lambrusco kindly. That syrupy plasma your Auntie Dorothy used to drink in 1979? The stuff you’d steal from her drinks cabinet, mix with Baileys, Malibu and Kahlua, then collapse hyperglycemic in the airing cupboard trying to remember your lips? Yeah, that was also called Lambrusco. I know, I know, it’s like trying to sell people Lee Majors in Hamlet.
But that stuff was sweet, blended with fresh grape juice to satisfy a palate weaned on Wonder Woman. Today’s Lambrusco is dry, almost furrily so, with the faintest hint of bitterness. Also, Auntie Dorothy’s was fizzy, TaB fizzy, baking-soda-and-vinegar-in-a-Play-doh-volcano fizzy. Ours purrs like a black cat. Yes, it’s frizzante; hits the glass with a plume of purple froth. But don’t be fooled. That’s just the genie coming out of the bottle, grabbing a breath before he does his three wishes thing (that I get drunk/that my pizza comes soon/that I get more Lambrusco). By the time you put it to your lips it has settled to a kind of … prickle. None of that ‘bubbles the size of pool-balls’ thing. Just something to take the flatness off the landscape, windmills at Kinderdijk.
Not convinced? How about a field-trip to Bologna, the food capital of Italy, where they guzzle the stuff like Uncle Derek at Cousin Abigail’s wedding before he fell in the latrine. And those Bolognese know a thing or two about wine. Pretty much all Lambrusco is produced no more than an uncontrolled cork-pop from their weird due torri. Ours – Barbolini Lambrusco Grasparossa di Castelvetro – is from vineyards south of Modena, Emilia-Romagna, where they’ve been making it since they were Etruscans. Want a second opinion? How about Cato the Elder, who insisted that two-thirds of an acre could produce enough Lambrusco to fill 300 amphoras? Or Eric Asimov in The New York Times, who says ‘I’ve been on a genuine Lambrusco kick for some years now, and I’ve been delighted to see delicious evidence of its rebirth here in New York.’ And I’ve seen the guy. He looks perfectly normal. Not at all like Charles Laughton in The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Or, indeed, your Auntie Dorothy.
Most pertinently, it’s the perfect Table on Ten red. Perhaps not the ideal pairing for Armagnac-drowned Ortolan in Saint-Germain-des-Prés; but for great sourdough pizza roasted in a wood-oven in the Catskills with a root vegetable salad? Unbeatable. Inexpensive, unpretentious and a tiny bit lower in alcohol, so you don’t have to feel guilty for drinking the whole bottle. If we were given to being unscrupulous, we’d give it away for free. For a couple of weeks. Till you’re all hooked. 7 in the morning, knocking at our cellar door. ‘I love you, baby. Can I have some more?’.
October 28, 2014. Posted in Inspirers, The Menu, Underpants. Tags: Auntie Dorothy, Barbolini, Bologna, Cato the Elder, Charles Laughton, Emilia-Romagna, Eric Asimov, Hunchback of Notre Dame, Lambrusco, Lee Majors, Lois Lane, Maria Clark, Modena, Neil Young, Polaner Selections, TaB, The New York Times, Windmills at Kinderdijk, Wonder Woman.