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
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?
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?
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.
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.
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.
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?
Saturday 6th of August – 12 till 3 and 6 till 9
Table on Ten and The Pines present:
¡ TACOS EL SABADO !
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
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 de Soplete Esteban – Burnett’s gizzard-searing smoked maple tomatillo sorcery
Torta de Cuatro y Veinte – chocolate chili from Brooklyn with Table dulce de leche ice cream
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.
Saturday 6th of August 12 till 3 and 6 till 9
It’s that time of year. Table on Ten is hiring. Come join the family! We’re on the couch in y-fronts and a wife-beater, watching reruns of Steve Irwin, Crocodile Hunter, sucking on a quart of Wild Irish Rose. Throw your phone across the room, kick the cat, run upstairs, slam your bedroom door. We’ll send your little sister up and you can scream at her to ‘leave me alone you nasty little dwarf, I hate you!’. Come down after you’ve Facetimed Brianna for three hours, we’ll pick up Grandma and go to Taco Bell.
Sturdy upright citizens are needed to fill the blurry-edged roles of:
• front-of-house | wait staff
• kitchen staff
We’re looking for reliable, self-motivated, hard-working team-players with energy, stamina and a desire to work in food and service.
You’ll need a flexible schedule, including weekends, evenings, holidays and (in some cases) weekdays.
You’ll have to be able to work well in a fast-paced, energetic environment; to multi-task, stay organized and motivated. And perhaps deal with the public.
Each job has different responsibilities and time commitments.
Starting immediately. Put some clothes on for heavens sake.
We think working at Table on Ten is pretty great. You could absolutely do worse.
Jobs that working at Table on Ten is better than include:
• toll booth attendant
• crime-scene cleaner
• pet food taster
• peep-show janitor
• panda inseminator
• discount colonoscopist
• upstate art gallery owner
• amputee pole-dancer
• anything in Buffalo
To find out more, write to us at firstname.lastname@example.org
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.
We have The Four & Twenty Blackbirds Pie Book
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
‘The British are going! The British are going!”
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.
ENGLAND FOOTBALL TEAM
COST OF A PINT
COST OF CIGARETTES
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:
ADDITIONAL PIZZA NIGHT ON SUNDAY 3rd and ADDITIONAL BREAKFAST AND LUNCH ON MONDAY 4th
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.