Buried

Aaaackkkkk...nearly the whole month of March escaped without a post, without an update. I meant to write, really I did, but the inspiration was lacking because it's been such a busy month.

Our trip to Florida was great. While there was a snowstorm here in New York, Brian and I lounged by the pool for eight straight hours. We took pictures of flowers to sustain us until spring arrives here. Somehow we got lots of free upgrades from the car to the hotel room (and this in spite of the fact that we used Hotwire to get a rate at less than half the daily rate for room!).

Since arriving home from Florida, school has swallowed me whole. I do plan to write at length about my Culinary experience, but after I've graduated, when I am less cranky, and when my main thought about the CIA is not that it's a school where mommy and daddy park kids who couldn't make it at a regular college.

The good news for March is that we bought a house and plan to move in May so more details to come on that front.

More details to come on everything, but for now it is 4:20 a.m. and I am off to school.

I'VE LOST MY MARBLES

Or WHY WE ARE GOING TO FLORIDA TOMORROW.

See this dirty pile of snow. It has snow in it from December, December 19 to be exact. And since then it has been nothing but months of snowstorms and ice-storms and misery. In fact, so much snow piled up that I came home one afternoon to see the snow being removed by an earth mover and a dump truck. Then, the middle of this month brought the first day above 30 degrees in a long time and it was glorious, for about a minute, only to be followed by more ice and more snow and more cold. Since my schedule has been to leave the house before 5:00 a.m. most days, I am privy to unplowed, unsalted roads, car doors frozen shut, and the delightful thud as my tailbone connects with the asphalt having slipped once again on the ice.

Between my crazy school schedule and the weather, I am cranky (and also loony, but more about that later). Brian, being the super duper husband that he is, suggested a weekend getaway. He mentioned sunshine. He mentioned warmth. Bring it on!

So last week, he purchased two airplane tickets to Florida. Depart tomorrow. Return Monday. It's all I can squeeze in with my schedule, but it will do just fine. Keep in mind, that when we first moved to New York in 2006, we made fun of all the people who hightailed it to Florida in the winter. We thought they were meek to flee winter. This Colorado girl was not going to Florida, land of theme parks and strip malls.

I've changed my mind. I am ready for Florida now. I am sorry I made fun of you for fleeing the state. I get it. Let's go! Winters here are trying, and what is with all the ice!

So Brian and I are off to earn our New York street cred, if only for a weekend. And it turns out I need this getaway more than I thought I did. I am so sleep-deprived that not once, but twice this week on Sunday and Tuesday, I did the same stupid thing. I went to the grocery store. I had the list. I grabbed the cart. I perused the shelves. I filled the cart. I emptied the cart onto the belt at the cashier's station. I watched her ring up every single item. And when she finished, only then did I realize my wallet was in the car. Doing it once was bad enough, but I did it twice within 48 hours.

Wednesday, I vowed not to repeat my mistake. I drove to the store. I put my wallet in my coat pocket and zipped the pocket so it would not fall out. This is hard to admit, and a bit sad as well, I swelled with pride at my preparation. Then I sat there in the car a bit longer than necessary, and do you know why? I could not remember why I was at the grocery store. I had no list on me. I could not even remember if there was stuff on the list posted on the fridge. I was forced to call Brian, "Sweetie, just remember when you purchased me all sales were final. You cannot take me back to the store, trade me in, or return me for a full refund." And that is when I asked him why I was at the store.

My failings at the grocery store this week only reinforce why we need this trip. It's icing on the cake that while we are away, it is supposed to snow!!!

I would like to leave you with this little "only in New York" nugget I overheard the other day, "Oh, yeah, I know the guys here wear way too much jewelry. My dad only wears his pinky rings on special occasions."

SURREALISM AND BROWN RICE

I slept in until 4:21 a.m. today. Yes, you read that right. Now’s it 4:53 a.m., and I am enjoying my coffee and my current breakfast of choice: maple-flavored Brown Cow yogurt (low-fat) with Grape Nuts mixed in.

Yesterday, as we were finishing Breads class, my partner turned to me and said, “You know the last three weeks have been surreal, and I don’t mean in a good way.” I love breads, but I do understand what she means about surreal. It is one of the earliest classes in the baking program. Your start time fluctuates between 5:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m., which would not be so bad, but that’s not when you actually start. Back up 15 minutes from those times, and you have the time you should arrive, put on your toque, your apron, your side towel, wash your hands, grab scaled ingredients, and basically hit the ground running. 5:00 a.m. or 6:00 a.m. is actually when your dough has to be on the mixer. But first, before you can even arrive at the bakeshop 15 minutes before scheduled, you need to meet with your group, go over your game plan for the day, your recipes, your survival strategy. Most days this group meeting took place at 4:30 a.m. I have a 20 minute drive to school so this means leaving the house at 4:10 a.m. Oh wait, no, it’s winter, and we’re on an ice- and snowstorm every three days schedule, so I need to be out at the car around 3:50 a.m. because too many mornings I discovered the roads are not plowed at 4:00 a.m. Allowing time to make myself hygienically presentable and partake in the yogurt and coffee breakfast has meant I have been awake at 3:00 a.m. most mornings these past three weeks.

Things have been wacky. One morning, I undressed in the bathroom, not to take a shower, no just to brush my teeth. What made it so odd is that I already was completely dressed for school, down to my chef’s jacket so it was a lot of clothes to take off just to brush my teeth.

Another morning, I walked into the campus dining hall only to unzip my winter coat and realize I was wearing only an undershirt and a neckerchief. Now, take note, my winter coat is made by a company called Betty Rides, which makes snowboarding gear for women. It was 6 degrees outside when I drove to school, and yet in just my undershirt, my torso never got cold. Perhaps if it had I would have realized I was missing my chef’s jacket. My mother will tell you school is really a military institution, and she’s right to a point. The chef’s jacket is our uniform, and you can’t just borrow one because our names our embroidered on our jackets. At 5:24 a.m. that day, I had no choice but to turn a 40-minute roundtrip drive to claim my jacket into something much shorter so I could be in the bakeshop by 6:00 a.m. As I was racing around on icy back country roads, hoping no deer would enter my path, I realized that I fear more a chef yelling at me for dress code violations than I fear a car accident. School messes with your head like that.

Yet another morning, I was in the bakeshop readying for the day, and searching for my cell phone. I always turn it off when class starts. I couldn’t find it, but I remembered putting it in my bag. So from 6:00 a.m. on, my lingering thought wasn’t I hope I scaled the water correctly for our sourdough or what ratios do I need for my grain soaker, no it was wondering where my cell phone was. When class ended, out to the parking lot went I in search of the phone in the car. No phone. Also, no water bottle. Shoot, I left it in class. Walked back down the length of the parking lot to the Baking building to claim my water bottle. As I was returning to the car, I put my hands in my pants pockets as it was darn cold outside. Sitting in my left pocket was my cell phone. Eeessh!

So this kind of schedule messes with your head and it messes with your biorhythms. I eat breakfast at 3:30 a.m., lunch at 9:15 a.m., and dinner around 4:30 p.m. Lunch is a gluten festival because really it’s the breads available for sampling in the bakeshop. My diet has been nothing but gluten, gluten, gluten with little protein or vegetable matter. I miss meals with Brian as by the time he arrives home in the evening I am ready for bed. We’ve taken to leaving each other Post-It notes and emailing, knowing that graduation is 12 weeks away and this crazy schedule cannot last indefinitely.

Last night, though, I was motivated. I could finally have dinner with my husband. I could have a balanced meal, something warm and comforting as it has been one cold, trying winter (did I mention all the snow and ice?). I prepared fish with a simple mustard sauce, a salad of lettuce and tomatoes, and brown rice. Brown rice is a staple for us and we’ve experimented with different ways to make it, but here is our favorite way.

Molly’s Brown Rice
1 cup short-grained brown rice
2 ½ cups chicken broth (we prefer low sodium)
1 T olive oil

Equipment: 2-quart saucepan with lid, large wooden spoon for stirring.

Measure each item and have it ready to go at the stove. You can measure the oil right into the saucepan.

Heat the olive oil in a 2-quart saucepan over medium heat. Do not get it smoking as it will impart off flavors. Just heat it until it slides around very easily. Add the rice and start stirring. You do not want to stop stirring or you will burn the rice and then you’ll have to throw it out which is a bummer. Stir the rice to toast it and really notice how the kernels get a nice caramel-colored edge. You should hear a slight sizzle sound throughout this process. Now, you only need to toast it about 2 minutes, just long enough to coat all the grains with the oil and get them toasted.


Next, add the broth, stir for even distribution of rice in the broth and cover with a lid. Bring to a boil, and then reduce the heat to low and simmer for 40-45 minutes. The rice, when finished, should still have body to it and yet be creamy. If the rice is finished, but there is still broth, take the lid off, increase the heat a little and boil off the extra broth.



We do not normally season the rice until we are at the table. Sometimes, like when we roast chicken thighs, the rice stands on its own and needs some salt and pepper. Other times, though, it will be mopping up sauce and does not need any seasoning. Either way, it’s up to you.
Enjoy!

Sundays

Last week I would have told you that I had three weeks worth of Sunday New York Times to catch up on. The first Sunday, January 11, I had class. The second Sunday, January 18, I was drafting my paper for Chocolates class and studying for the final exam. Last weekend, well, I had math homework for Breads class, brunch with friends, and we went to open houses. Include today, and now I have four editions to read.

Reading the newspaper is Sunday to me. I hit the Travel section first because it allows me to daydream of the great traveling future Brian and I have the potential to create. Then, I peruse the Real Estate section. I have always done this, but now that we are house-hunting, the stories are more real and I pay attention to mortgage rates and things I find quirky about rural New York living, including oil heat, septic systems, and well water.

As an aside, we were driving around south Poughkeepsie yesterday as part of a house-hunting reconnaissance mission. Poughkeepsie is our most urban environment here in the mid-Hudson Valley, and we became excited by the thought of a backyard garden, a place to nurture Brian’s beloved tomato habit. I commented that at least in the city we won’t have to worry about deer eating our garden, when, at that moment, we saw a deer. This is a bad photo of the deer running away.

The deer sighting slightly deflated my idea of home gardening, but I chalked it up to a random event. That is, until we turned the corner one block later to see a deer crossing sign, in the middle of the city!

After that, I read the Business section. There is usually a great piece written in the first person about a real-life situation. One week, the author was a woman who went from having a successful corporate career to being laid-off and becoming a dog walker. Another week, the author was a female manager discussing the workplace phenomenon of women breaking each other down rather than helping set each other up for success. I see this in the kitchen classrooms all the time since the majority of baking majors are women. One Friday, for example, when my group needed help, and I sought it from a group of girls who were in the middle of a fierce game of Paddycake, they stopped, but rather than helping me, they dispersed.

Today, I hope to dispense with the leftover sections from previous weekends as well as the current edition. Brian is off skiing, I will attend a yoga workshop later today, and we’ll reconvene at dinner over lasagna. We have an open floor plan so we look at our living room while sitting at the dining table. Hopefully, our view this evening will not be of random sections of the newspaper piled atop all available surfaces from the coffee table to the couch.

Happy Sunday and Happy February to one and all.

A Fishy Christmas Present

O that would have my act together. O that I would have posted before Christmas or even New Year’s a picture of these beauties:



They’re just so pretty! And I have Martha to thank. Or rather, I have whoever tests Martha’s recipes to thank. It’s her sugar cookie recipe and her royal icing recipe, and I would share them. Would, I say, but will not. I’ll find a more appropriate occasion like when you’ll actually feel like baking Christmas cookies, a year from now. Now, though, is not the time. Now, people are considering diets and resolutions (two things I just don’t touch – why set myself up for failure?). Now, is the month of meh. It’s unfair, I know, to ask you to stick with me for a year just so you can make these, but it will be worth it!

Instead, let’s talk about gifts as I hope you still are enjoying yours. In November 2001, I found myself, along with my aunt and uncle, finishing the last stages of cleaning out my deceased paternal grandmother’s apartment. Lest you think, “Oh sad,” know that it was her time and she knew it was her time, and her passing was both sad and a relief and her positive attitude about death made the event okay. My grandmother knew she was about to go, and got rid of a lot of stuff before her passing. That said, there was still a lot of stuff. Stuff. Remember George Carlin’s famous monologue about stuff, acquiring stuff, and how the size of your house is a reflection on the amount of stuff you have? If you don’t, seek it out – funny as anything! Well, in that moment of cleaning, I realized that if I went over to the other side, my friends and family would be stuck cleaning a lot of stuff, and really what was the point of all my stuff (except for the kitchen stuff which is all very important and necessary, mind you). I am not perfect so therefore I still have a lot of stuff and have acquired more stuff since this realization seven years ago, and in fact, I got married and so I have A LOT more stuff. And what are gifts? Gifts are treasured stuff, but stuff nonetheless. Focus Molly, what about gifts? Ah yes, well cleaning Grandma Hazel’s apartment informed my attitudes about gifts and stuff in that I try to give experience gifts whenever possible (sometimes inspiration lacks and we’re off to the store). I also try to request experience gifts when asked.

This Christmas marked my first with the in-laws, lovely people who live in the suburbs of Houston, Texas. In fact, it was my first time visiting Texas outside of an airport so lots of firsts this Christmas. They inquired as to what we might like to receive for Christmas and Brian told them that a nice dinner is always appreciated. Boy oh boy, did they ever deliver.

Reef.

At this point I should insert a photo of the outside of the restaurant, but I don’t have one. I was so focused on the menu and the food and the deliciousness of it all that I forgot that perhaps you would like to see the outside of the place. So here’s a picture of the menu, taken in our kitchen in the Hudson Valley:

Reef is a restaurant parked in a former car dealership on the edge of downtown Houston. It’s new, it’s hip, it’s edgy. It has cement floors and modern tables, and lots of blue. A huge glass-enclosed wine cellar sits on the far edge of the restaurant floor which provides lots of entertainment as you watch the beverage stewards ascend and descend the ladder in the cellar retrieving that perfect bottle of wine for your fish dinner. Oh, and the kitchen is open and even has viewing windows from the reception area in case you’re bored and desire to learn how to shuck an oyster.

Reef is fairly new but has received lots of accolades. Bon Appetit magazine called it the best seafood restaurant in America in its December 2008 edition. The bar was set very high. Luckily, it did not disappoint.

We all ordered appetizers.


Brian had the blue crab ceviche served in a coconut-lime reduction with blood oranges. Ceviche is basically fish that is “cooked” through exposure to citric acid. As the fish is not heated, the highest quality, freshest fish is most appropriate in a ceviche preparation. Ceviche should taste fresh and the flavor notes should not smother the actual fresh flavor the fish delivers. The ceviche at Reef was spot on!


Brian’s mother ordered the jumbo crab cake which came with a spicy vinaigrette. The pairing of crab with chiles may seem on the surface like an unlikely pairing. However, the sweetness of the shellfish, which is augmented by the sweetness of the coconut milk, is tempered by the spiciness of the chiles leading to harmony on the plate.


Brian’s dad had baked oysters with swiss chard and bread crumbs with Asiago cheese. The luscious oysters and the crunchy bread crumbs were a lot of fun in the mouth.


I decided to test the restaurant. I ordered the market salad wondering before it arrived if it would contain out-of-season vegetables with a dressing the salad station cook didn’t love. Happily, the market salad contained veggies currently available at the market, including different types of squash, with a lilting vinaigrette which made the whole dish sing.

Our main dishes were even better.


Salmon, so ubiquitous it suffers often from lackluster preparation and presentation, was melt-in-the-mouth fabulous! Slow-baked, it was served with a not overly creamy Meyer lemon risotto and chili oil. I love hot sauce so I appreciated the brightening power of the chili oil.


The pan-sauteed redfish was spicy and yet paired nicely with a Spanish inspired side dish of broccolini, golden raisins and pine nuts. The grilled Amberjack, a fish native to the Gulf, was firm, meaty, and sweet. A new play on meat and potatoes, it was served with plantains and long beans and a pomegranate jus. A roasted grouper screamed Southern with its collard greens and pecan-shallot cracklins. The chefs and cooks at Reef must really appreciate how fun textural contrast can be for the diner because this was yet another case of the soft flesh of the fish meeting something wonderfully crunchy.

You can imagine after consuming this delicious food that a debate about dessert ensued. I was the guest so I tried to defer to the hosts, but they knew, Brian knew, and I knew that given my new profession I would have to try something, anything off the dessert menu. All parties participated in the decision-making. We settled on a chocolate lava cake. Overdone? Perhaps, but for a reason. It’s a crowd-pleaser and it’s one of those desserts that the restaurant either phones in or actually cares about. I was hoping Reef would prepare something demonstrative of the latter.

By the time the waiter approached to take our dessert order, we had debated at length the if, and then the what, so we were firm in our decision. Yet, we folded like a deck of cards when he suggested we should also have the adult milkshake. We bounced our heads in the affirmative while muttering “Well, sure,” and, “If you suggest it,” and “Thanks for the recommendation.”


The cake hit the spot. It had nice crumb and the chocolate filling provided a pleasant mouthfeel. The adult milkshake was good: vanilla ice cream with Kahlua. For those of you who know me and my family, it was no brandy milk punch. The chocolate cigarette that garnished it looked as if it was made in-house which impressed me now that I know how difficult they are to produce.

Overall, Reef deserves its accolades. Service never lacked. The wine list was comprehensive and fairly priced. The food was fabulous. The only drawback was those darn cement floors as they did nothing to absorb the noise and at times we had to shout at each other over our well-plated food.

Reef
2600 Travis
Houston, TX 77006
713.526.8282

F is for Friend, H is for Husband

Friends come in all sorts of packages. Some are little “f” friends. You know them, their number is in your cell phone, you might someday randomly call them for a movie. If you won the lottery, eventually you would tell them, but probably not right away. There are friends that are really an “a” (acquaintance) or a “c” (colleague). And then there are big “F” friends.

I am lucky, blessed if you will, because I have a lot of big “F” friends. This includes a friend who was willing to break and enter and trespass just to reenter my wedding reception. It also includes a friend who volunteered to clean my bathroom the day I moved into my condo. Most definitely, in this category, are the friends who I joined in NYC for a quick getaway this past weekend.

I hesitate to call it a tradition for fear it will go away, but for a couple years now, I’ve found myself on a train to NYC the second weekend in December to meet up with some of my friends from DC. Usually, I only go for the day, sometimes only a meal, as I have work and school. By the way, if you’re thinking of entering the hospitality industry, then know this: you will never think of weekends the same way again and you will hardly ever have a traditional weekend.

This year, though, I was able to spend the night, and it was great. It was great because we had a delicious brunch at Norma’s in midtown Manhattan. It was great because after the terrible ice storm last week, the sun was shining on Saturday. It was great because we got to see the Rockefeller Christmas tree. It was great because we found ourselves in Soho Saturday afternoon, far away from the Fifth Avenue crowds. It was great because the friend who doesn’t really like chocolate is the one who suggested we go to Jacques Torres Chocolate.

Jacques Torres Chocolate was an item on my lifetime to do list. The man himself is one of the most accomplished pastry chefs France has ever produced, and that’s saying a lot. His store on Hudson Street in SoHo actually sits in the middle of his chocolate factory. As the store is glass enclosed, there is ample opportunity to press your nose to the window and witness cacao beans being roasted, chocolate molds being prepped, and chocolates being boxed. It is a beautiful sight!

I could have spent the whole day there! Oh, and the friend who does not consider chocolate a food group, she too ordered hot chocolate with everyone else. And all the friends were happy to let me peruse the selections of chocolates and candies, to revel in the wonder of all. Just check out the hot chocolate:


For those of you who have been to Spain, this hot chocolate will be somewhat familiar to you. It is the kind usually paired with churros, almost too thick to drink but perfect for dunking. This hot chocolate has a base of real chocolate, not cocoa powder, which explains the thickness. It is meant to be sipped and consumed in small quantities. I cannot imagine guzzling it. Swiss Miss it is not.

I chose the wicked hot chocolate, which contains both ancho and chipotle chiles ground, plus cinnamon and allspice. I can just feel a few of you wrinkling your noses and thinking “Ewww.” However, single-varietal chile powder (not the mishmash of stuff thrown into a jar that you purchase at the grocery store) is a spice like any other in that it can contribute flavor that is complimentary. In this case, it brightens the hot chocolate, and the spice strikes playful notes on the tongue. Spicy hot chocolate is offered at lots of places. While I enjoyed the version at Jacques Torres, my all-time favorite is found at Slitti, the Italian chocolate house in Tuscany, west of Florence. Slitti also uses pure chocolate as a base so I can assure you it is an apples to apples comparison. In fact, here, see for yourself (photo by K. Magovern, 10/22/05):



There were lots of other great things that happened in the City this past weekend. We saw a Broadway show, my first time since January 1994 when I took my then-boyfriend and now-husband to see Les Miserables. We ate well, walked much, laughed often. And then it was time to return to the Hudson Valley, to homework and home.

This very weekend, one year ago, when I returned home from gallivanting with my girlfriends in the city, Brian was making enchiladas and telling me he had a surprise for me. And I just brushed him off. I told him I did not have his Christmas present ready. He told me the surprise was not my Christmas present. I told him I was grimy from slogging around the city and so I took a shower. I told him I couldn’t possibly embrace my surprise after the shower because I just had to do my piping homework. He was so excited about the surprise, and had made the enchiladas as part of the surprise, and there were flowers on the table (and we never have fresh flowers in the house), and he even came to greet me at my car when I arrived home. I was having none of it.

After dinner, I finally relented on the surprise. He brought out a box that sure looked like a Christmas present, in metallic blue wrapping with a silver bow on it. You just have to know where this is going. I unwrapped the box and opened it: sitting atop a platform inside the box was a small wooden box, secured to its stage with white ribbon, and inside the wooden box, was a ring.

Much has happened since that wonderful Sunday a year ago, including our wedding. When I returned from the city this past Sunday, Brian was in the kitchen prepping ingredients for enchiladas, and that is why big “H” is for husband. Of course, there are no little “h’s.” Just Brian. Brian who was happy to send me off for a weekend in the city with the girls. Brian who makes me coffee every morning. Brian who packs my lunch for work when I am running late. Brian who makes me enchiladas to welcome me home. Brian who hugs me and laughs with me when I am felled by something as simple as tiramisu. Brian. The big H.

Joshua's, Woodstock, NY

One of the great pieces of advice we received on marriage was to remember to go on dates. You must date your spouse. And we've discovered, with school and work and weekend jobs and hobbies and a sometimes very tired wife, that dating your spouse is easier said than done. However, a solution presented itself this past weekend. Instead of trying to start the date in the evening when one of us may already be cat-napping on the couch, start the date in the early afternoon.

With that, we found ourselves heading across the river and into the Catskills to Woodstock. Yes, the town and the infamous concert share the same name. However, here is a bit of cocktail party trivia, the concert did not take place in Woodstock. It took place 50 miles away in a different county. The town, though, if you visit, has plenty of tacky tie-dyed t-shirt shops and various dens of memorabilia. The most interesting one we found was selling a $100 blown glass bong.

Woodstock, though, is delightfully more charming than these shops would suggest. It has well-stocked used bookstores, a great kitchen store, the best shoe store in the Hudson Valley, and it has Joshua's.



Given that we are still relative new-comers to this part of the world, we often consult local magazines and guidebooks for restaurant recommendations whenever exploring the Hudson Valley. The problem with this approach is that all these resources seem to mention the same places. It's fine for the first trip, but won't do for subsequent trips. We've been to Woodstock before so we wanted a new experience. We ventured the length of Tinker Street, the main thoroughfare, read menus, peeked inside. Woodstock does not lack for restaurants.

The menu at Joshua's caught our eye, though. I was happy that they served breakfast until 3:00 p.m. Brian was happy they served Middle Eastern food. We went in. The dining room was full. We were told there would be a wait. Oh well, we could go somewhere else. There were other choices. A wait. At 2:00 p.m. On a Saturday in December, the low season. It then dawned on us, separately and in silence, that actually this was a very good sign. And so we put our name in the hat, walked around for a bit, and returned.

Joshua's has two levels. On the ground floor is the main dining room. It is not large, but it has lots of windows that let in natural light. It is wood tables and wood paneling, the dark tones of these playing off the light somehow creating a peaceful environment in which to enjoy your meal. There are actual pepper grinders on the tables. Upstairs, where we did not venture, are a bar, coffee bar, and tapas lounge.

Brian and I have come to have our own set of standards for a good restaurant. Among these are good service, clean floors (check out the bathroom and the kitchen), and good food. Within minutes, Joshua's met two of the three. The floors were clean. The service, well, was just terrific. From the moment we put our name in the hat to the moment we left, we were well taken care of, and this despite the fact that we were the few people whom the staff did not know by name.

The menu is a happy mix of breakfast items, omelettes, specials, Middle Eastern favorites and continental standards. We found this a bit odd at first, until the waiter told us Joshua was a member of Israeli defense forces, the restaurant has existed for over 30 years, and it is now run by his daughter. Brian and I embraced the ecletic menu by ordering eggs and moussaka.



Eggs are one of those things that should be fairly easy to cook, but often come out tough and overscrambled. I selected eggs scrambled with cream cheese, scallions and tomatoes. The eggs were scrambled slightly dry so that the cheese provided the moisture in the dish and the tang of it played off the bite of the scallions and the sweetness of the tomatoes. It was warm and delicious in that little dining room on a cloudy, cold December afternoon. I paired a Bloody Mary with it, the spice and sweet of which went nicely with the eggs.



Brian ordered the moussaka, a Greek dish often compared to lasagna, containing ground lamb, tomatoes, eggplant, and topped with cheese. It was served over brown rice, our favorite, and accompanied by vegetables. The moussaka made Brian swoon, but the vegetables were a test. We find, too often, that restaurants give vegetables and vegetarian dishes the short shrift. So in addition to the clean floors and the good service, respect for the vegetables is another one of our signs of a good restaurant. Joshua's respects the vegetables. Pieces of steamed cauliflower and zucchini accompanying the moussaka were balanced, still possessing some crunch yet cooked.

In the happy moment after consumption, we sat at our four-top round in the middle of the dining-room, watching the pedestrian traffic outside, holding hands, and willing the moment to last a little longer. Obviously, coffee and dessert would help. And wouldn't you know it, but not be surprised by it, dessert is another test of a great restaurant. We are reasonable people. We know pastry chefs are expensive, restaurant profit margins are tiny, and outside desserts must be brought in. We would prefer it if all desserts were made in-house, but if they are not, they should be of the highest quality.


Even before the menu arrived, we discussed baklava, hoping the restaurant's history would yield it a dessert item. It was the first one. Sure, we looked over all the other choices, but baklava was the only one for us. For those of you who know me, you might consider this surprising given my walnut intolerance/allergy, but we have a system. I have two to four bites of filling and then I focus on the phyllo top and bottom. Brian happily eats everything that remains. We were waiting in anticipation for the baklava. It arrived in an askew wedge shape, the plate drizzled with honey. Clearly, it was made at the restaurant. A tell-tale square or rectangular shape would have hinted that it was brought in from somewhere off-site. Oh, it was so good! The crunch of the top yielded to the softness of the walnut filling, and the honey rosewater soaked sheets of phyllo composing the base.



We enjoyed the baklava with a cappucino and a latte. The only hiccup of the afternoon, a wrong coffee order, was handled quickly and deftly. Otherwise, the foam on each was appropriate to the drink, and the coffee was strong without being bitter or hinting of over-roasted beans. We finished our drinks, plates were cleared, the bill was paid, and then one last sign of a great restaurant was presented: the offer to fill our water glasses as we lingered not quite wanting or ready to leave.

Joshua's
51 Tinker Street
Woodstock, NY
845.679.5533
www.joshuascafe.com