Showing posts with label Cold Spring. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cold Spring. Show all posts

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Café Maya

Café Maya, which lay in a rundown plaza on the edge of Cold Spring, New York was an old diner with eight stools, eight tables, and a television set tuned to soccer from Europe. There was a small staff of devoted workers. Apart from the good cheap food, the reason you went there was Louis, the owner. He was irresistibly charming and his place became the place that made eating out a guaranteed pleasure. You brought your own bottle, but the lemonade always had a kick to it. Then it closed, just like that. We heard rumours, and they proved to be right. He opened a large place 5 miles up the road. A road house for commercial travelers, IBM on-their-way-uppers, and sundry dusty housewives and adulterers. We starved, and he made a fortune.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Hands on Hips 1

The Cold Spring restaurant, Riverview, is run by Jimmy. Actually it's a partnership with his wife.This woman is Jimmy's mother. He is a man who has inherited his mother's strength and presence. When I saw her as I walked by she was gardening with her grand-daughter. But I knew at once that I must take her alone. She planted her feet astride, put her hands on her hips and said, "Like this?" I said, "Exactly like that."

Friday, January 23, 2009

Two Rhode Island Reds




I saw a photograph of Helmut on his wife's Facebook page. (Until now I had seen no value in the time-wasting activity of Facebooking, but I shall now use it as a source of possible subjects.) His wife told us that Helmut kept chickens and we were up their slippery dirt road the next day to take his picture. He said, gathering up two Rhode Island Reds, "Chickens are like dogs, if you are nice to them they will love you." As much as I would have liked to have used as a background the hand made wooden coops inside the brick gazebo, there was really no room for us all.

Anyway, we now have a regular supply of fresh eggs, which reminds me of a passage from Elizabeth David. "To produce neat plump, well shaped and comely poached eggs it is essential to start off with fresh eggs." Then she begins to make life difficult. "Not too fresh though. A really new laid egg is not good for poaching. Three-day-old eggs are ideal, although how, unless one keeps hens, one is ever to know the exact age of an egg is not a problem I can solve."