Rich Mintz

Because my train is sold out (who knew?), I’m having a bite at America, the tarted-up diner/tourist trap inflicted upon the Union Station concourse (photo at left). Verdict: You’ll neither get food poisoning nor go home hungry. (Yes, that’s the best I can do.)

Bonus photos below of the grand public monument that is the Union Station great hall, and of the inside of the “Wireless Freedom Dome” that is currently occupying a portion of that hall, where you can email in a photo to see it whirl around on the ceiling.

Click through to see all the photos from my Baltimore adventure.

So my Baltimore adventure is over — I’m back on a train. This one is the Amtrak Regional from Baltimore Penn for the princely sum of $21, which (given the supplement over the MARC fare) seems like it ought to come with a double cappuccino and a backrub — although, to be fair, it comes with carpeted floors and smiling uniformed Amtrak employees, so there’s something.

My photos will have to wait until later, since I’m typing on the pad, but here’s a brief summary of events:

I arrived at the spanking new outdoor Camden terminal, hard by the back side of Oriole Park at Camden Yards, bought a ticket out of the machine, and crossed the tracks to the light rail platform.

Light rail trip 4 or so stops north into Mount Vernon was uneventful — the system works and the train was clean and efficient, if a little drab (although the signage and street furniture along the route was impressive). It’s clear that there is a lot going on in terms of redevelopment in downtown, and that the light rail line has been a catalyst for it along the western edge of downtown, which looks much more hopeful than it did 20 years ago when I first visited Baltimore, but there’s still way too much abandoned-looking historic building stock.

About 7:30 I walked east along Monument Street, and at this point my phone rang. It was my brother, so I sat down on the steps of a building to talk to him, and I realized I was sitting in front of the Enoch Pratt House, surrounded by gorgeous historic buildings at an intersection that seemed frozen in time in, what, 1820? We finished our conversation in the yellow light of a fading day, with neighbors drinking beer on a nearby stoop and the occasional passing European tourist checking out the buildings, and I continued into the heart of Mount Vernon.

When I’m in the mood for a dense clump of historic architecture evoking the spirit of a time that’s passed, there are few places in the United States I enjoy more than Mount Vernon Place, with the Washington Monument in the middle surrounded by cobblestones and the four greens, and gorgeous mansions and institutions on the surrounding blocks. This would be unremarkable in New York, but it would also be overrun by vendors selling George Washington souvenirs, and there would probably be a Starbucks in the base of the obelisk. Here it’s just pretty and peaceful and exceptionally well preserved by a city that is overflowing with pride in its grand past. And you can hear the clip-clop of imaginary horses as you walk past the doors of these imposing old homes.

The Mount Vernon business district along Charles Street is doing better than I remember. I wouldn’t exactly say it’s thriving, but there are plenty of healthy-looking businesses and there were probably half a dozen restaurants open late, which is better than I can say for my own neighborhood. I opted for sushi (based primarily on proximity to the front door of my hotel), and I ate very well, in a friendly room with a nice late-evening buzz of activity, for noticeably less than I would have spent in Washington or New York.

The hotel itself was so unremarkable that I won’t name it. I would consider staying there again if I found myself in the same situation (quick overnight, by myself, atmosphere counts for nothing, planning to stay in and work), but otherwise I’d trade up. Still, it was clean, adequate, friendly, and one block from George Washington’s obelisk; try that in New York for 89 bucks.

My overall impression of Baltimore: good bones, local pride, great strides in 20 years, incredible potential not quite being unlocked to the degree it might. In other words, same as always. I’ll be back in 10 days for a whole weekend, for the Americans for the Arts Half-Century Summit, so more then.

And so I’m back on the train, this time from Penn Station so I could compare. Bonus Baltimore Penn Station photo below.

There are no hotel rooms in Washington tonight — certainly none at a price I feel comfortable paying. Given the choice between staying in extra-Beltway territory (seriously, not happening) and an adventure, I’ve chosen adventure: I’m on the MARC Camden Line to Baltimore ($7), where I’m going to have a microvacation tonight.

A microvacation consists of: having dinner in a nice restaurant in Mount Vernon, coming back to a nice tourist-class hotel (“good value for the money,” say the reviews on Hotels.com) where I’ll sit in the room and do the same work and watch the same TV I’d do in a DC hotel for double the room rate, and having a Commuter Adventure back to DC in the morning.

So far my review of MARC is: crowded, dirty, unromantic. The conductor (a CSX employee) threw the ticket stub on the floor — you won’t find that happening on Amtrak — and the guy next to me is on his second can of beer.

But seven bucks — I’m not sure you could get from Staten Island to Manhattan on the express bus for that. And I’m going to Baltimore, ancestral home of diner waitresses and Pecker … and … and Bromo-Seltzer! And other stuff too. I forget. All I know is Mount Vernon is pretty and I get to have coffee there in the morning before I run to Catch My Train.

Last night I said I thought Henrietta’s Table in Cambridge, Massachusetts was my favorite restaurant in America, because I couldn’t think of another restaurant I’d gladly eat in four times a week for the rest of my life. And I still can’t. (I’ve already eaten there again since I wrote that, and I’m having breakfast there in the morning.) But I do want to call out one other place that I like, on its best days, for some of the same reasons: Fairway Cafe and Steakhouse, upstairs from the flabbergastingly superb Fairway supermarket at 74th and Broadway in New York City.

This isn’t really the time or place to talk about Fairway the supermarket, other than to say that this small local supermarket chain — the chain is small, not the stores — carries the best combination I know of fresh produce and meat and cheese and baked goods, affordably priced and creatively sourced gourmet and specialty products, and ordinary groceries. I think after a particularly difficult case of weekend shopping exhaustion I once described the Red Hook Fairway (the Brooklyn outpost, full of Park Slope stroller families in their Zipcars on “big weekend shop” excursions) as “imagine that Trader Joe’s had a baby with Ikea,” but that isn’t quite sufficient, because the raison d’être of Fairway is its produce and meat and cheese, which are truly spectacular.

But I digress. Today’s topic is Fairway’s upstairs restaurant, which (like Henrietta’s) aspires to a cuisine that might be called “fresh and honest,” although with the look-how-fresh-and-honest-I-am brassiness of a New York place. And I have to say I’ve consumed plenty of excellence at Fairway Cafe, which shares some of the traits I like about Henrietta’s (starting with the open kitchen, which I neglected to mention about Henrietta’s last night). It makes a steak that is very good indeed, along with great cafe dishes like chicken schnitzel; traditional sandwiches (like egg salad on black bread) are exceptionally sharp and good; the by-the-glass wine list is extensive; the desserts are classics, and much less snooty than the ones at Henrietta’s. Salads are well composed; vegetables are always fresh. It won’t do for everything Henrietta’s will do for (I wouldn’t take a client there, for instance), but it’s the sort of place that I want to want to eat in four times a week.

The food itself, in other words, is steady, in the best sense. The sourcing is not as fastidious as Henrietta’s, but it’s quite good (hello! it’s inside of Fairway — there is no better retail source for consistent fresh food in New York City). And the prices are reasonable.

The problem with Fairway Cafe is that the service is irregular. The staff have their friendly and competent moments, and everyone means well, but there are times when it takes forever to get someone’s attention and another forever to get what you wanted. (At Henrietta’s, all I have to do is look in the general direction of “up” and someone is at my side asking what I need.) Plating at Fairway can be slapdash; I’ve had orders go in a little wrong; and generally the experience just doesn’t feel tight.

I am endlessly giving Fairway Cafe second chances, because when it is good it is very good indeed, and I like the setting (looking out on Broadway from a big second-floor window, left alone to read a good book while I eat a delicious and reasonably priced meal). I keep bringing friends there in the hope that they’ll have a one-of-its-best-days experience and see the magic that I see. They rarely do. Maybe with a little pressure from my millions of readers they’ll tighten up the ship just a bit and it will become the place it deserves to be.

My work has put me in Harvard Square’s Charles Hotel for two nights this week, which I’m happy about for several reasons. Despite the New Englandiness of the room decor — “quilty, feathery beds” is as emblematic an image as any, and I bet you can guess that isn’t really my thing — the Charles is an exceptionally well-run hotel.

In dozens of small ways, it feels like the management understands what its guests need in order to be comfortable and work efficiently, and this reveals itself over time — you may not completely get it on your first visit, but come back (presumably after visiting some less-impressive hotels in the interim) and you will. Given its location, the Charles is basically a business hotel for people whose business has a cultural or intellectual component, and in the decor and furnishings there’s some whimsy and thoughtfulness (of the let’s-not-get-caught-trying-TOO-hard Boston variety, to be sure, but still). Even the underground parking facility (which is independently run) is a “green garage.”

Besides, in the closet they give you real hangers. You can probably even steal them. I bet they won’t even care!

But what I really love about the Charles is Henrietta’s Table, which I think may be my favorite restaurant in America. That sounds like a wild claim, but I’m sitting here trying to think of another restaurant, anywhere, that I’d be happy to eat in four times a week for the rest of my life and I don’t think there is one.

Henrietta’s calls itself a “fresh and honest” American restaurant, but that doesn’t begin to cover what I like about this place:

Fresh ingredients, locally sourced and thoughtfully prepared. This isn’t the kind of restaurant where the plates are gorgeous (although they often are); it’s the kind of restaurant where you can assume that if there’s a tomato or a beet or a pork chop on your plate, someone chose it for flavor, from a reputable source, and it will deliver. There’s an emphasis on regional and local ingredients, and they report the provenance of ingredients when they can. Tonight I ordered something that in most restaurants would be forgettable or even worth avoiding — a dish of stone-ground grits with fresh vegetables — and it was flavorful and balanced without being gratuitously rich. On my salad plate were probably the tastiest tomatoes I’ve eaten in three years. The last time I was here, I had a steak, and it was the second-best steak I’ve ever had. In my whole life. (The winner: Magnolia Steak in Norfolk, which (alas) is now closed.)

Daily menu, but very little attitude. Most places that have a menu that changes daily feel like they’re trying too hard, but I rarely get that embarrassed “jeez, ratchet it back a little” feeling here — except sometimes when the dessert menu comes, but the desserts are so good that all is forgiven.

Extensive wine-by-the-glass list, many under $10. To do this they need a lot of turnover, which they get (it’s a large hotel, and there is a lot of community patronage, too — another indication that they’re on to something). Tonight I had a Long Island Cabernet Franc that was so good I’d stock it at home.

Absolutely the most reliable, hearty, no-tricks American breakfast I’ve ever had. Perfectly consistent from visit to visit. Eggs cooked exactly to order; gigantic portions of ham and sausage; superb breakfast potatoes (note: roughly 1 lb. butter per lb. potatoes); honest wheaty bread and very good biscuits (second only to America’s best biscuit, Atlanta’s Flying Biscuit). Strong coffee of a quality that’s hard to duplicate at home. Fresh, rich butter; preserves in abundance.

Spacious dining room, with comfortable farmhouse tables and a large outdoor patio in good weather. The place never feels full, even when it is.

The very best kind of service: attentive without ever crowding you, anticipating what you’ll need, backing off when it’s clear you’re enjoying your food and friends.

All in all, Henrietta’s Table is nice enough for informal entertaining (e.g., a business dinner that isn’t too stuffy), but you don’t end up paying as much as you might expect. It’s very possible to get through dinner for under 40 bucks a person, including dessert and a glass of wine. At a restaurant of this caliber, that’s difficult to match. And that’s why I’ll be eating there, what, 6 times between now and Friday?

Matt Yglesias’ post “The Nordic Passion for Coffee” observes that the Nordic countries don’t just drink a lot of coffee — they drink more than their neighbors, more than anyone else in the world, by a statistically significant margin. He excerpts this map, which is striking:

I happened to read this while on an enforced coffee “fast” (during my long weekend in the country with a large group, where our sleep/wake schedule didn’t make it convenient to have coffee at the times and in the dosages I normally do). I really, really felt the lack. Consequently I am having a cup of strong coffee now that I’m home, at 11pm on a school night, despite knowing that it’ll put me to sleep late and mess me up in the morning. But it is delicious, especially with these cookies that my houseguest left me as a hostess, er, host gift. Thanks, houseguest!

WaterFire returns to Providence, Rhode Island this Friday evening with the first lighting of the season, and we’re taking a quick overnight trip to the Creative Capital to enjoy this incomparable nighttime festival event that we first experienced during last year’s National Arts Marketing Project annual meeting.

If you’re new to WaterFire, here’s what happens: after night falls, volunteers in small boats light and tend wood fires in 100 braziers placed in the middle of the three rivers that flow through downtown Providence. Music plays, and thousands of people from Providence and the surrounding area converge on the waterfront to stroll, eat street food, and enjoy the sights, sounds, and scents of a large and memorable public event. At our last visit, we were fortunate enough to be guests in a gondola, which floated past three dozen of the braziers, upriver and then back down again, amid sparks and smoke and autumn drizzle. But even from shore, WaterFire is a thoroughly impressive sensory experience.

I particularly like WaterFire because it’s emphatically not a commercial event; it’s a spontaneous gathering of people from across the community to participate in a cultural happening (with free admission, courtesy of commercial and institutional sponsors, of the City of Providence and the state of Rhode Island, and of the dozens of volunteers who tend the fires, staff the boats, and advise and assist attendees on land).

Friday’s lighting starts at 8:16pm (sunset) and the fires will be burning until midnight. Bring a jacket; the evening will be breezy. If you’re within travel distance of Providence, consider making the trip; and if you enjoy what you see, please make a contribution to WaterFire.

Just back from a long country-house weekend in Dutchess County, about 90 minutes north of the city, with friends and family. Since I like reading these kinds of travelogues, I’ll subject you to mine, or at least an abbreviated version, complete with some photos of the high points, two of which were Pawling village, and the Stormville Flea Market. (I’ll cover our Sunday night movie, The Room, in another post.)

The village. We were staying just outside the village of Pawling, home of Norman Vincent Peale as well as a wartime cryptography school, more recently the home of McKinney & Doyle, the beloved bakery and highfalutin’ restaurant.

The earliest settlers came to Quaker Hill in the 1720s, and the area is still home to families of long standing, along with country-house professional people from the city and the odd plutocrat or two. Pawling village has the sheen of a place that has remained continuously prosperous, despite being a shade too far off the beaten track to attract tourist traffic in volume, and some new businesses have opened since last season. Here are a few photos to give you a sense of the village:

The Stormville Airport Flea Market. I can’t stomach Stormville — the biggest gathering of antique, junktique, junk, and funnel-cake vendors on a dusty plain I’ve ever experienced — more than about twice a year. But a couple times a year, it’s worth it. In my apartment in the city I have nifty midcentury side tables and a midcentury orange swivel desk chair that came from Stormville, and every time I go, I hope for another find.

I didn’t really score this year, although I did pick up this fascinating how-to crafts guide (and I assure you that the inside pages are just as creepy as the cover), sold to me by a very earnest woman:

The real winners were our comic-collector friends, who came along in search of comic books and were not disappointed:

Here are a few more shots I took:

I just want to point out that the Shake Shack in Madison Square Park has still got it. This review by the Wandering Foodie, Hagan Blount, is what dragged me there today after work (along with a 90-degree evening and having nowhere in particular to be) after a long absence, and the food was if anything better than I remember. My Shakeburger was substantial and well-seasoned, my Chicago dog was delicious, the cheese fries had a substance and flavor that I imagine only a great poutine could match… and my only complaint about the frozen custard with hot fudge was “delicious fudge, wish I had more,” which isn’t much of a complaint when you think about it. And I don’t even have indigestion afterwards! If you’re prepared to spend $17 on a (heavy) fast-food meal in the park, I don’t think you can do much better than this anywhere in the United States.

And on a warm evening like this, you get to eat your meal surrounded by a mob of good-looking people — comprising a broad cross-section of New Yorkers of all ages, and a good many of whom meet the qualifications to have their photos posted here — enjoying the pre-summer air.

As a counterweight to all the calories in this post (not to mention the implied lust), here’s some brain food: a bonus Madison Square Park photo of Secretary of State William Seward, the one who purchased Alaska for the United States from Russia in 1867.