T's Travels

Josephine's Downtown, Lancaster, PA

I heard the name Josephine

It came to me in a dream

—Frank Turner

(Not really, but these days I’ll use pretty much any excuse to quote Frank Turner.)

 

Husb and I are hitting another anniversary and so wanted to celebrate with a nice dinner out. We often go to Blue Heron in York but I was in the mood for something different, a place we hadn’t yet tried. We settled on a local place that has had rave reviews and a menu we could agree on. But when I went on Open Table to make a reservation, something else—a familiar name—popped up. Josephine’s!

For years Husb and I would make the trek to Marietta for a lovely Country French meal at Josephine’s. When the new chef came in, we didn’t mind one bit and continued to go for special occasions. When it closed, we missed it.

So to see the name again this week? Surely, it must be . . . and it is! Right in the heart of Lancaster City and serving contemporary American food. This was meant to be—even though it was an hour’s drive (and at rush hour), we had to go.

One complaint people often have about restaurants in cities is “where do we park?” That’s not a problem at Josephine’s Downtown—it is next to a large public parking lot. Couldn’t be more simple.

Sometimes you can just feel that good things are coming and I certainly did when I saw the elegant exterior of the restaurant. Once inside, we were greeted with a smile and led to our table. Because I had selected “anniversary” on the Open Table reservation, not only did everyone wish us a happy anniversary, but when we opened our menus there was a personal card saying it as well!

I’d looked at their Facebook page so I already had an idea of what I was going to order, but Husb didn’t. As I looked over the menu, though, I wavered. So many things looked so good. Black cod? Risotto? Duck breast? The decision was not going to be as easy as I thought.

We started with wine, a lovely Cabernet Sauvignon for me and an absolutely incredible Old Vine Zinfandel for him. For an appetizer, Husb ordered the Warm Cauliflower and Barley Salad (roasted butter beans, herb emulsion, lemon vinaigrette, radish, celery leaves, shaved fennel, raisins) without the lemon vinaigrette (because he prefers me to be the only zest in his life). It was seasoned so well he didn’t miss the dressing at all.

His entrée was the braised short rib (butternut squash custard, roasted pearl onion, roasted chanterelle, black garlic demi, togarashi, micro basil, micro lemon balm). The short rib absolutely fell apart with a fork—divine would be a good word for it. He doesn’t like mushrooms either but he sampled the chanterelle after giving me most of them and was sorry he had let them go. Is it possible we have found a mushroom he will eat?

After all my considerations, I went back to what I had thought I would order. I started with the Caesar salad (baby romaine, rosemary bread crumbs, parmesan). It was simple, not overly dressed, excellent. And then I had something everyone who doesn’t have a seafood allergy should have: the Butternut Squash Bisque (king crab, spiced pepita, white chocolate powder, cilantro pudding, chive blossom, micro cilantro). I had seen the picture of this online (the picture I’m using) and it called my name. They serve you the bowl with the crab, etc., in place, and then pour the cream over it all. Presentation counts but even if they hadn’t done that, it still would have been a dream (just like the name Josephine). This is the soup I will want every time I go back. Because you know I will.

We ordered tarts for dessert but before they arrived we were served flutes of champagne to toast our anniversary! What a nice surprise. When we were first married, it felt like every time we turned around someone was handing us champagne to celebrate; this little touch took me right back to that.

My tart was the Apple (green apple, Calvados custard, apple honey glaze) with a little scoop of caramel ice cream on top. Husb had the Chocolate Pecan (orange sassafras cream, micro mint) but switched the orange sassafras cream out for coconut ice cream because, well, orange (plus all ice creams are made by the restaurant).

I can’t tell you when we’ve had a better dining experience. We’ve had some very good ones over the years, including in Philadelphia and DC, and this one has made it into the top five of all time list. Part of our conversation during dinner was (a) figuring out which of our friends will want to know about this place and (b) when would we be coming back. Because you know we will.

 

The Millworks, Harrisburg, PA

Who doesn’t love a good brunch? Mixing breakfast foods with lunch foods, a little cocktail, a little coffee—genius! And if you add in a little shopping and a visit to a museum, it’s perfection. No, I was not in Philadelphia or New York or even Baltimore. I was in Harrisburg, yes, the capital city of Pennsylvania, the quiet little place (at least when there are no elections and the Farm Show is over) in the middle of the state.

Miss C wanted to come to the ’Burg to see the Ansel Adams exhibit at the Susquehanna Art Museum (hurry, it ends January 21) and of course we wanted a meal. She is my “I’m going to ___ city, what are the good restaurants?” friend because she always knows the best. But she left this choice up to me. Harrisburg is full of good brunch possibilities and I was having trouble choosing until I talked to another friend, who said, “The Millworks.” She and others had been recommending the Millworks to me for a few years, it was just a couple of blocks from the museum, it was a great suggestion. “Best Bloody Marys,” she also said but that fell on deaf ears (not my thing—give me a mimosa anytime).

Easy to find (actually, almost anything in Harrisburg is easy to find), the Millworks is next to the Broad Street Market (oldest farmers market in the country!). Free parking (yea!). Industrial interior with a lot of recycled materials (read the “About Us” for the full story).  Even with the high ceiling it didn’t seem terribly loud (but this was brunch, I know, not a Friday night after-work crowd—I would assume it’s hopping then). Mimosas, anyone?

The menu made it hard to choose—numerous options out of the ordinary--but in the end I went with the scallops and grits (New Jersey Day Boat scallops, stone ground grits, arugula, poached egg). Miss C had the country fried chicken and sausage gravy biscuit (house made buttermilk biscuits, cream sausage gravy, Green Ridge Acres free-range chicken, bourbon-maple syrup). Next time I’m going for the smoked brisket tacos . . . Servings were generous but not enormous (kudos for that!). And I had apple cobbler for dessert.

Usually my reviews end here, right? Well, not this time! The Millworks is not only a restaurant and brewery, it’s also an artists’ community. Want pottery, jewelry, paintings, silkscreened clothing? They’ve got it all. What is not restaurant in the building is divided up into small studios for artists to work and sell their works. Not every artist was in while we were there but we did get to watch a potter at the wheel and talk to a jewelry designer.

When we had seen everything we could, we moved a few blocks down the street to the Susquehanna Art Museum for the Ansel Adams exhibit. His early works are on display in this former bank building; you can see the beginning of what became his iconic photographic style.

One last stop before we said our goodbyes—down Third Street to the Midtown Scholar, Harrisburg’s large, independent bookstore, where Miss C picked up a copy of Madeleine L'Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time and we both admired Lair of the Lion: A History of Beaver Stadium, written by Lee Stout and Harry H. West  (which I had the pleasure to edit last year but hadn’t yet seen in print).

And all of this in Harrisburg, PA! There are many other businesses in Midtown (e.g., see my Yellow Bird Café review) but you need to explore to find them. You can always get a good sampling by going to Third in the Burg. And  a great way to stay informed is to subscribe to The Burg, a real local newspaper—they will let you know what’s going on . . .

Hotels of the Past (#37)

Searching the Web for pictures of old Pennsylvania hotels I found a blog with a long, detailed, and fascinating piece about the Hotel Walton in Philadelphia. Looks like I'm not the only one who likes to collect these histories.

And then I came across the very grand Bellevue Stratford:

I was reminded of this place yesterday while listening to an episode of Yours Truly, Johnny Dollar, a radio show from the 1950s. Johnny Dollar was a freelance insurance investigator and for this particular case he traveled to Philadelphia, where he stayed at the Bellevue Stratford, convenient to the offices he went to on Walnut Street. This postcard looks like it's from the 1970s, which would place it more in the era of the Legionnaires' disease outbreak and just before (little-known fact) Bob Beru was the head concierge (his day job, that is).

Bistrot La Minette, Philadelphia

South Philly. Those words make one think Philly cheesesteaks, right? Or Italian food—pastas, red sauces, olive oils. Mangia!

No, wait. Not this time. I’ve been in many fantastic Italian restaurants in South Philadelphia. But this time I was traveling with Husb (not the biggest fan of red sauce) and we were meeting Miss C and her Vince for dinner. There’s no one better at finding a good restaurant than Miss C and so I gave her Husb’s parameters. She came up with Bistrot La Minette. Voilà!

Sixth Street just below South. Saturday evening. Of course the streets were full and parking was difficult. But I knew the struggle would be worth it. We arrived at the restaurant exactly on time. And hungry. I had perused the menu on-line a few days before and had only one thing on my mind: haricot verts. Some might say that “green beans” is not usually what people look forward to, but back when we had a garden Husb grew the best haricot verts I’ve ever eaten. Slender, dark green, tender, and full of flavor. I have no idea why anyone grows any other green bean.

So yes, I was getting the haricot verts. But first a drink, madame? Bien sure. I was surprised to see French 75s on the menu, something I haven’t had since Le Bistro (now Café 210) in college. Fun way to start a meal.

What to order for dinner? Miss C was decisive: Terrine de Foie Gras (“duck liver paté, arugula, cognac raisins, honey vejus vinaigrette, red wine reduction”) to start and Escargots à la Bourguignonne (“Burgundy snails, garlic herb butter, croutons”) for entrée. Needless to say, I did not ask to share hers. Vince chose the Lapin Rôti à la Moutarde (“mustard-braised rabbit, house-made taglietelle, rabbit jus”). Thinking of the duck we used to have at the Blue Moon in York (now the Blue Heron and soon to be reviewed!), as well as the trout amandine we once experienced at Maison Robert in Boston, Husb and I were of like minds. He ordered the Magret de Canard Vigneronne (“pan-seared duck breast, vigneronne sauce, grapes, raisins, sautéed cauliflower, pommes purées”) and I the Truite Meunier (“Miller-style trout, green beans, fingerling potatoes, lemon brown butter, almonds”). Yes, my meal came with haricot verts, but we still ordered a side to share.

Dinner met our expectations (which, honestly, were pretty high). We split a bottle of wine, enjoyed and shared our meals (except those pesky snails!), and just pretty much had a great time. Serving size was perfect—enough to enjoy but not enough to ruin opportunities for dessert.  My Tarte Tatin (“upside down apple tart, caramel ice cream”) reminded me of the apple tart at the Blue Moon. Husb’s Pot de Crème au Chocolat (really, they shouldn’t call it chocolate pudding, that’s an injustice) was light and silky smooth.

The owner and executive chef at Bistrot La Minette is Peter Woolsey, with quite the Philadelphia fine dining record (remember Striped Bass?). Read the “About” on the website if you are hesitating at all. This is a wonderful place for French bistro food. I’m sure it’s where Husb will suggest we go in Philadelphia from now on.

Photos from the restaurant website.

Fork, Philadelphia

Part of the fun of restaurant dining is the experience. And Fork—in Old City Philadelphia—is most definitely an experience.

I was in town recently (more book research) and had the pleasure of meeting an old friend for dinner. She asked where I wanted to dine and I let her choose. With the wealth of restaurants in the neighborhood, I knew she couldn’t go wrong. She chose Fork.

I arrived at the restaurant a little early and sat at the bar for a drink. With it being a blistering hot July, I was looking for something cold. Under “bubbly” on the cocktail menu, I thought the martini bianco (lillet white, peach bitters, club soda) sounded good—and it was. About the time I finished, Marge came in and we were seated. She ordered the Aperol cocktail (aperol, orange bitters, sparkling wine). I’d never heard of Aperol but it seems to be pretty hot right now—or at least the umbrellas with “Aperol” printed on them on sidewalk tables think so.

After that lovely drink, what would ordering dinner bring us? We started with Caputo Brothers’ stracciatella toasts (“charred and pickled eggplant”). Under the eggplant was the toast; above was the stracciatella (a cheese—that’s where the Caputo Brothers come in), lemon, and more eggplant. Beautiful and delicious.

Fork is not a place where bread arrives in a basket with little plastic butter containers (or even the more modern olive oil to drizzle)—our bread was served on a board and looked like tiny little bagels, with homemade cream cheese on the side.

Dinner was very difficult to choose. Our server asked more than once if we had questions, which was appreciated. Fork’s menu is … I’m not sure how to describe it. A little mysterious, perhaps? Part of the experience certainly. (This is not a criticism, but if you want something that describes your food completely before you order it, Fork is not the place to go.) Here you need to trust the chef.

Marge chose the smoked cioppino (“cuttlefish and razors, braised celery, grilled sourdough”). I had to get something different, of course, and ordered the lavender gnudi (“Shy Brothers’ cloumage, summer fricassee”). According to what I have since read, gnudi is like gnocchi but with cheese instead of potato. Cloumage is a special “fresh lactic curd” from Shy Brothers Farm in Massachusetts. What arrived on my plate were six little balls of very delicate pasta and cheese with a flavor of lavender. Not huge, not heavy, just perfect.

Cioppino = fish stew, right? I would hate to use such an ordinary description for what came to the table. The server presented Marge with a large white bowl containing a little pile of vegetables, a little pile of razor clams, and a little rectangle of fish. Then the server took a carafe of tomato broth and poured it into the bowl. Beautiful!And really flavorful. I wouldn't hesitate to get that on a return trip.

Servings here are of a size that you can have both an appetizer and dessert. I wish more places were like that. So we had the pleasure of enjoying more Fork. Marge ordered the lemon curd (“grapefruit-jasmine soup, vanilla sorbet”). I had the rhubarb chess pie (not on the menu at the moment), a tiny tart with a little rhubarb ice cream on the side. When the lemon curd came, again it came deconstructed; the server poured the grapefruit-jasmine soup into the bowl.  

Throughout the meal Marge and I had time to talk to each other—we weren’t rushed, we didn’t have to yell to hear each other, no one cleared plates before we swallowed a last bite (I really hate that last one). It’s no wonder that Fork has won many awards and is among the top restaurants on my Total Foodie friends’ lists. Fork is more than just very good food, though; it is an experience. Trust the chef.

Smoked cioppino above; lavender gnudi below.

My mother

Everyone knows people bond over food. My mother lived that. Some of my best memories of her involve the preparation and/or consumption of foods. I learned at her elbow how to bake a cake, make the best mashed potatoes, and stuff a turkey. I also learned what to do when you don’t have cake flour, not to measure salt right over a bowl (because you’ll never dig all of it out if you dump in too much), and that a little burning on the pie crust is not the end of the world. In other words, everything I needed to know to survive in the kitchen.

She passed that on to her granddaughter Annie, too. When the police were searching Boston for the bombers and the city was on lockdown, Annie was housebound in the company of a six-year-old who was itching to get out. To distract him, Annie asked if he wanted to make cupcakes. She put those baking skills learned from her grandmother to use keeping a small child entertained. Grandmom would be proud.

We (Husb, Sister, Annie, and I) attended a Celebration of Life service for my mother yesterday at the University of Pennsylvania. Mom was a donor for Humanity Gifts Registry so that medical students could learn from her. When we had talked about it she had said to me, “As long as I can help someone.” That was Mom.

Before the service we met for lunch at one of Mom’s favorite restaurants, the White Dog Café, in Mom’s favorite city, Philadelphia. Five of Mom’s former coworkers at the Office of Vocational Rehabilitation in Reading made the trip to join us. Another, who became a good friend of mine because of Mom, stopped in just to let me know she was thinking of us.

Lunch was wonderful. Usually I write about the food, but I can’t say much about that other than it was good. The nine of us sat around a large table and talked and laughed and remembered Mom.  Her coworkers told us how Mom was known at the office for finding the good restaurants wherever they went and that she was always up for a road trip. Eileen said, “We’d all pile into her big boat of a car and go!” We all remembered Landis Store Hotel, which made me think of their crabcakes. (I haven’t been there in years but I may have to go back soon!) We asked about a restaurant Mom took Husb and me to once (back when he was Boyfriend) that served French food somewhere in Berks County, but no one could come up with the name.

I told everyone not to be shy about getting dessert because it was Mom’s favorite part of the meal. Then the server said the dessert of the day was bread pudding. Had to have it—that was one recipe my mother perfected over the years. She always said, “Butter and brown sugar, what’s not to like?” The bread pudding at the White Dog was muffin-like, sitting in a dark pool of blueberry, sweet and delicious. Not at all like my mother’s, but she would have enjoyed it.

On that wave of sugar and love we headed to the ceremony at Penn. Through music and poetry and eulogies, the medical students told us how much they appreciated the families’ gift and that those donors would forever be the “first patients” for the new doctors.  The program ended with an incredible a cappella rendition of Sweet Honey in the Rock’s “Wanting Memories,” sung by Perelman first-year medical students.

After the ceremony we all parted ways. Annie headed into the city, eager to walk those streets her grandmother loved (something else she had passed on). Mom’s coworkers headed home. Sister dropped Husb and me off at the train station before her drive to the suburbs. But we all carried my mother with us. And we’ll continue to—every time we have a good meal, find a new restaurant, take a road trip.

The Philadelphia Folk Festival

Have you ever been to the Philadelphia Folk Festival? I first heard of it in 1973 when Rusty—someone we had met during George McGovern’s primary campaign and who can’t possibly be described in just a few words—asked if we were going to go. My response: “Our parents would kill us.” (“We” was my best friend Deb and I—and we were 15. Also we didn’t want to push our boundaries, at least not that far.) Rusty had introduced us to John Prine’s music and we knew he was right when he told us what a great weekend it would be, but all I could see was the grounding for the rest of my life I’d get.

Years later (once grounding was no longer an issue), I got to the ’Fest—first time as audience, second time as volunteer for the weekend. Once you volunteer, you see the ’Fest from a completely different perspective. The dirt of the Old Poole Farm (or mud, depending on the weather) gets in your skin and you never forget it. A few vivid memories: Richie Havens singing “Freedom,” Michael Cooney riding around on the flatbed of a truck singing and playing his guitar, lying in our tent falling asleep at night to the sound of guitars in the campground. Volunteering is not for everyone but it is a life-altering experience.

The ’Fest is this weekend and it’s calling to me. I just looked at the lineup—phenomenal as always. It’s a great place to hear people you’ve never heard of (and people you have) and witness the best in performances. If not this year, make sure you get there one of these years (as long as you won’t get grounded for it). And if you can't get there, you can listen on-line at iradiophilly.com!