Dear readers, I write to you today from my seat on a jet plane bound for Los Angeles, where I quietly contemplate the events of the previous weekend. 

I had so many plans, errands, and activities scheduled for Saturday; Only, I woke up to find myself snowed into my quiet country home with no possibility for escape until the plow, managed leisurely by a local retired town resident, made its way diligently across our wooded gravel road.

There is nothing like a good weekend snow to bring about all the neighbors on the road into casual conversation… “How is your son doing this year in college?  Did he acclimate?”  “Did you hear that the woman two roads down passed away last month?”  “Where are you working these days?”

Questions designed to both politely and gently prod into one another’s lives and create fodder for local gossip.  Don’t get me wrong, I like most of my neighbors, and I too engage in the craft of casual conversation over the course of a good snow shoveling, but this particular Saturday, my preoccupation centered around the evening’s theater tickets — theatre tickets that required my ability to enter and exit the road.

My cousin Michele came down from the depths of Sullivan county (aka the middle of nowhere) to join me in an evening performance of South Pacific at Lincoln Center.  Having never seen the movie in its entirety, my sentimental attachment to this particular musical stems from childhood memories of my father. 

My father had a beautiful singing voice and often sang to me when I was a little girl.  Among his repertoire, he sang often from the score of South Pacific.  I would sit in the front seat of his car and listen as he crooned about “some enchanted evening,” or how “you’ve got to be carefully taught.”  These innocent, honest memories of my father’s simple joy are dear to my heart.  Naturally, I looked forward to experiencing these songs again from the audience of the Vivian Beaumont Theater.

We left early so I could take Michele to a sushi restaurant that until recently I had forgotten about.  Several years ago, while working for a large Japanese Consumer Electronics Company in Northern New Jersey, my colleagues introduced me to an exceptional sushi spot.

Because so many Japanese Consumer Electronics companies keep the U.S. headquarters in Northern New Jersey, there are small pockets within the neighboring suburban towns that cater to the Japanese ex-pats that are assigned to the U.S. on five-year visas.  Sakura Bana in Ridgewood, NJ is one of them. 

Strangely enough, after leaving that job, which is about seven years ago, I had forgotten all about Sakura Bana and their exceptional quality sushi… until last week.  I don’t know what or why I suddenly remembered that Sakura Bana existed, and truthfully, I was not even sure that it would be there.  So Wednesday evening, after work I took a colleague with me to investigate. 

Believe it or not, finding a sushi restaurant that is actually owned and operated by Japanese is a rare find in the New York Metro area.  Most are Korean owned and their menus adjusted to accommodate an unwitting American audience, most of who cannot get past the California rolls anyway.

Sakura Bana does not boast airs of pretension.  It’s humble, Japanese authenticity shines through to create a cozy atmosphere that parallels a corner Bistro in Paris. 

I eagerly awaited the opportunity to share this Oriental treasure with Michele.  As soon as we walked in, I listened to the familiar rhythmic patterns of Japanese language spoken around me, the politeness wrapped into the prefix and suffix of every verb like a perfectly constructed origami box. It was a sound I didn’t realize that I missed until just that moment.  I savored my experience.

We drank a Sencha green tea that they brewed in a large metal teapot and refreshed regularly for us.  Our young waiter brought out a steaming bowl of edemame covered with a plastic dish for the empty shells.  We could see the large specs of sea salt clinging to the green fleshy pods that burst open in our mouths.  Clean and fresh these tiny beans took the edge from our hunger and began to open our taste buds like the first petals of a blooming rose. 

Next came the Agadashi Tofu.  These cubes of silken tofu are coated in a sticky rice batter and flash fried like tempura to create a polarized outer shell that is both delicately crispy and barely gooey all at once.  The tofu arrived in a ceramic bowl filled halfway with a soy-based dipping sauce and tiny scallion shavings.

I love sushi pieces and I am not afraid to be adventurous with my selection of fish.  Michele is less adventurous, and prefers the comfort of sushi-rolls, so we ordered a mixture of both. 

For Michele, I chose the spider (tempura-fried soft-shell crab) and shrimp tempura with avocado rolls and for me, and assortment of Salmon, Toro (fatty tuna), Unagi (barbequed eel), Anago (freshwater eel), Giant Clam, Spanish Mackerel and Tamago (egg soufflé), with doubles on the salmon and tuna for Michele to share.

The sushi graced my palette with the sweetness of highest quality fish prepared most expertly.  Have you ever tasted a piece of fresh fish that held the same consistency of European butter – fish so delicate that it melts upon your tongue, leaving behind the faintest trace of sweet rice vinegar?  What about the hearty structure of a barbequed eel that transforms into a mixture of delicate crispness and silken smoothness?   Ah, and the egg soufflé – many years ago, my Japanese friend and former colleague (different Japanese company) Doi-san taught me to evaluate a good sushi restaurant by the quality of their Tamago.  You see, every sushi chef has their own recipe – each as unique as a signature – that defines their skills.  Saved for last, the Tamago becomes the sushi-version of a dessert.

While we ate, the hostess watched, puzzled by me, as I seemed to know some of the subtle cultural manners surrounding Japanese dining.  As we prepared to leave, I bowed to her and to our sushi chefs, “Arigato Gozimashita” I said as we departed.

My heartstrings panged a bit… I missed working in an environment engulfed in Japanese culture. 

Sunday morning, I woke up early, meandering downstairs to greet Michele and prepare to leave.  We had an appointment to look at a historic house in Dutchess County.  This completely restored 1790 home (former B& felt haunted from the moment we drove onto the property.  Quite large, with many additions and changes throughout its long and sorted history, the house — while absolutely exquisite – was an immense, sprawling Colonial mansion with a huge formal dining hall, four fireplaces, a sitting room, a library and four full bedrooms.  The property sat on four acres and included an ice house, a carriage house and an old bungalow that looked like it needed to be torn down, although, as we learned, it housed one very large raccoon.

Being a single woman, potentially living there alone – I felt as though this house would consume me, much like Eleanor in Hill House.  No, I was not prepared for such an experience (as interesting as it might be).

Of course, Michele and I made our way back through Cold Spring, which held the promise of Chef Pascal Graff’s authentic French Bistro cuisine.  We explored Cold Spring village, indulging in a poppy seed humantashen (a triangular sugar cookie filled with either apricot, prune or poppy seed filling that Jewish people traditionally make for Purim) from the local bakery, the likes of which I had not eaten since my grandmother last made them, maybe 10 years ago. 

We strolled up and down the picturesque streets draped in snow-covered mountains, lined with the Hudson River, and enjoyed the sunny winter day.  There is something so charming about this town.  It balances the liberal intelligential sentiments of New York City’s most progressive residents, while maintaining a distinctly rural charm and lifestyle.  There was a quirkiness about the town that hinted at a sense of community.

We found ourselves seated at the same table within Le Bouchon (loosely meaning, “Corner bistro”) as before.  However, this time, instead of the red velvet romance that it offered for Valentine’s Day, we found hand-drawn pictures of a cow and a pig on each of the mirrors, respectively, outlining the various types of meat cuts in a “color-by-numbers” fashion.

The waitress recognized us and greeted us with the warmth and familiarity of a good neighbor and we listened carefully to the specials.  We recognized the same couple sitting across from us as our first visit, where they played chess and lingered over their meal.  Today, they read and interpreted Shakespeare’s Macbeth.
We began with a shared order of Green mussels that Chef prepared with a breaded topping (like a clams casino – but far more elegant and delicious) that he served with a compound butter-based buerre blanc sauce that he finished in the oven.

Michele and I scooped out our mussel magnificence and sopped up the buerre blanc with our bread as we carelessly doused our taste buds in the fantastically floral house Poulliy Fume.

For our main courses, Michele ordered the bacon-wrapped diver scallops served in a lobster reduction with truffled mashed potatoes.  I dined on a delectable dish of braised short ribs in a deep brown reduction with peas, carrots, and pearl onions, also served on top of mashed potatoes.

The texture of Chef Pascal’s short ribs disintegrated while their flavor exploded in my mouth, leaving my palette dancing like a ballerina on stage.

We sat there sated, full from our meal, feeling the lack of sleep from the previous late night and early morning start catching up with us, when our waitress told us about dessert. 

Now, dear reader, I am still in awe of Chef’s perfect apple tart pastry, but the promise of a poached pear coated in chocolate, slivered almonds and served with both a chestnut puree and a dollop of crème fraise, I could not resist!

My friends, you have patiently indulged me though my rambling blog entry, which is already too long as it is (the trouble with writing while held captive on a bi-costal flight).   I bid you adieu before my laptop battery dies.