As we exited the 5:46 last night, Hawthorne riders were met at the stairs by a fresh-faced young lady handing out equally fresh copies of The Examiner. The Examiner is a weekly paper that launched last fall, covering Pleasantville and Mount Kisco. The paper has since commenced coverage of Chappaqua and, as we saw in the issue the young lady was handing out yesterday, has recently begun covering the Thorns–Thornwood and Hawthorne–as well.

We think this is excellent. Maybe we just love the smell of newsprint, but in an era when large dailies are sacking people by the hundreds and someone’s actually running a Newspaper Death Watch, some crazy folks are actually expanding their newspaper’s reach.

As publisher Adam Stone said in his introductory editorial:  “We’re here to photograph your triumphs, to chronicle your tragedies, pay tribute to your good deeds, and capture your misdeeds. Newspapers aren’t dead. They’ll only perish if those who run them suffocate them.”

Pleasantville, that lively village located smack in the middle of Westchester County, hard by the Saw Mill and home of crossword puzzle master Will Shortz and book critic Janet Maslin, has claimed the first-ever Best Commuter Town in the Tri-State Area title, as voted on by you, the readers.

Writes P’viller Peter:

P’ville is eminently walkable and human scale, being a classic pre-automobile village, as yet unsullied with sprawling development. A very livable little burg. Seems to me that everyone has either lived here since their grandpa built the house in 1912, or moved here from U.W.Side, Park Slope or Queens either 10 or 5 or 2 years ago.

Adds Ryan:

We moved 6 months ago from Carroll Gardens in Brooklyn where we lived for 8 years and haven’t regretted it one bit. I walk 8 minutes on the sidewalk to the train and so far haven’t minded the commute time. Given the dreaded F train and transfers my commute is the same time within 5 mins or so depending on the day AND we always get a seat.

Indeed, Pleasantville has substantial mojo. There is the Pleasantville Music Festival, the Captain Lawrence Brewery (the “Sun Block” wheat beer is delicious), the cozy Iron Horse Grill in the old train station, the park where everyone leaves their old toy trucks on the sand box for others to play with, and of course the Jacob Burns arthouse theater–which Pleasantvillers are happy to talk about, even if we secretly doubt that many of them actually see movies there.

It’s all about a 50-minute train ride away–not short by any means, but at least there’s a “there” there when you get home.

Honorable mentions go to Ossining (for the food), Mamaroneck (for the walkability, beach and easy commute), and Hartsdale (for Juan, “the friendly newspaper vendor”); and lest we forget Jersey, also named were Madison (for being “a pocket of culture”), and Ho-ho-kus (for the funny name).

Congrats to Pleasantville, and all who reside therein.

The Missus and I had the divine–and exceedingly rare–pleasure of an actual dinner out without Little G rolling Lightning McQueen and Tow Mater all about the place. We chose the Iron Horse Grill, a cozy, tasteful joint located inside the old Pleasantville train station house.

Located smack in the middle of the village, Iron Horse Grill wears its train past proudly; the name itself is a reference to the train that first rolled through P-ville around 1846. It’s not hard to envision the old waiting room, people seated along a long wood bench that takes up almost the entire western wall. A miniature electric train adorns a shelf near the entrance. You can see the trains fly by out the window, though you can hardly hear their rumble.

Entrees run around $28-30, and Iron Horse was still pushing a winter menu over the weekend–root vegetables, , braised meats, hearty soups, full-bodied wines.

The room was surprisingly packed for 6 p.m. on a Saturday, but never got uncomfortably loud.  

The Missus had the duck with spiced yams and I had a Chatham cod over potatoes with a beet coulis around it. Unfair as it may be, we always end up comparing suburban restaurants to those in the city. Iron Horse kind of invites such comparisons, with its classy decor, ambitious menu and not inexpensive checks. The Missus thought her meal was city-level in terms of ingredients and presentation, and a bit lacking in terms of flavor. I thought the cod was a tad bland, even for cod, but the beet coulis brought it to life.

We finished off the meal by splitting the warm pecan tart, which was good, but we both agreed it needed a little more “glue” to hold the crumbly dessert together.

The service was perfectly professional; I liked our waitress’s shamrock tattoo on her hand, and when she wasn’t sure whether the Pinot Noir or Sangiovese had more heft, she deferred to another staffer who really knew her stuff. A second waitress kept her cool when the woman seated next to us–some crabby 60-something biddy–went through a ridiculous litany of order specifications that would’ve driven the mellowest of servers nuts.

By our count, Iron Horse falls somewhere between good and very good.

Generally, I like the Australian accent. It reminds of me beer and cute party girls named Sheila who backpack all over Europe and America.

But crikey, did the Aussie lady on the train this morning grate on my nerves. Sharing a five-seater with two male colleagues and a very displeased tweedy old gent, she offered the entire car a full-throated discussion of Pleasantville real estate (”NANNAHAGEN? I THOUGHT IT WAS NANNYHAGEN! ARE YOU CERTAIN IT’S NANNAHAGEN?), and other sundry topics.  One unhappy rider was even jerked out of his sleep as she emphatically made the point about having a fair amount to spend on a house.

Inevitably, the woman got a call on her cellphone. “I’M ON THE TRAIN TO THE CITY!” she yelled as the tweedy gent offered up the mother of all stinkeyes. “I LEFT COOKIES OUT FOR YOU!”

Isn’t there a crocodile for her to wrestle somewhere?