Our dear neighbor to the north Pleasantville was the subject of the most recent “Living In” profile in the NY Times Real Estate section. The writer, Elsa Brenner, does a nice job of looking beyond the idyllic village name and cute downtown–attributes that helped Pleasantville grab Trainjotting’s illustrious “Best Commuter Town” honor back in 2008, voted as such by you, dear readers. (Come to think of it, we didn’t do BCT in 2009.) 

To be sure, Brenner discusses what’s pleasant about Pleasantville:

AN outpost 30 miles from the city where children walk to school on sidewalks lined with trees; where lovingly refurbished Victorians have old-fashioned front porches; where shopkeepers greet longtime customers by name: The 1.8-square-mile village of Pleasantville pretty much lives up to the qualities implied by its name.

But she–and I’m assuming Elsa is a she–digs a bit deeper and injects a bit of menace into the story. The Rockwellian lifestyle might not be in place for the long haul, she suggests.

Amenities that the 7,200 residents of this affluent and overwhelmingly white village take for granted, like twice-weekly backyard garbage pickups, may have to be scaled back, said Peter Scherer, the mayor. “The time has come to rethink the way some services are delivered,” he said recently. “It’s a matter we’re very, very deeply focused on.”

Residents might also need to reconsider their traditional resistance to new development in light of the pressing need to generate more revenue, Mr. Scherer said, citing the long-opposed idea of building a multilevel parking garage downtown. “We want to make sure the lack of parking doesn’t thwart business development,” he said. “We need the tax dollars.”

You’ll see Brenner describes Pleasantville–referred to as Priusville by snide bloggers, or at least by me, for its lefty mindset and abundance of Priuses on its streets–is “overwhelmingly white.” If Pleasantville, with a few pockets of affordable housing, is overwhelmingly white, then Hawthorne must be “shockingly white.”

Brenner concludes:

It is clear why some residents have fought to preserve the status quo. But others are now asking, at what price?

I enjoy glancing at the learning agenda put forth by my son’s pre-school up the road in Priusville; it’s fun imagining him in the school learning about the various topics (animals, firehouses, pumpkins), and it’s nice to know what we are getting for our considerable tuition outlay.

I was struck to see that today’s lesson involves “Train Safety.” Little G, who’s in a 3’s program, learned about airplanes on Tuesday, and made a few pretty cool ones that fly a bit better than the lame paper ones I fold up for him. It looks like it’s Transportation Week over at PCC.

I’m curious to hear what train safety is all about. Is it about minding the gap as you enter a train, or staying glued to one’s seat once you’re on board? Or is it more about co-existing in a part of the country where trains racing by is part of life–stop well in advance of the safety arm when trains cross, or avoid those pesky third rails altogether?

I simply don’t know, but I expect a full report from Little G tonight. If he tells me his teacher said to cap my evening commute consumption to two Sam Adams or one Foster’s oil can, I can’t say I’ll be pleased.

I’ve parked my bike in a different spot the last few days. In a nod to the daily forecast for thunderstorms, I’ve eschewed the bike rack I fought so hard for to park under the staircase overpass. I’ve also noticed there’s only one bike there chained to the overpass fence; there used to be four or so bikes, which was what initially prompted me to pester Town Hall for the bike rack.

Anyway, while parking in the new spot, I’ve noticed a white painted crosswalk spanning from the crummy old station house across the station byway, to the greenery bordering Elwood Ave. on the other side. I even saw a pylon informing motorists to let pedestrians pass under state law.

I’m fairly certain I’ve never seen this before. If so, kudos to Mount Pleasant for showing bipedals the love. Whether motorists will or not is to be determined.

By the way, dedicated Trainjotting readers (Hi Mom!) may have noticed that I’ve stopped referring to Hawthorne as “Hummerville” and Pleasantville as “Priusville.” This is due primarily to one thing: We had our home appraised for refi purposes, and the appraisor was a man from Pleasantville who parked his big honkin’ Hummer in front of our house.

Moreover, I no longer see the 2-3 Hummers that once dotted–OK, dominated–my immediate neighborhood, surely victims of those escalating gas prices last summer. I’ve even seen a few Priuses around little Hawthorne.

“Priusville” worked as a stand-in for Pleasantville because Pleasantville is crunchy and artsy–a little slice of Boulder/Burlington along the Saw Mill. That, and we see a red Prius every time me and Little G visit his beloved Dump Truck Playground.

“Hummerville” was always intended not so much as a characterization of Hawthorne residents’ love of ridiculous former military vehicles, but a general label for the suburbs–where the car is king, and pedestrians (and cyclists) took an, um, back seat to automobiles.

But that’s all changed now that we have a pedestrian crosswalk.

The Missus and I and assorted other parties actually got out to a restaurant for dinner twice this weekend, thanks to her folks being in town.

Saturday, we opted for one of the few high-end options around us, the consistently good Iron Horse Grill, located in the old Pleasantville train station building. We wanted a special-occasion kind of place to mark National Train Day–not to mention our anniversary. We got Little Miss C down early and actually snuck out early enough to enjoy a drink at the bar.

The restaurant has a subtle train theme paying homage to the building’s origins; the name of course refers to trains, there are old train photos on the walls, and even a little Edward train from the Thomas the Tank Engine set above the bar (or was it Gordon?).

We got put in a small room off to the side which features just a pair of two-tops and a big round table for eight or so. Not the best spot in the place, but it did prompt me and the Missus to wonder what the room used to be–the ticket-taker space? A storage room for luggage?

The food was very good–I got a nice sole dish and The Missus got the duck, which featured a very tasty sauce. Owner Phil McGrath is very visible around the place–he stopped by to chat about the dishes, and was even about to take our order before a server wisely stepped in and saved McGrath the trouble (and likely saved his own job). McGrath does his flitting about in a very low-key way–none of this “I’m, Phil, the owner!” nonsense–we only knew him because of a framed review on the wall with his picture in it.

Speaking of framed reviews, The Missus spotted one in the bathroom with a real anachronistic quality–it was about a decade old, and talked about the depressing (and dodgy) downtown area surrounded Iron Horse, full of nail salons, empty storefronts and a crazy person or two. Priusville has come a long way.

I’d love to say we had a similarly terrific experience at Cabin, the recently rebooted restaurant in the cozy lodge on the Greenburgh/Valhalla border. We’d eaten there before and had a wonderful time–ambitious menu, surprisingly winsome ambience, considering the somewhat rundown exterior, and really good service–actual servers, not high school kids.

We went last night with the Mother In Law (MIL), Father In Law (FIL) and of course Little G and Little Miss C. Much like the night before, we got put in the junior varsity room–a dining space in the bar area, where you can’t help but watch golf and local news on different screens, not to mention the constant parade to the men’s room, while trying to converse with your table mates.

We ordered the fried shrimp (or Fried “Shirmp” on the menu…The Missus and TJ are career editors and no menu typo gets by us) for Little G and asked the server to please bring it with our salads. No problem, she said.

To be fair, it was Mother’s Day. But the restaurant wasn’t really that slammed–I’d say it was 75% full when we got there, and everyone was ordering off a prix-fixe menu, which makes life much easier for the staff.  

Well, our salads came, and no fried shirmp. The salads had lovely toasted goat cheese pucks or croquettes or whatever, but none of the four we ordered had the sugary walnuts the menu promised. No big.

Well, our salads were consumed, and still no fried shirmp for Little G. The kids started getting restless. The Missus walked Little Miss C around and I engaged Little G, compelling him to crayon a picture of the new Roary the Racing Car toy MIL and FIL picked up for him on a recent trip to England. Little Miss C was put back in the high chair, got cranky a little while later, and I took my turn walking her around. Little G joined us in a quick tour of the place.

Still, no fried shirmp. The waitress even came by, saw our long-since picked apart salads, and said, quite rhetorically, “The shrimp hasn’t arrived yet?”

Finally, it showed up, and Little G returned to his seat. I occupied a bench about 20 feet from our table with Little Miss C, midway between the main dining room and the bar area, trying to entertain her as her bedtime approached.

Alas, the fried shrimp was hard as a rock, and Father in Law sent it back.

“This is totally unacceptable,” FIL said politely but sternly. “This is hard as a rock.”

Mind you, we’ve been here about an hour and only now were getting the kids meal, with the grown-up meals still in the works. Some frustration poked through.

The waitress took the inadvertent Rock Shrimp and headed for the kitchen. She stopped to talk to what I suppose was a floor manager, about 10 feet from me and Little Miss C. The waitress did a pretty unflattering imitation of my father in law:

“This is totally unacceptable,” she said in a whiny voice through a sneer. “This is hard as shit.”

OK, now there’s trouble.

I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the father in law curse in the decade I’ve known the guy. I also don’t believe I’ve ever seen him be anything but completely cordial to a server, especially a female one who’s half-decent looking. I felt my blood boil as I watched this hack (and inaccurate) impersonation.

Finally our entrees came about an hour and ten minutes after we first sat. Alas, they brought the wrong thing for Father in Law (he wanted crab cakes, they brought a Cape Cod casserole). He told them not to bother bringing his desired entree–we were hungry, and the kids were absolutely done.

It was one of those meals where the entree becomes an after-thought; you just want to finish and get home. Little G’s reconstituted fried shirmp never showed, and we were finished in 10 minutes.

It didn’t quite end there. The Missus and I asked for our chocolate bread pudding desserts to go, while FIL and MIL asked for them to stay. We got the kids up and got the heck out of there.

Alas (yes, another “alas”), all the desserts came to go, accompanied by the check. Then FIL and MIL had to wait another 10 minutes or so for the check to get picked up; when the waitress never came for it, FIL settled up at the bar.

Fittingly, the desserts were a bust too. Granted, no dessert really holds up in to-go form, but the bread pudding was painfully mediocre (neither the Missus nor MIL ate theirs, and I only did because I would eat cardboard if it was smeared with chocolate). FIL’s “berries” dessert featured two strawberries–two, 2–cut in half. Technically, yes, they were “berries.”

In their defense, the Cabin did not charge for Little G’s meal (mind you, he never got his meal), or FIL’s Cape Cod Casserole. That smoothed frayed feelings to a degree.  

As I’ve said, we’ve had very good meals at the Cabin, and were very happy to see a good dining option to all the uninspired red-sauce joints in our area. But last night sure was a dud.

Ten years since turning the old Pleasantville station house into the Iron Horse Grill, the eatery still excels, says the New York Times.

A decade before, writes M. H. Reed in “A Place That Still Has the Whistles and Bells,” Philip McGrath leased the charming old station house in Pleasantville, scrubbed down the thick river stone of the facade, remodeled the waiting room and ticket office into a quietly impressive, comfortable dining room and took over the kitchen of his Iron Horse Grill. The restaurant worked then and still does, although the village has blossomed and grown into a bustling destination.

Last spring, TJ and The Missus ventured up to Priusville and also had a terrific experience at the Iron Horse.

We wrote:

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.

Geez, was that my last dinner out with the Missus?

Living midway between a pair of wonderfully restored train station eating/drinking establishments (Valhalla Crossing and the Iron Horse up in Priusville), we’re partial to creative uses for old train stations, especially when they involve alcohol.

So is blogging Yankee apologist 9nine9, who gives high marks to the Irish Rail–doing business out of the Manasquan train station in jersey. Unlike Valhalla Crossing and the Iron Horse, the Rail shares space with a still functional train station.

9nine9 writes:

The bar is, literally, the Manasquan New Jersey Transit train station. There’s a small waiting room and ticket booth, and The Rail takes up the rest of the building.

On Thursdays, The Rail offers $3 pints of Guinness, Bass and Smithwicks. Since Guinness makes up about one-third of my blood, and it would be unhealthy to risk fluctuations in that ratio, I decided to take the train rather than driving. I’ve always been very good about having no more than two drinks before driving, and I knew there was no way in hell I was limiting myself to a pair of $3 pints of Guinness (great pour, by the way).

9nine9 says the stellar Guinness made the six-hour round trip from Hoboken worthwhile–even if a truly bizarre seatmate with a penchant for screaming Billy Joel lyrics significantly subtracted from the experience.

While Metro-North conductors occasionally implore our younger, less-mannered riders to kindly remove their size 11 Reeboks from the seat, the railroad took a curious tack in delivering a message to riders–putting bright yellow cut-outs of bare feet, the big toe the size of an egg, on the seats last night.

The campaign urges riders to “Put Your Best Foot Forward!” and not “slip, trip and fall” (definitely not to be confused with “stop, drop and roll”) while heading to and from the train.

Metro-North then implores riders to watch the gap, to not be distracted by your cellphone and morning paper, to walk, not run to the train, use the handrails on stairs, and, uh, stay off the tracks.

The bare foot and the message…it really, truly feels like something Little G would bring home after a (half) day of pre-school up in Priusville.

The 6:59 ambled along toward Hummerville and Priusville as the sun went down.

I shifted in my seat, perhaps to take something out of my pocket. Stiffening my back a bit, I happened to peer over the seat in front of me.

My gaze caught some pure, unadulterated cheesecake: a playing card featuring a naked guy in a very cheesy pose–hand behind head, other hand laying limply at his side. Buck naked.

It was the 7 of diamonds from a nudey-guy deck. The card was, er, bent.

You typically don’t see such things on the White Mail Express.

I won’t describe the man holding the card with any great detail; let’s just say he was older, with a white moustache.

He stared longingly at his nudey 7 of diamonds for several seconds (and perhaps a long stretch of time before I happened to peer over), then slipped it into the front pocket of a small brown carry-case the size of a Tom Clancy paperback.

The man then turned his gaze out the window, staring at the Kensico Cemetery as the train roared past.

Perhaps I was projecting, but he seemed sort of lonely.

I step onto the 8:16 in Hummerville and take my seat. A young guy takes the seat cattycorner to me. The guy across the aisle from him–right in front of me–starts saying “Michael…Michael!”

“Michael” looks up from his Post, spends a minute on recognition, and says, “Hey!”

They’re both about 20. Michael wears a green oxford shirt and jeans, white Nikes, a buzzcut.

The other guy I’ve noticed on the train before. It’s hard not to. He’s a wisp of a kid in Ramones-style pegged jeans, a black jacket regardless of the weather, a hint of a pompadour, and always mirrored Oakley shades–also regardless of the weather.

An artsy twerp with an attitude, I’d venture.

“Who you working for?” asks the artsy lad.

“Lionsgate. You?”

“A little documentary house,” says artsy kid.

He acts like how a lot of kids from Priusville, one stop up from Hummerville, seem to act: Ready to set the arts world on fire with skills gleaned from class trips to the Jacob Burns Center.

Little Roman Polanski and Michael discuss films across the aisle for a moment: can’t wait to see Tropic Thunder, yes, I heard about the “retard” protests, Pineapple Express wasn’t funny, Dark Knight was fantastic.

They don’t seem to be friends, just casual acquaintances.

They both have internships. It’s the artsy twerp’s last day at the little documentary house, in fact.

The conversation lulls.

“Commuting sucks, huh?” asks Little Roman.

“Oh, it’s awful,” concurs Michael.

Michael then goes back to his papers–he has not only the Post but the Daily News too–as Little Roman reads the manual to a camera resting on his lap.

Little Roman then puts the camera and manual away, and whips out a beat-up paperback of…c’mon, give us a guess…yup, Crime and Punishment.

He’s on page 279: “Well, I am indeed idle and depraved,” penned Dostoevsky. “But your sister has so many excellent qualities that even I could not but be impressed by them to some extent. But it all amounted to nothing, as I see now.”