Since I don’t spend nearly enough time riding the rails to New York City, we packed up the gang to head in for a day trip yesterday. Little G is obsessed of late with two colossal things: skyscrapers and dinosaurs. So we threw it to him: see the dinos at the Museum of Natural History, or see the skyscrapers in midtown.

He opted for the buildings, which meant we could take the train.

We bundled up the kids, packed the snacks, and I got a taste of what the rest of my commuting brethren enjoy each day: driving to the station and parking in the lot. It being a weekend and all, we had our choice of spots, so I took the one usually occupied by the Yankeemobile during the week, hoping to impose some sort of jinx on the spot.

The 9:53 was about five minutes late (what, you couldn’t be late when I was chugging into Hawthorne station on my bike today with seconds to spare, having read Little G one too many pages from one of his dino books this morning?), and it was pretty packed. The Missus had suggested seats near the front, to minimize walking along the Grand Central platform, so we set out for seats.

I saw what looked for all the world like an empty three-seater, but upon arriving at it saw a SnoozerLoserThree-Seat-User–a young woman napping across all three. (For the record, SnoozerLoserThree-Seat-User is just a working title…we’ll try to come up with a snappier term for those seat-sleeping types. If you can think of a good Word of the Week for this, please send it along.)

[The Missus snapped this shot moments before the woman woke up.]

We instead grabbed a pair of folding seats facing each other, but Little G–his first train ride since the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City in December–started howling because there’s no window next to the folding seats (handicapped people apparently don’t enjoy looking out windows, I s’pose). He and I relocated to a two-seater with a window behind the SnoozerLoserThree-Seat-User, and he was happy again.

North White Plains saw a cattycorner two-seater open up, so the Missus and Little Miss C slid in there.

And we were off.

It’s interesting to see what affect the SnoozerLoserThree-Seat-Users (SLTSUs) have on the train. At White Plains, we saw at least four different parties do just as I did: See what looked like an available seat (or three!), approach it, then look with dismay at the body lying supine across it. We get it, you’re tired, you’re hung over. But it’s not a victimless crime. Buy three tickets and I promise I won’t blog about you.

The SLTSU eventually woke up around Bronkers and then, to ensure she had all three the rest of the ride, spread her backpack and a second back across all the seats. No longer snoozing, she was merely a LoserThree-Seat-User.

Much like Little G’s beloved view out the window from the train, making the trip with newbies is a good reminder that there’s interesting stuff to be seen amidst the boredom of the daily commute. Little G’s favorite among the New York skyscrapers is the Chrysler Building, and we were all of a block south of Grand Central when we looked back and saw it in all its silvery majesty–a vantage point I’d hardly noticed in three years of walking that route. (Cue the Annie soundtrack: You’ll stay up, until this place shines….like the top of the Chrysler Building!)

We meandered down to 34th and Park and decided not to tell Little G about what skyscraping colossus awaited around the corner. It took seconds before his eyes went wide and he said “Look!!!” Indeed, the Empire State Building (the informal “Empire”, to Little G, who’s on a first-name basis with all the Gotham skyscrapers–the Empire, the Chrysler, the Flatiron) loomed like Kimbo Slice in the foreground.

Staring skyward as we were, we were pestered by the usual swarm of hawkers looking to sell us a trip to the top. We turned them down, but did stop at a gift shop to get post cards. Little G wasn’t having the 10 for a buck cards, opting instead of the 99-cents apiece ones: One of the Empire, one of the Chrysler, one of the World Trade Center, RIP, and one of the Brooklyn Bridge.

After a cold but fun frolic in the Madison Square Park playground and a pit stop at my work, we headed back for the train. We grabbed some sandwiches at Mendy’s (”You said lunch, Jerry. Soup is not a meal.”) and hit Grand Central with time to spare. I made a big show in front of Little G to drop a quarter into the cup of a homeless man huddled in the foyer of Grand Central (the hypocrisy…like I ever do that on a normal commuting day). Sensing a teachable moment, I paraphrased the man’s placard for Little G once we were out of earshot, telling him that the man did not have a job and did not have any money.

Little G found the positive in that way kids do: “If he doesn’t have a job, then he can play with his kids all day?”

I stammered through a response that said he could, but the toys would not be very good.

We hit the 12:48 with a few minutes to spare, grabbed a six-seater, busted open our Mendy’s bounty, and looked forward to one final view from the bridge.

We were fairly psyched when we saw the first signs of a new restaurant along Hawthorne’s sleepy strip in the fall. Indeed, Punta Cana Restaurant promised “Spanish & Portuguese food”–a nice variation from the red sauce and bar food available in Hawthorne.

The place opened a few days before Christmas, and I’m just not getting the sense that it’s booming as I bike by every day. Indeed, most days, I see the proprietors–a pair of affable Latinas–looking a bit bored inside. More often than not, there are no customers in there–at 6:30 p.m., no less.  

We got takeout there once, over the Christmas break. I got the “Bonless” chicken with rice and beans; I may never get tired of English-as-a-second-language typos on menus, a pastime stoked across many years of visiting the curry joints and their malaprop-rich menus on 6th Street in the East Village.

The food was decent. The portions were huge; I had my bonless chicken for dinner, had it for lunch the next day, and even snuck a few bonless bits into the Hawthorne multiplex for a snack during Invictus a few days later.

The Missus wasn’t so wild about hers. She detected a shallow pool of oil in the bottom of her aluminum dish, which likely means we’ll never go back.

The main proprietor was sweet and said she lived a few doors down, and that her kid goes to Hawthorne Elementary School.

So let’s get out and support the newest culinary addition to Hawthorne Heights. They even serve breakfast. The food may not be Gramercy Tavern-level, but it’s better than that dirty comic book shop/deli that used to grace the main drag.  

Well, four months after it opened, the TJs finally got out to visit the High Line, the marvelous raised pedestrian park on the Way West Side of Manhattan. What took us so long? Well, it’s a hike from work, the family doesn’t get into the city much, and we’d heard the High Line was, like, cursed or something.

But we made it out yesterday, a near-perfect blue skyed fall day. We easily found a parking spot on Little West 12th, did the requisite staring-at-the-sign for several minutes, wondering if it was too good to be true, then ventured across the street to the rail trail’s southern entrance.

We had a stroller, and there are dozens of stairs and no elevator at that entrance, so we had to take Little Miss C out and haul the stroller up two sets of stairs. I believe the elevator is located at 16th Street.

It being a beautiful fall day and all, the High Line was packed — lots of accents (mostly English) and lots of people snapping photos. On the ride down, stuck in Giants traffic north of the GBW, I’d promised Little G ample views of his beloved “Enterpire” State Building. We did catch one glimpse at the ol’ beauty, but the great views from the High Line are along the Hudson: ferries ferrying by, motorboats, cruise ships, and Jersey doing its jersey thing across the way.

The park is a mix of concrete walkways, boards and what High Liners call “Wild”–the fauna growing on the sides of the walkways. Park volunteers are quite adamant about keeping the Wild wild–one snapped at me for standing too close to what are essentially weeds.

We met some friends, including a very pregnant woman and their 3 1/2 year old, so we didn’t conquer the whole Line. We found seats and a table at a recessed deck area near 15th, and the kids got cupcakes from a stand along the Line. There was no line for the bathroom, and there were even a pair of attendants handing out paper towels just outside the bathroom doors.

The most unique architectural element we saw was some wooden auditorium seating built into the platform around 16th Street, with the bench seats facing a glass wall that shows traffic racing up 10th Avenue. The kids loved watching the cabs, buses and cars roll by. Dad dug it too.

The High Line was teeming with humanity yesterday, but it never felt packed, as everyone keeps moving. The vibe was very positive–everyone seemed impressed, everyone appeared happy to be there. There were plenty of seats, including some wooden platform seating affixed to the old rails that actually slid a few feet in either direction. The kids loved it–there were ramps to climb, buildings on stilts to walk under, rails just below floor level to race along (”I’m Thomas!” “No, I’m Thomas!”), and of course cupcakes to eat. Small children can peer through the walls of the rail trail at the streets below, and I didn’t see any spots where a kid was actually in danger of falling to the street.

The Missus lamented the lack of alcoholic beverages on the Line; indeed, in our previous life, it would’ve been perfect to order a beer or white wine and watch the sun slide down below Jersey. But one can certainly understand the notion of not selling booze to people walking about some 30-50 feet in the air. And there are oodles of trendy brunch spots under the Line, including the recently opened new Standard Grill (one star, NY Times); the teeming Meatpacking District surrounding the High Line is either Manhattan at its shimmery best, or the worst collection of over-trendy restaurants jammed with fading Carrie Bradshaws, depending on your take on New York.

For the more downmarket hunger victims among us, there was a perfectly adequate hot dog stand at the base of the stairs on West 12th.

One very New York-y thing I noticed: lots and lots (and lots) of people snapping photos along the High Line. But they weren’t the typical landscape–cool pedestrian park, river, skyscrapers–shots. No, in true Gotham style, these were glammy shots of friends and loved ones, attempting to look their hippest in a cool setting.

All told, a memorable visit to a compelling landmark.

[image: NY Times]

As I unlocked my bike from the Hawthorne bike rack at precisely 6:30 last night, I heard the bells from that lonely 1800s church on the other side of the tracks. The bells were chiming that familiar church-y DUHHH duhhh DIIIHHH duhh/DUHHH duhhh DIIIHHH duhh–better known as the tail end of that delicious guitar solo by The Edge in “11 O’Clock Tick Tock.”

Yes, U2 is on the brain, because U2 is in town, or at least somewhere in the swamps of Jersey just west of town. And the Sisters TJ were good enough to spring for tickets for me and The Missus for my birthday.

How to get to the show? G. Francis mentioned venturing out via rail–that train to the Secaucus station, as Jersey Jim tried for the Dead recently, then light rail (or is it a shuttle bus?) to the Meadowlands. Surely G. Francis wants no part of automobile travel after sitting in Foxboro/Gillette Stadium parking lot standstill morass for two hours after U2’s Boston-area show a few nights ago.

I was tempted to try the same, but it appears I’ll schlep back to Hawthorne, where the Missus will be waiting in our four-wheeled, four-doored, four-cylindered vehicle which, last time I checked, had four U2 CDs in the center console.

This has gotten me thinking about the various ways I got to U2 shows since I first saw them on Long Island 25 24 years ago.

Indeed, it was 1984 [Editor’s Note: It was actually 1985. The Missus pulled out her old Unforgettable Fire concert shirt (gray) and found the date: April 3, 1985, Hempstead, NY. I stand corrected.], and I left for the show the moment a pre-season baseball game against St. Anthony’s had ended. It was early spring, way too cold for a baseball game, and Sweet Pete in centerfield took a fateful step forward on a frozen rope off some overfed Catholic boy’s bat that ended up going for a homer.

I did a quick change at home (you couldn’t go to a U2 show in a JV baseball uniform!), then got picked up by my neighbor–an upperclassman with a car and a role as bassist in a local new wave band.

We drove to Nassau Coliseum, found our seats, and I remember smelling pot to a degree I’d never smelled it before. The tour was “Unforgettable Fire” and U2 opened up with, yes, “11 O’Clock Tick Tock,” and I may never forget it.

I later ended up writing about that hard-to-shake pot smell in our high school literary journal, which resulted in the journal’s editor, an English teacher with a Greek name that sounded like “Lemonade”, having a serious sit-down with me over the dangers of drugs.

Admittedly, my memory is as foggy as the air in the Coliseum that night.  But I believe my next U2 show was September 1987 in Boston. I was with Slick Rick (not to be confused with Sweet Pete) and we had the brilliant idea of hitchhiking from Kingston, RI to Boston, scoring tickets to the old Boston Garden, then sleeping outside somewhere, like Boston Common.

We composed a large sign with an upraised thumb on it, stapled it to a stick, and hit Rte. 138. Moments later, a girl from my hall pulled over and said we could ride in the back of her pickup as she headed home to the Boston suburbs. “Score!” we said, as was the parlance at the time. Or maybe we said “We’re golden!”

Well, the show was great (the tour was Joshua Tree), even if the Boston Garden was too awful to be charming. We sat behind a large post and there were birds flying around in the rafters.  

Boston was in a downpour and we couldn’t sleep outside, so we made our way to Boston College via the T. Upon arriving around midnight or so, we walked around campus and asked dozens of people if they knew our high school friend–a freshman who’d been been at BC for about two weeks, and represented the difference between sleeping on a train station floor or a dorm floor.

Nobody knew our friend, until we desperately threw out his nickname: Fozzie Bear.

“Foz!” said a student in reply. “I’m going to his room now! He’s having a party! You know Foz?”

Ah, the charmed life of youth. Fozzie was spinning drinks from behind his homemade bar. When we walked in, he was so shocked he fell forward and trashed his bar to splinters. We had a place to drink and, more importantly, crash.

Then came the post-college city years, and I don’t remember much of the details. Quick cab or N/R train hops up to the Garden (Achtung Baby? All That You Can’t Leave Behind?), an occasional schlep out to the Meadowlands by car (Zooropa?), and one show that had a number of Mini cars (the European pre-cursor to the Mini-Cooper) affixed to the ceiling.

The best of the city shows was the most impromptu one–a hush-hush U2 press conference/performance at none other than the K-Mart on Astor Place, which I walked to and, if memory serves, was one of a few hundred people to witness. (Look it up, it really happened.) The album was Pop, the tour was PopMart and the year was 1997; cellphones were not that common and a hush-hush event in the middle of New York City could actually stay relatively hush-hush.

A few months later, me, Sweet Pete (recovered from the centerfield incident), G. Francis, Phat Tommy and Joey from 5D drove down to Philly for a show at Franklin Field. U2 was in a weird place then — the album didn’t sell, people didn’t get the ironic concept, and they were playing to a lot of empty seats. When we got to Philly with time to spare, we did what you do in Philly (no, not boo Donovan McNabb and punch the guy on your left). We got cheesesteaks at one of the famous places (Pat’s? A Wiz without? Wiz or Without You?), got a Guinness at a jammed Irish pub in the city center, then walked over to the ancient stadium at UPenn.

There was a giant toothpick and lit up olive onstage. Entire sections were bereft of mankind. The old-style urinal was equipped for about eight men.

Then I believe I got old, got lazy, swore off stadium shows, and stopped seeing U2.

Until tonight.

For some reason, the Missus and I were discussing a commercial we’d (separately) seen for a pinstriped Yankeemobile–some car painted in full New York Yankees regalia for the taste-challenged Bronx Bombers fan in your life.

Mind you, neither the Missus nor I–Sox fan and Mets fan, respectively–can stomach much of anything Yankee-related. But we were truthfully discussing how many of the Yankeemobiles actually get sold. I know hardcore Yankee fans–some I’d even call friends–but nobody I know would ever drive such a thing.

We also discussed the insurance aspect of owning the Yankeemobile. Mind you, we live in the heart of Yankee Country, which becomes abundantly more evident when the Yankees are actually in the midst of a good season. But surely there are Yankee haters around, some who see it as their duty as card-carrying Yankee haters to key up the Yankeemobile parked next to them in the parking lot. And surely there would be times when you drive beyond the greater New York area, and perhaps even toward that crimson country known as Red Sox Nation a few hours to the north east.

In short, we decided that nobody-but-nobody would ever actually be caught dead in such a thing. Caught dead in a Yankee pinstriped coffin, perhaps, but not the Yankeemobile.

But wait. There it was, a pinstriped Jeep Cherokee, interlocking N and Y on the hood, in the Hawthorne station parking lot this morning. It was in a prime I-got-here-early spot, and the driver had backed into the space, freeing up precious seconds this evening when he’s able to simply pop the thing into Drive and, presumably, jet on down to the House That Ruth(less Pursuit of Free Agents) Built. Its grill was grinning greedily over the whole of the parking lot, like Clemens after striking out 15 and beaning three.

My only question is, if you’re already getting the pinstriped Yankee S.U.V., why not just go all out and get the pinstriped Yankee Hummer?

As I’d mentioned the other day, I approached my trusty station cycle, an aging Trek mountainbike, in the garage Tuesday morning, only to find it had a flat rear tire. After a frustrating walk to and from the station Tuesday, I attempted to change the tire myself that evening–only to realize all those sprocket thingees are affixed to the back wheel, and if it’s changeable, I don’t know how to do it. I gave up with my hands covered in black grease.

So it’s on to those really good bike guys at that really good bike shop in Chappaqua.

In the meantime, The Missus has been kind enough to let me borrow her bike. Which is fine, except it’s a girl’s bike. It’s got pink streamers flying out of the handgrips, a Dora pad on the bar connecting the handlebars, a Duran Duran pennant hanging from a rod sticking out of the rear fender, and, most egregious, Strawberry shortcake trading cards taped to the spokes.

OK, none of that is true. It’s a perfectly normal looking black bike. It even has a sissy bar and all, prompting The Missus to wonder about the accuracy of the ’sissy bar’ phrase–if it’s boys, not girls, who feel the pain should they slide from the seat onto the scrotum-cleaving sissy bar, why, then, is it a sissy bar? Why not, say, a manly bar?

So I’m off to the station on a different ride this week. To be clear, it’s my girl’s bike–not my girls bike.

I was aiming for the 6:33 yesterday, not my usual 5:46.

Yanked from my typical routine, I didn’t execute my walk to GCT with its usual urgency.

Asleep at the switch as I ambled toward Grand Central, I checked the time at 42nd, across from the GCT entrance: 6:32 and a few seconds.

I contemplated some serious Perishing Square maneuvers, then waited for a break and bolted across 42nd. I checked the monitor as soon as I got inside: It said the 6:33 on Track 15 had, in fact, “DEPARTED.”

The next train was 26 minutes later. A huge deal, in the scope of things? Of course not. Get a beer and the Post, find a chair, take a breather.

A big deal at the time? F***, yeah. The Missus is probably ready to throttle Thing 1 and Thing 2 after a long day. I don’t get enough time with the kids to begin with. I had to make the 6:33.

Having learned not to believe everything I hear from the MTA, I pulled some serious LaTrainian Tomlinson toward Track 15, which is a bit of a hike from the Pershing Square Entrance. There was some physical contact in the jammed concourse; it was mostly my fault and I’m sorry.

As I approached the opening to the platform, I spied a woman sprinting toward the train from the opposite direction. From her vantage point, she could see down the platform; was the train still there?

Indeed, it was, I confirmed as I hit the ramp. The train’s lights were blinking–no, I’m positive they were–and the conductor’s rather large head was out window, shaking in disapproval.

I sprinted down the ramp. He tapped the side of the train impatiently. I made the doorway, the doors slammed shut, and we headed toward Harlem.

Departed, my ass.

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.

No sooner did I get home from work Friday, visions of “broken tracks” in Scarsdale having slowed down my morning commute hours before, when Little G ran over to me to read a book he’d grabbed from the library that afternoon.

It was called, fittingly, A Crack in the Track. A Crack in the Track is what they might’ve called a mash-up back in, oh, 2005 — two popular things jammed together as one. Ya know, a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, or Mork popping up on Happy Days. A Crack features the beloved Thomas the Tank Engine franchise cranked through the Dr. Seuss rhym-o-matic; indeed, the Seussian Cat in the Hat logo is on the top right corner of the cover.

A Crack sees Thomas chugging along, doing his thing as a useful little engine, when a sudden hailstorm on the island of Sodor busts a track. Friday’s 8:16 out of Hummerville actually fared better than Thomas, as his riders were forced off the train, where they were met by Bertie Bus, who cheerfully insisted to whoever would listen that buses were every bit as good as trains.

Alas, Bertie was waylaid by a toad in the middle of the road. The feckless passengers were rerouted to a train station within walking distance (you can make out ‘Ridge’ in the name, but not the first part of it), but the trains still weren’t running.

So along came Harold the Helicopter. Borrowing a page from the Bertie the Bus playbook, Harold too insisted helicopters were as good as trains.

Some time later, Thomas — and James, and Gordon, and of course Percy — were up and running again after the crack was fixed. Through it all, the good people of Sodor kept their composure. Which isn’t really that much of an accomplishment, because I don’t think anyone besides rail master Sir Topham Hatt actually works on Sodor.

What’s peculiar about A Crack in the Track is , despite the rhyme in the title, it doesn’t quite throw itself into the Seuss concept. There are random rhyming bits (So no trains could move up. And no trains could move back. They were stuck where they were at that crack in the track.), but long stretches where it’s just straight up non-rhyming prose. It’s like the Thomas camp and the Seuss camp started bumping heads midway through the project, couldn’t back out of the deal, and ended up with some half-assed compromise that doesn’t represent either brand very well.

The Missus, who knows a thing or two about children’s lit, says it may be a byproduct of the book being part of the “Beginner Book” series, where only a certain number of different words can be used.

Perhaps. Either way, it’s a fairly forgettable read, and one you may want to avoid if you’ve suffered your own Crack in the Track experience that day.

We had the pleasure of dining out at The Cabin over the weekend, a smallish lodge-style place on Rte. 100 on the border of Valhalla and Greenburgh–not far from Westchester Community College and about three miles south of Hawthorne train station.

The Cabin reopened over the summer after sitting dormant for two years; LoHud foodie wiz Liz Johnson was quite chuffed when she learned it was reopening. To be honest, it still isn’t much to look at from the outside–a fairly forlorn little joint sitting at a busy intersection. But some festive holiday lights perk the exterior up a bit, and the inside is lively and nice to look at.

And the grub–call it upscale comfort food–was very good. I got the cedar planked salmon ($15.95), which was a terrific piece of fish, though I could’ve done without the pool of butter. The Missus had the pan-seared scallops ($17.95), which were big as snowballs; she couldn’t finish one of the three, so Little G was more than happy to take it off her hands. I had a pint of some private label dark ale whose name I don’t remember, which tasted OK and was way too cold–something I seem to see a lot of in Westchester. (For a free beer-guy Sam Adams at Grand Central–which Mount Pleasant pub brags about “the coldest beer in all of Westchester?”)

The Cabin was expansive and the service pretty attentive. As dinky as it looks on the outside, you have plenty of elbow room once you’re seated, even with a giant coal pizza oven jutting into the middle of the dining room. The motif is Adirondack lodge-y, with an actual bearskin rug over by the bar (not sure if they were trying to be ironic or not).

I like the way the bar is set up, a sizeable offshoot to the dining room, where one could presumably make lots of boozy noise and not really bother the diners.

We went the day after Valentine’s Day, which is certainly an odd night for restaurants. Most everyone in the place was between 60 and 70, and Little G and Little Miss C were just about the only kids in the place, which is peculiar for the ‘burbs.

We definitely recommend The Cabin, and definitely remind getting The Missus’s folks to pay, as I did Sunday night.

PAST RESTAURANT STUFF:

Iron Horse Grill in Priusville

Hudson Line Pub Crawl