Call me a purist, pedant or a party-pooper, but I’ve never been one for putting “e”s where they don’t belong. Ye Olde Towne Grille, for instance, to my mind suggests an upstart restaurant for sure, an arriviste, whereas plain Old Town Grill whets my curiosity and, better still, my appetite.
After a false start a few weeks ago when I somehow managed to book dinner at Club Car Grille in Irvington, a restaurant that had not yet opened – thank you, OpenTable – I made it back this week, willing to overlook that pesky “e” on Grill since the milk of human kindness really does flow through my veins. Most of them, anyway.
Originally a diner called Benny’s, later Captain’s Den, then lastly River City Grill, the restaurant is now under the capable ownership of Dobbs Ferry-born and -bred Matt Kay, who also has the Hudson Social restaurant in the ticket office of the old station there.
Given Kay’s – forgive the pun – track record, you might expect Club Car Grille, “e” or no “e,” to reference the railroad. But if my dinner guest and I hadn’t known from the “Our Story” section of the website that the dining room and bar room sat in a former mid-1900s train car, we’d have been none the wiser as we stepped inside the low-slung room, which looks out, not disagreeably, on Irvington’s South Broadway. No “olde” train posters, no menus made to look like timetables, no “Chattanooga Choo Choo” (or even “Locomotion”) on the sound system. Sting, yes, Bob Marley – lots of him – but nothing remotely train-like. And if we were hoping for a caboose-type experience in the bar room at far end of the restaurant, where we found additional seating at high tables, we were in for a disappointment, because this was just a regular bar, albeit quite a jolly one with a vaguely speakeasy-ish energy, perhaps on account of it being a little hidden away.
What Club Car Grille did give off, though, and in the circumstances perhaps a little perversely, was a strong maritime vibe. With its blue and white color palette – white tablecloths, navy blue napkins and a little blue glass with a tea light on each table, it was quite easy to think I was in the posh dining room on an upscale Silversea cruise.
I mean, was it my imagination, or was the room starting to sway a little as we settled into a comfortable corner table to consider the cocktail list and menu? Luckily, I’m a good sailor, as was my guest. But I jest. The room was as steady and trustworthy as its “American grill” menu, which offered soups; raw bar clams, shrimp and oysters; hearty all-American salads; a sprinkling of pastas, for those unwilling or unable to get into the grill-room frame of mind; and, last but not least, some strapping steaks and chops.
Everything we ate hit the mark, starting with an excellent New England chowder, pale ivory in color, rich and creamy and not overly bulked out with potato, the downfall of many an otherwise fine chowder. A vast bowl of perfectly steamed mussels came strewn with stems of thyme, served in a traditional white wine and garlic sauce, what the French call à la marinière – not to be confused with a red American marinara sauce, although they do mussels that way here, too. Then, a luscious lobster roll, all right a little heavy on the onion perhaps if you’re looking to cavil but honestly grand, served in a lovely featherlight bun brushed with butter, and with piping hot French fries. And what about the pièce de resistance, a handsome prime New York strip, served pink as requested and juicy as a summer peach and brought to the table by chef Michael Wendt himself? Thank you, sir: It was first-rate.
And then, just as we were tucking into our shared dessert – a really great banana bread pudding, served with vanilla ice cream and anointed with a finger-lickin’ good bourbon caramel sauce, it happened. My guest let out a little cry. On the far wall, under a sign pointing to the restrooms, he had spied the first railroad reference – a sort of frieze of a train winding through a snowy, mountainous landscape.
Somehow, we felt vindicated. There was a train after all – hurrah. We drained our glasses of the rather good Les Charmes white Burgundy we’d been drinking, settled our bill with Santiago, the effortlessly charming manager, and agreed to make a return visit soon – perhaps for Sunday brunch next time. On the short ride home, meanwhile, we thought of all the “train” songs we could — “Last Train to Clarksville;” “Train in Vain’ by The Clash; Burt Bacharach and Hal David’s immortal “Trains and Boats and Planes” – plus a dozen more, and that was before we’d even got to Tarrytown.
“This has to stop,” moaned my friend. “Or do you mean ‘s-t-o-p-p-e?,” I asked him, spelling it out. “I think I do,” he said. Full of good food and good Chardonnay, we both laughed.
For more, visit clubcargrille.com.
