Cafe Mutton an unassuming winner
Chef-owner of new Hudson casual spot finds inventive ways of creating intriguing meals from the cuts less chosen
Any place that can post a flat roasted pig’s face on Instagram for a dinner special; name a prune juice/vodka/amaro cocktail the Poo Driver; and proudly own the beigeness of its menu — which resembles a public affair with secondary meats, cheese-gilded crepes, wobbly farm eggs and house baked scones — is all right with me. Not only do I want to eat there, I want to go often for the unpredictability of what chef-owner Shaina Loew-Banayan will cook next.
Cafe Mutton anchors a lightsplashed corner of Hudson’s Columbia Street, a spot previously home to Relish Delights and, before that, Hudson Board Game. Its kohl-black trim cuts a striking pose a few doors up from the pink-and-orange hues of Lil Deb’s Oasis on a quiet block that whispers, “Psst, over here!” and lures an inclusive crowd off Warren Street. After seeing the space in February last year, LoewBanayan signed the lease, left their position as executive chef at The Bartlett House in Ghent and opened Cafe Mutton three months later, fulfilling a childhood dream.
An unapologetically slim menu served up by Loew-Banayan; their manager-wife, Bettina; and Feather Krein, an all-round “kitchen machine,” is the backbone of Cafe Mutton, a farm-fed powerhouse that knows what you need better than you do. Looking for matcha tea and hardscrambled egg whites? No, love. You want a headcheese sandwich, a cocktail in a teacup and crusty baguettes thickly spread with salted, cultured Vermont butter and salami or anchovies.
Why Cafe Mutton? LoewBanayan’s response to that “always seems to vary,” they laugh. “First, it’s hard to name a restaurant; second, ‘mutton’ just has a certain sound; and third, in America, it’s a sort of spurned meat — old lamb. It’s the punk of the meat world — what people don’t want.”
In truth, the revival of zerowaste, whole-animal cooking and abundant regional farms have made people increasingly open to less-loved animal parts, from chopped liver to braised tongue. The skills Loew-Banayan honed at culinary school, followed by Eleven Madison Park and Prune in New York City and, in Columbia County, The Bartlett House and the former Fish & Game, mean they’re at home with the odd cuts and excess from local farms. They make their signature country paté and sausages inhouse, sourcing meat from Kinderhook Farm; the half pig’s head was offered to Loew-Banayan, left over from a custom order, and they also snapped up the mutton breast available that day.
Guest stars are hyper local too: vegetables from MX Morning Star and Ironwood Farms, chicken and eggs from Yellow Bell, a relative’s farm in Red Hook. With poached eggs draped in decadent hollandaise thick as pudding, winter-busting soups licked with dill and creme fraiche, and lard used as lubricant not a ration, it’s exciting they’ve expanded former daytime-only hours to Friday nights, when mussels on toast float in an herb-butter moat and freshly shucked oysters play accomplice to glazed mutton breast with turnip slaw or pork shank with lentils. You could take it to go or dine in and sip a dirty martini with hot pickled pepper juice or a gin-and-maraschino liqueur concoction called Brick Titties. Loew-Banayan is a certified cicerone, too, and the canned craft beer selection is on point.
The interior reads like a reclaimed story, stripped bare to original wood and a library nook physically elevated in the window with books lining skinny shelves. Counters are set for those eating alone, and two- and four-top wooden tables resemble the old-fashioned breakfast room of a cottage B&B. Mismatched vintage china has new life as the floral backdrop to the stories on the plate.
But it’s what’s on board that shines: A huge golden crepe in tri-folds filled with orgiastic caramelized onions and Gouda wears an RBG lace collar made of crisp cheese tuile, and a wobbly poached egg, speared, spills its orange, yolky glory on top. Tortilla Española arrives in a thick wedge, potatoes sliding from its soft middle to be swabbed in pimenton aioli.
I’ve come for the scrapple, a soft landing of loosely congealed head meat, spices and polenta in subtly sweet slabs, under a fried egg and sauteed potatoes: A perfect late morning smash. Beside us, a solo diner turns pages of a book while spooning up rice porridge stained orange-yellow with egg yolk and chile crisp oil, a face-slapping antidote to this ice-cold winter day.
You might want the fried bologna sandwich, with or without a bloody Mary. Don’t miss the sticky bun, coiled in on itself and dripping in thick honey caramel, or orange muffins standing high in paper crowns. I’d heard LoewBanayan’s mystical buckwheat scones sell out fast, and indeed they were gone. Loew-Banayan’ll have to double batches to meet demand. The only thing not house-made are crusty baguettes — sourced from The Bartlett House bakery, of course.
With “Layla” by Derek and the Dominoes as our soundtrack, cocktails at lunchtime and retro dishes that could place you squarely in a ‘70s cafe, the only thing missing is cigarette smoke and ashtrays. Some things can’t be brought back.
Counter service feels retro in its own way, like many a greasy spoon. Consult the chalkboard menu or the lone menu at the counter, order, pay and pick a table. Delivery is tableside and swift. The lemony hot toddy in bone-china cup and saucer comes first, followed by the darkly brown Poo Driver with Fernet’s lightly medicinal taste to get things moving.
We step outside, blinking at the sunshine on a wintry afternoon, warmed to the core and planning a return for Friday night.