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Column: A river runs through it

On a recent stray weekend in Manhattan, we decided to head up the Hudson to one of our favorite river towns, Cold Spring. We had been several times before and thought we could catch some early fall foliage at the top end of the trip, but we were too early. The village, located in the Hudson Highlands, sits at the deepest point of the river, directly across from West Point.

It’s a pleasant trip on a Metro North train out of Grand Central, although for reasons unclear as we headed out, the train became completely packed with passengers to the point that all the aisles were filled with overflow riders standing unperturbed. They were mostly young people with hiking shoes, and we surmised that they were heading toward the many networks of trails along the way, and indeed, by the time we got to Cold Spring, most had disembarked, wearing their wacky socks and toting their backpacks and water bottles.

A sizable crowd got off at Cold Spring, which has a charming village to meander through, but our goal was the Depot restaurant, right by the train tracks, a place that we had stumbled into on our first visit and have patronized ever since. It’s deliberately scruffy but pumps out particularly suitable food. I always get the steamed clams, but this time I recklessly ordered a Swiss burger to boot.

I have had 10 million hamburgers in my so-called life, but rarely have been unable to finish one. I could tell right away there was no way I could consume the monster placed before me, post-clams. It was stacked with lettuce, tomato, pickles, Portobellos and some stuff I didn’t recognize right off the bat. The beef patty — and calling this discus-like thing a patty does a disservice to the word patty — was protruding outside the bun all-round.

With two bites, the whole construction began coming unglued. The bottom part of the bun disintegrated under the overload of ingredients on top of it, just as those ingredients started pouring over the edge of the “patty.” Eating the burger in the conventional manner became impossible. I took off the top part of the bun, placed it aside and attacked the remaining “patty” as if I had ordered a bunless hamburger platter.

Jane had ordered a bacon burger, every bit as towering and massive as mine, but she had wisely cut hers in two to better attack the critter. Her plate was pristine, the burger recognizable as a burger. (Of course!) She looked disdainfully at the disaster across the table. Nice job, she said.

The waitress popped over early, sensing that the eyes-being-bigger-than-the-stomach syndrome had probably kicked in and mercifully removed the evidence. (Jane got through three-quarters of the bacon monolith.)

We tottered outside and strolled up Main Street, dotted with cool shops and stores. It was good to get moving after the burger episode, and after a half hour we headed back to the waterfront.

For the first time, we had made reservations on a boat for the return to the city. It was a nice, good-sized ship and we set off amid the rolling green hills bordering the Hudson. We cruised by West Point and marinas and villages. It was ridiculously soothing.

Then we were in Tarrytown and the new bridge there and the scenery became increasingly urban. Next we crossed under the George Washington Bridge and we were in the city proper.

I am not the only New York resident who is angered, if not appalled, at the outbreak of these super-tall, super-thin skyscrapers that are popping up everywhere. I want the old skyline back: The Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the Woolworth Building. Can’t bring back the Twin Towers and their replacement doesn’t do much for anyone. As we cruised by what is called the Far West side with its explosion of gleaming towers, I felt nostalgic for the massive rundown rail yards they replaced. 

We tied up around Wall Street and planned to take the subway back but nearly were run down by a taxi and decided it was an omen. We hopped in and reveled at the contrast between where we were and where we had been.

Burger disaster notwithstanding, I wanted to be in Cold Spring, to say nothing about our warm, friendly home smack dab in the center of Shelter Island. Not a skyscraper in sight.