Poetry Restaurant Poetry

Woodberry Kitchen – Restaurant Poetry

Woodberry Kitchen BaltimoreWoodberry Kitchen Woodberry Kitchen

Woodberry KitchenWoodberry Kitchen Woodberry Kitchen photo-225


The taxi sped off toward Hampden. Wind lashing my hair, the road narrowed,
the air grew still, as we approached Woodberry Kitchen in the refurbished mill.

Sometimes a person takes stock of their inner merits after surveying
stacks of preserved food in jars and the bottling of housemade spirits.

That night, Romance came laced with verjus and muddled Mara de bois berries
Peach-Ade arrived as promised, peach and Eureka lemons, no need to be wary.

On to a Harvest Slaw with batons of celery root and honey crisp apples, pecans,
“ash log” and mayo with a crunch and creaminess, enough to make me reckon

I would return. Out came the cast iron pan, hoe cakes topped with roasted
eggplant, sweet peppers, smashed tomatoes and squash from local crops,

paired judiciously with a trace of creamy quark. Can the consummate dinner
end well, can the dessert be driven by housemade detail and end up a winner?

A tall glass called C.M.P. arrived as I gathered up any and all stores of hunger.
My spoon chipped the candy surface with a clatter down to plunder past cream

Of marshmallow to wet peanuts, deeper still digging into chocolate ganache
and malted ice cream, flavors that when swirled together gave me pause.

This might be the meal to end all meals: the food, the drinks, dessert
or service, the 10,000 pounds of tomatoes processed for winter menus

(such fast, slow work, preserving what is now for what is to come) for when
tomatoes are not sprouting off the bush curling up from the ground.

Oh, to peek in that larder and espy the oven to heat the jars or the cauldron
in which they bathe – To poke my head into the charcuterie closet and gaze

at hanging salami or peer out at the shelves lining the hallway, jewel- tone
jams soldiering on by pert pickles or a vat of sourdough starter. Everyone

a miserly master of gleaning more from the fruit of the earth of shaping spelt and rye bread
baked in the wood-burning oven, housemade butter churning in anticipation of the well-fed.

If I might find a reason to return to Baltimore and feast at Woodberry,
I’d be ready to avow, that this kitchen here and now pricked something sacred

into being, not just snake oil (fish pepper hot sauce) slathered on a ho-hum meal.
It should come as no surprise that a year later, almost to the day, with much zeal,

a cab sped toward the Hampden neighborhood that I could return to by look and feel.
Thus arrived a young carrot salad with frilly tops laced with rocket, drizzled with pecan

pesto, tarragon dressing and Ewe’s cream. This time I took note of hard cider, but
settled on sipping a Red Cyrus with muddled nectarines, verjus, basil, wild honey, a glut

of entrée choices lay before me. For the main course, I dined on stewed rye berries,
on summer squash, green beans, eggplant and peppers to make the mouth merry

relishing the chewy grains dripping with heirloom tomato dressing. Next to choose a new
drink, out came a Wayfarer of sumac tincture, caramelized watermelon sugar and juice.

Not a restaurant reviewer, but a reveler, I’d been inspired to take up tongs after a three hour
dinner, but first my fork sank into flaky crust and I regressed into childhood via Concord Grapes,

then into Vanessa grape ice cream as my eyes closed envisioning peeling skins from pulp,
pressing out seeds, separated from gel. The time had come to leave again and mull

what might become a yearly rite to enter fall at this bustling refurbished mill.
Until then, inspired to cook and to can, off to my kitchen I went by a matter of will.

– The Restaurant Poem is dedicated to Hannah (and now Brad), servers with much spirit –

Woodberry KitchenWoodberry Kitchen Woodberry Kitchen Woodberry Kitchen pie

Woodberry KitchenWoodberry KitchenWoodberry Kitchen LarderWoodberry Kitchen

Restaurant Poetry inspired by
Woodberry Kitchen
2010 Clipper Park Rd., No. 126
Baltimore, MD 21211

Not satisfied yet? Let the New York Times persuade.

Woodberry Kitchen

Poetry Restaurant Poetry

Restaurant Poetry: Volcano Curry


by Annelies Zijderveld


When the coming blanket of fog buffets the sky

like stallions set to flight, an awakening begins

to rise and rumble in my stomach with insistence.


Off we go in search of something hot to head off

the chill that clings to all of our corners. In search

of a Volcano we depart, determined to quash the grey

skies enveloping us in their cold kiss. Upon opening

the door, a rush of heat sweeps us.  You are rote and


I am trite- we recall our orders easily from memory,

“Hot chicken katsu curry with noodles, zucchini

and extra fukujinzuke” tumbles out like a preamble

or perhaps instead “Hot original curry with eggplant”

makes its way from my mouth into an order written

at the register.  Then the server looks from me to you:


“Volcano tomato chicken curry with rice,” you chirp,

your voice escalating in a salivating salutation of

to-go bowls and boxes brimming with our chosen

ingredients. She begins to close the order, as you add,

“Throw in a potato and onion croquette,” expectedly.


As we wait our order to be called, we sit and marvel

at the packed restaurant, the broad white plates with

curry that swims to the outer edges and punches the air.


I try to sneak peeks into the cordoned off area,

through the curtained door to glimpse ingredients

in symphony, instead I catch the cooks’ music:


the tall lean bodies working the line- this one plays

his instrument and thumps a bowl of rice down on

a plate. Another spoons zucchini on the rice, then

passes the plate to a guy waiting, spoon raised as

a slick brown sauce hits the surface, boiled potatoes

and carrots bobbing up against fukujinzuke pickles.


She calls our name. We rise in anticipation of sinking

our chopsticks into the curly crunchy mess and begin

our way home, the curry redolent of hot spice and apple.


Roux clings to udon noodles twirling round my hungry

fork. The katsu crunch is slicked with sauce. Somehow

the container is clean, quickly. As sure as the fog will

roll in, we will once again make our way back to Volcano.

Restaurant Poetry Volcano Japanese Curry The Food Poet