Turn the Corner: When a convenience store started to disturb a neighborhood, residents, backed by the city, did something about it.

November 28, 2014 | by Paul Barker

On the afternoon of Friday, May 30, Dave Patton, Harrisburg’s codes administrator, walked into the T-Mart convenience store and asked to see its health license.

As a business, the T-Mart, at the corner of N. 3^rd and Herr streets, was in some ways typical of its environs, the patchy commercial district north of Forster, in the city’s Midtown neighborhood. Across Herr Street is a new Moroccan restaurant; across 3^rd, takeout Chinese. Further down the block is a diverse array of businesses, including a trendy pasta place, a greasy spoon, a barber and a pawn shop with red and yellow banners saying, “We Buy Gold.” The T-Mart was just one more business in the mix, carrying the usual corner-store fare: cigarettes, cell phones, candy, toilet paper, over-the-counter painkillers.

In other ways, though, the T-Mart stuck out like a sore thumb. Not long after it opened, in early 2012, the store erected a wooden produce stand along one of its exterior walls. Often, the stand was empty, but when it did have fruit, it was of questionable quality. “It looked like the stuff that fell off the back of the truck,” one neighbor told me. Then there were the windows. Initially, the owner filled them with flyers and ads, so that it was difficult to see into the store from outside. Then, starting sometime in 2013, they kept getting busted in. That October, and again in January and May of this year, police got reports of someone smashing the glass in the shop’s front door.

On May 12, someone threw a brick through one of the main windows, and, shortly afterwards, large plywood panels appeared, covering all the glass on both sides of the door. Now there were no views into the building whatsoever. As one neighbor put it in an email to the city, they made “an occupied store look abandoned.” (Cigarettes, other unnamed items and a total of $850 were reported stolen in connection with these break-ins, according to police reports.)

But the T-Mart’s most unusual feature was the traffic outside its door. Particularly beginning in the winter of 2014, neighbors frequently witnessed what they took to calling “curb service”—a car would roll up, and someone would come out of the T-Mart with what looked like a Styrofoam takeout tray in a plastic bag. The store, however, didn’t sell prepared food. The T-Mart also started to keep irregular hours, which led to another strange phenomenon. People would hover outside the entrance, waiting for it to open. Neighbors found this odd, because there were other convenience stores a few doors away, selling substantially the same items. “If you need a cigarette, it’s over there. If you need a Coca-Cola, it’s over there,” David Botero, a police department community liaison who monitored concerns about the T-Mart, told me. “Why are you waiting for this store to open, and why is there a line of people to come into the store?”

Prior to Patton’s visit, the T-Mart had already been cited a few times for various violations. In April 2013, the store was caught selling cigarettes without a license, while, more recently, earlier in May, it got nabbed for illegally selling individual cigarettes out of the pack, also known as “loosies.”

When Patton entered the store on May 30, the owner, a Nepali man named Tika Siwakoti, wasn’t there. But the man behind the counter, whom Patton took to be an employee, starting digging around in search of the license. “Nah, don’t bother,” Patton said after a moment. “I know you don’t have it.” In fact, Patton’s question was only a test; he’d looked up the T-Mart’s records at his office and knew that Siwakoti hadn’t renewed. In addition, the shop owed a couple hundred dollars in overdue mercantile taxes.

As it happened, another man in the store was on the phone with Siwakoti at that moment, and he passed the phone to Patton. “You have til Monday,” Patton told him. Siwakoti started to protest, but Patton held firm. “I don’t think you’re feeling me,” he said. He told Siwakoti that if he didn’t update his license and get current on his taxes, the city would shut him down.

One of Mayor Eric Papenfuse’s first actions in office was to promise a new approach to crime. He made Thomas Carter, a soft-spoken and courteous 26-year veteran of the force, the permanent police chief—he had been holding the position in an interim capacity—in a decision Papenfuse later called “the most important” of his first year. He also engaged Robert Martin, the longtime chief in Susquehanna Township, to consult Harrisburg in adopting “community policing” techniques. (Martin and those efforts were the subject of a profile in this magazine’s March issue.)

“Community policing” is an umbrella term for methods that are meant to improve a department’s relationship with the public. That might make it sound like a branch of marketing, and indeed, David Botero, whom Papenfuse appointed in January under the title of “community policing coordinator,” sometimes speaks of the police department’s “brand.” (In a past life, he worked at an ad agency.) But to its adherents, community policing is also about good police work. A department that has positive relationships with residents, they believe, will ultimately pick up better tips, catch more criminals and generally have an easier time doing its job.

In the case of the T-Mart, neighbors stepped up their involvement in mid-May. “People reported suspicious activity there,” Botero told me recently. “Then, when we looked into it; ‘suspicious’ turned out to be pretty legit.”

Jonathan Hendrickson, the president of Midtown Square Action Council, one of the neighborhood groups that corresponded with Botero, said that, in the preceding weeks, the situation outside the store had worsened dramatically. “We kind of called an emergency meeting, because there were some things that just had been getting really shady,” he told me.

One neighbor complained she’d been solicited for sex in front of the store. Another neighbor, fed up with what he saw as blatant evidence of drug dealing, had created around a dozen flyers advertising an “Open Air Drug Market,” which he posted on telephone poles in the neighborhood. The flyer showed a skeleton figure hawking “diesel” and “hard”—nicknames for heroin and crack cocaine, respectively—and provided T-Mart’s name, address and phone number. (Aside from Hendrickson, neighbors I spoke with asked not to be identified.)

On the morning of May 30, a neighbor emailed a contact in the mayor’s office with a complaint about the T-Mart’s boarded-up windows. The mayor’s assistant forwarded the complaint to several officials, including a police captain, Patton from codes and Botero. Within a few hours, Patton had made his visit to the store and reported back on the thread. Botero replied three minutes later. “Thank you; and excellent—great job, DP!” he wrote. He asked how much he could share with the Midtown group, which he planned to meet the following Monday. The group was “[v]ery political, very vocal, very connected,” he added. “They will be asking about this property.” (The city produced the email chain in response to a right-to-know request; the neighbor’s name was redacted.)

Initially, the city seemed to think the extra scrutiny would be enough to close the shop. “We were planning to shut everything down,” Patton told me. But, the following Monday, to his surprise, Siwakoti showed up in city hall to renew his license and pay the taxes. “We kind of had to go to Plan B,” Patton said.

“Plan B” was the codes enforcement equivalent of a full-court press. Over the next three months, the city applied every kind of pressure within reach to drive the T-Mart out of the neighborhood. In June, another police officer caught the store selling loosies. In July, and again in August, a codes inspector cited the owner for the boarded-up windows, this time filing the charges in “housing court,” a concept Papenfuse revived this year as part of a crackdown on blight. Both times, the judge, David Judy, handed down a $600 fine.

On Aug. 5, a codes inspector and a city health officer showed up at the T-Mart together and found myriad violations. The health officer’s report noted the lack of soap and paper towels in the bathroom, expired Similac baby formula for sale, and “evidence of pest on food shelving,” among other offenses. The codes report was even more voluminous. It cited exposed wiring in an electrical box, a padlocked exit door, a fire extinguisher with expired tags, one emergency light blocked by boxes and another inoperative, and a dozen other violations. Additionally, it noted there were still boards on the windows.

Meanwhile, the neighbors and Botero were in touch with the landlord, a man named Geoffrey Rhine. On May 27, Rhine had sent a termination notice to the T-Mart, which referred to lease violations as well as “complaints from others in the nearby neighborhood about the impact of activities in and around T-Mart.” On Aug. 12, he sent a second notice, ordering Siwakoti to vacate by Sept. 15. Nonetheless, by early October, the T-Mart had still not left the premises.

On Oct. 7, Hendrickson of Midtown Square Action Council sent a letter to Rhine. He claimed that, following the health inspection, the shop had switched from selling food to selling clothing and “‘burner-style’ cell phones.” He added that the neighborhood group was trying to help find a new tenant for the space, but asked Rhine to initiate eviction proceedings in the meantime. “We can do little while the property remains a blighted source of drugs and decay within our neighborhood,” he wrote. Finally, one week later, on Oct. 14, Rhine filed for eviction. “He took one for the team,” Botero told me. “He could’ve played dumb, but he did the right thing.”

Siwakoti’s eviction hearing took place on Wednesday, Oct. 29, in District Justice Barbara Pianka’s courtroom in the Uptown Shopping Plaza. At 9:30 a.m., Rhine was already there, sitting just inside the door with his hands folded in his lap. Siwakoti arrived 15 minutes later, in a tan sports jacket, light brown corduroys, and a tan ball cap with a Yankees logo. It looked as though he hadn’t shaved in several days. He spotted Rhine, walked over to him and shook his hand. “Hi, Tika,” Rhine said. Siwakoti checked in at the counter, took a seat and began reading from his phone.

Just before 10, a clerk called them into the courtroom. After a short wait, during which neither of them spoke, Pianka entered in her black judge’s robes and took her seat at the bench. Rhine, in his complaint, had not asked for any money beyond court costs; he simply wanted the eviction. He began by referring to a paragraph in Siwakoti’s lease, which required compliance “with all statutes, ordinances, and requirements of all municipal, state, and federal authorities.” Pianka stopped him, asking whether Siwakoti had a copy of the lease.

“I misplaced the lease,” Siwakoti said quietly. “I lost it.”

Pianka left to make a photocopy so that, she said, Siwakoti would “know exactly what’s taking place today.” When she came back, she handed the document to Siwakoti, who began to protest. “Your Honor, it is not really failure,” he said. “What happened was—” Pianka cut him off, telling him that Rhine had to finish the complaint first.

Rhine picked up where he’d left off. In addition to the paragraph about compliance with local ordinances, the lease, which was dated Nov. 12, 2011, contained an option to extend the lease an additional two years, which had to be exercised by Sept. 15, 2013. Siwakoti, Rhine said, had never exercised the option. He reviewed a series of documents he’d attached to the complaint, including Hendrickson’s letter, his termination notices, and the failed codes inspections. He also included an email he’d sent Siwakoti on Aug. 1 about reports that boards were still up in the windows. “Please make immediate necessary window repairs and get the boards removed,” it said. It also suggested that Siwakoti contact Botero and neighborhood groups “on how to work together to eliminate the undesirable drug trafficking and loitering in the area around the building.”

Once Rhine had reviewed all this, Pianka gave Siwakoti a chance to speak. He began by defending the presence of the boards in the windows. “The store got broke in five, six times,” he said. “Six glasses was broken. I had to board that up til I fixed that. It is not a magic to fix six glasses in a matter of weeks.” He said the repairs had cost a total of $3,200. As for the violations, he said, everything in his store was up to code except for a piece of exposed wire in the ceiling, which he only learned was a violation when the inspector pointed it out. He said he had “never received any letter” from the neighbors, but that whatever it said was “totally, absolutely false.” He dismissed the idea that people gathering on the corner was evidence of wrongdoing, noting that sort of thing happens anywhere there’s a business. “This is a court,” he said. “People have to come here, they’re going to gather outside.” There were “absolutely no drugs” and “absolutely no kind of any illegal solicitation” inside or outside his store, he said.

When he was finished, Pianka asked Rhine if he had any questions for Siwakoti.

“No,” Rhine said.

“Anything else I need to be made aware of today?” she asked.

Rhine confirmed that he wasn’t seeking money damages, only an eviction and payment for his court costs. Siwakoti said that, because he’d lost the lease, he wasn’t aware of the deadline for the extension. Then he digressed into a discussion of rent. He spoke quietly, and his syntax was hard to decipher, but he seemed to be saying that, if Rhine wanted to negotiate a higher rent payment, he was open to doing so. Finally, he returned to the codes inspection. When a codes inspector found something wrong, he said, that was “not a violation—that is ‘need to fix.’” Every problem that had been identified, he said, he had since resolved.

Outside the courtroom, I introduced myself to Rhine. Botero had referred to him as the “unsung hero” of the story because he had cooperated with the city and neighbors. I wanted to know: did he see things the same way? Rhine, who grew up in Camp Hill but now lives outside Philadelphia, said he’d be willing to talk, but added that he didn’t want his name to appear in the story. When, in a follow-up call, I told him I couldn’t grant that condition, because his comments were made in a public forum, he declined to be interviewed further.

On a rainy day in late October, I met Botero outside the T-Mart on 3^rd Street. He rolled up in a white police caravan—an airy, rattling vehicle he described as a “lunchbox.” When I climbed on board, he offered me a McDonald’s coffee from a tray of them on the floor between the driver’s and passenger’s seats.

Botero isn’t a cop. He doesn’t carry a badge or a gun, and he has no background in police work. A New Jersey native of Colombian descent, he has an olive complexion, clear blue-gray eyes and short black hair, specked with gray. In his role as an intermediary between citizens and police, he tries to be both a cheerleader and a friend. He maintains a huge network of contacts—buddies, acquaintances, people he’s given one-time favors. He’s conspicuously informal, identifying himself in email signatures as “community peace dude.” Whenever possible, he tries to inject excitement into the enterprise. At the end of our first phone call, he asked me to email him my contact information. He wrote back with an immediate one-line reply: “giddy up!”

To Botero, the T-Mart episode represented a classic case of neighborhood intervention. On the phone, he’d praised the Midtown neighbors, saying he wanted their efforts to be a “blueprint” for other neighborhoods. “They helped us to stay focused,” he said. In the car, he elaborated. “Four or five years from now, when things continue to change, I’m gonna look back at this T-Mart,” he told me. “Because other neighborhoods that have, quote-unquote, ‘T-Mart,’ those nuisance businesses? If it’s happening there, it’s because the neighborhood allows it to be there. Midtown clearly does not have any tolerance for that. And they did something about it.”

As we talked, Botero spotted a woman laden with shopping bags on a street corner, looking forlorn. He pulled up beside her, rolled down the window, and called out to offer her a ride. She was on her way to a department store in Kline Village and had missed her bus. It was raining, and, after a moment’s consideration, she climbed on board. Botero can talk to anybody, and, in no time, the two were chatting amiably—about bus routes, their churches, their opinions of local media. After driving 15 minutes out of his way, he dropped her off at the store’s front door. “That was God right there,” he said as we drove away. “This is not politicking, because it’s not an election week,” he added. “It’s got zero to do with that. She will go to Hillside”—her church—“and she will say, ‘You know what? Some nice officer came and got me.’ That’s all I care about. And that’s branding. That’s my goal.”

We returned to the topic of the T-Mart. I wanted to know whether the neighborhood involvement had actually solved the problem. The city had driven the store out of a particularly active neighborhood—wouldn’t it now just take up residence somewhere less vigilant? “The cool thing about this is, what it isn’t, it’s not ‘Not In My Backyard,’” Botero said. “Because he’s not taking it to the West Shore, he’s not taking it to Derry, he’s not taking it to Uptown. He’s just kicked out, period.” He said he would hold up the story as an example for other neighborhoods, to show them that they, too, had the ability to control the activities on their street corners. “I’m going to Southside, going to all those places, saying, ‘We did it here.’ Not because they’re white and because they’re homeowners, but because they cared, and they did something about it,” he said. “And we, the city, stepped in and did it.”

A week after his eviction hearing, I called Siwakoti. He picked up on the third ring. I told him I was a reporter interested in his version of events regarding neighborhood complaints about the T-Mart.

“That is not ‘neighborhood,’” he began. He claimed the people complaining about his store were not actually residents of the neighborhood, adding he was a victim of “racial hating.” “They are white,” he said, so officials “are going to listen to them, not me.” He also felt he’d been unfairly targeted over violations, and that neighboring businesses had not received the same scrutiny.

While we were speaking, I heard Siwakoti field what sounded like a sale. “3.99,” he said. “Plus tax.” I asked whether he was in his store. Yes, he said, the store on 4^th Street. In addition to the T-Mart at 3^rd and Herr, Siwakoti until recently operated two other stores—one at the corner of 4^th and Harris, the other on Locust Street downtown. (He was evicted from the downtown store on Oct. 30, for apparently unrelated reasons; the complaint, by a different landlord, claimed he owed $3,500 in rent.) I asked if I could come over, and he said that would be fine.

I pulled up in front of the store around 10 minutes later. The door was open, but the lights were off, and Siwakoti stood on the stoop, smoking a cigarette. He said he was having electrical problems and that someone was coming to make repairs.

We talked outside for around 40 minutes. In that time, perhaps a dozen different people approached the store. One identified himself as a student in a forklift operating class in the HACC parking lot across the street. He came to buy a knit cap. Others came close, peered through the open door into the dark shop, and then walked off. For the most part, Siwakoti didn’t acknowledge them.

There were, however, exceptions. At one point, a forest green van pulled up and a middle-aged man, wearing a hoodie and a gold chain, climbed out. He entered the store and, a minute later, reemerged with an orange drink and drove away. Siwakoti didn’t say a word. I asked if the man worked for him. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been robbed at gunpoint more than hundreds of times. So I asked this guy, he doesn’t drink, smoke or do drugs, can you help me, stay around me?” On another occasion, a sedan rolled to a stop in front of the store with the windows down. A man leaned out and told Siwakoti to close the door, so that people wouldn’t think the store was open. Then he drove on.

For most of our conversation, Siwakoti spoke freely, even emphatically, about how he’d been mistreated. He dismissed the citation for expired baby formula, saying it was only one can out of 15 on the shelf, and he would never have sold it if someone tried to buy it. He also complained that a TV news story about the T-Mart didn’t accurately portray his statements. (The story, which ran on Channel 8, introduces the T-Mart as a “nuisance business” that “voluntarily” closed.) He seemed particularly agitated by the accusation about sex solicitation, which he said occurred everywhere. “That happens in front of police building, in front of MLK Government Center,” he said. “If my customer winds up being prostitute, that’s my fault? Prostitutes don’t go to city hall?”

But then, at the end of our conversation, he suddenly started to withdraw. He said he didn’t want his name in the paper—it was too late for his business, and quoting him would only damage him further. He said the police and the city, who were already against him, would come after him for what he’d told me. “They will chase my ass out of town,” he said.

Two guys who had walked up and found the store closed had been hovering nearby. When I wouldn’t consent to not printing anything he’d told me, Siwakoti called at them so that he could have a “witness.” They ignored him. Finally, he called out, “Hey, deaf!” One guy walked off, but the other turned around and came over. He was young, perhaps in his late 20s, and wearing a varsity jacket and a ball cap.

I expected Siwakoti to explain his demands, but instead, they just talked about the T-Mart. The young man, who seemed familiar with the situation, waved the allegations of drug dealing aside. “Only drugs I know is medicine,” Siwakoti said. “They said I was selling heroin. I don’t know what is heroin!” He laughed.

The young man started to say something about how “they” had targeted the T-Mart and broken its windows, but when I pressed him, he wouldn’t say who. He stepped out into the street. “Tell them the real reason all those people went in there,” he said finally. Siwakoti was silent. “He was selling loosies!” the guy said.

After our conversation, I went to get lunch. An hour later, on my way back to work, I drove past the 4^th Street store. The lights were on, and the door was open.

Livin’ the Cream: Pastries rise to the top at Brew Crumberland’s Best.

November 28, 2014 | by Rebecca Hanlon

Laurel Weiser never wanted to work for someone else.

After finishing school and moving back to her hometown of Grantville, the pastry chef took jobs as a baker, first at the Hilton Harrisburg and later at the Hershey Hotel.

While she enjoyed the work, she dreamed of creating her own recipes and running her own business. Just when she felt she might be stuck as someone else’s employee, a speck of hope appeared at the end of her rolling pin.

Weiser’s aunt, Vicky, wanted to retire from Bridge Street Coffee Shop, the New Cumberland fixture she owned for about 15 years. Weiser decided it would be the perfect time for her to make a jump. After working alongside her aunt for several weeks, she officially took over the shop on Sept. 1.

“It suddenly felt like everything I had worked for would be worth it,” she said.

Weiser’s family helped her put her own touches on the shop décor, and she renamed it Brew Crumberland’s Best (pun totally intended). But new paint on the walls and a different furniture arrangement was just an aesthetic change. Bigger things were going on inside the kitchen.

A new espresso grinder and fresh roasted coffee beans delivered each week from Mosaic Coffee Company in Shippensburg were one part of a two-part menu redesign Weiser had in mind.

“A lot of places can offer you just one thing—either great tasting coffee or a great tasting pastry,” Weiser said. “They specialize in one thing, but I want to make sure we’re the best of both.”

When Weiser isn’t out front making specialty coffee drinks for regular customers, she’s back in the kitchen. It’s there that she finds the freedom to explore recipes she never had the chance to tackle when she worked in other places.

Her daily baked scones and muffins, most recently created with fall flavors apple cider and pumpkin roll, are her biggest sellers. Brownies and peanut butter pie are close seconds, but she soon hopes to break into more sweet breads, as well as cinnamon rolls, cheesecake and other desserts.

“I can do whatever I’m in the mood to do,” Weiser said of her creations. “The special thing to me is being able to see people’s reactions when they eat my food. I was always stuck in the back of a kitchen, making the same recipes every day. There’s something very unique to getting immediate feedback from people who eat what you create.”

The young business owner has big plans for her new endeavor. She hopes to eventually offer live music and have local art displayed on the walls.

“I really want to immerse myself in this community,” she said.

Meredith Brewster, who stopped into the coffee shop recently, said she happened to be passing through and needed something to get her through the rest of her day.

The Lower Paxton Township woman munched on a panini and snuck a scone into her purse for later.

“I never go to the big name coffee shops,” she said. “For me, the great thing about this area is that there are so many independent businesses. I always try to help them—especially when they make stuff as delicious as this.”

Jeremy Lewis of Harrisburg was on his way between business meetings when he decided to use the drive-thru for a late lunch the same day.

“I’ve come here a few times, always for the coffee,” he said. “When I find a place that makes a good cup, it becomes a regular stop for me.”

The comments of happily fed customers keep Weiser inspired. She’s always looking for something new to create, something else she can improve and another customer she can please.

“I’m exhausted every day, but I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy,” she said. “I’m learning a lot, and I have a lot of areas to grow in, but I’m happy to be on this path. I think great things are going to happen.”

Brew Crumberland’s Best is at 1903 Bridge St. in New Cumberland. Hours are Monday to Friday, 6 a.m. to 3 p.m., and Saturday, 7 a.m. to 2 p.m. For more information, call 717-774-6511 or search for “Brew Crumberland’s Best” on Facebook.

Power Pie: Lawmakers, pizza-lovers tuck in at Cork & Fork.

November 28, 2014 | by Admin

If you’re a Harrisburg foodie, you’re in a very happy place right now.

For months, new (and excellent) restaurants have been opening, with even more on the way for early 2015.

The newest arrival categorizes itself as a wine bar/pizzeria, which doesn’t quite do it justice since it’s so much more than Pinot and pie.

The casual, yet gourmet, eatery, a short stroll from the state Capitol, takes the tapas trend and runs with it. Pizzas, pastas and small plates are all designed to be shared, making this hotspot a haven for socialization.

“Nick tries to bring different things to the city in terms of what we lack,” General Manager Josue Osorto said of his boss, Nick Laus.

Laus, who long has had his finger on the pulse of the restaurant scene in Harrisburg, also runs Home 231, Level 2, Café Fresco and Italian Pizza and Subs, which has been a fixture in the area since the 1970s.

The grand opening drew a large crowd to the restaurant, which can be described as cozy without feeling cramped. Wooden tables are placed a comfortable distance apart, providing diners with ample elbow room and allowing waiters to move about the space unimpeded.

Spherical glass chandeliers illuminate the elegant and tasteful décor, which is done in muted tones of tans and browns. Stainless steel appliances add a modern feel, and floor-to-ceiling windows bring the outside in.

The open pizza kitchen allows patrons seated at the marble bar to work up an appetite as they observe the chef putting the finishing touches on the pizzas and sliding them into the 850-degree oven for the perfect char.

Eight different pizza varieties are available, featuring toppings like fennel sausage and meatballs, along with vegetarian options like mushrooms and pistachio pesto.

Between bites, Chris Leavitt, who lives in Midtown, testified that the margherita pizza was excellent.

“It’s not the typical type of pizza you’ll find in this area,” he said. “The basil was extremely aromatic, the sauce had a nice balance, and you could tell the ingredients were very fresh.”

Leavitt’s friend, Ryan Riley, who joined Leavitt at the grand opening, agreed.

“One term that is overused, but not understated, is the value of the farm-to-table concept,” said Riley, a former president of Harrisburg Young Professionals. “They adhere to that concept, while succeeding in capturing an elegant taste.”

The two-sided menu also features salads and small plates, which many choose as starters. Diners can select from four types of salad and a seasonal vegetable plate or indulge in heartier fare like oven-roasted Brussels sprouts, homemade meatballs, eggplant Parmesan, or sweet Italian sausage with kale and cannellini beans, which Leavitt described as “damned tasty.”

Friends can mix and match cheeses such as gorgonzola and gouda with meats like sopressata and mortadella to create a custom plate to pair with their choice of wine.

Made-from-scratch pasta is available for those seeking something more substantial, and diners can cater to their cravings without breaking the calorie bank. Five selections range from the hearty pappardelle with pulled pork to the more nuanced shrimp fettucine with shaved asparagus, crushed tomatoes, basil and Parmesan.

When it comes to libations, there’s no shortage of choices. One full page of the menu is devoted to red wines, white wines, bottled beers and craft cocktails.

“We paid special attention to the cocktail menu, coming together as staff and developing our list through trial and error,” said Osorto.

Riley said his favorite was the mint julep, which exceeded his expectations.

“It was a phenomenal combination of flavors,” he said.

Other choices range from the dry blue cheese martini to the sweet berry basil gimlet, and each week the restaurant features a staff pick. To take advantage of seasonal fruit, sangrias and mojitos will change throughout the year so bartenders can work with the freshest ingredients available.

For those who want a more intimate experience, an upstairs space, which seats 22, is available for private parties, and more seating will be available outside when the weather warms up.

Riley, who witnessed the transformation of the space from an empty lot, said it has a “wow” factor to it.

“When you enter the restaurant, you feel like it’s on par with any of the high-end restaurants you’ll encounter in cities like Philadelphia,” he said. “The atmosphere is great and so is the service. I highly recommend it.”

Cork & Fork is located at 200 State St., Harrisburg. Hours are Monday to Thursday, 11 a.m. to 11 p.m. and Friday and Saturday, 11 a.m. to 1 a.m. For more information, call 717-234-8100 or visit the restaurant’s Facebook page.

Alex Hartzler, TheBurg’s publisher, is a partial owner of Cork & Fork.

A Different Drum: Real-deal drummers have a beat on Dale’s.

November 28, 2014 | by Brendan Menapace

There’s a sign hanging over the register at Dale’s Drum Shop that says, “We’d rather make friends than $$.”

It’s a mantra for the surprisingly large and extensive drum retailer tucked away in a residential neighborhood in Colonial Park. With multiple rooms filled wall-to-wall with supplies, it’s enough to make any drummer drool. What makes the shop even more interesting is its history. Founder Dale Wise was the right-hand man of legendary drummer Buddy Rich.

Rejjie Troup is the general manager at Dale’s and has been a part of it pretty much since the beginning. On a recent workday, Troup, who has a raspy voice and a horseshoe mustache, was sitting in the shop’s workroom, a narrow space lined with boxes of drumheads, sticks and countless tools. Joining him was Dale’s sales manager, Dan Grabski, a tall and skinny man with a beard and a few tattoos peeking out of his shirt.

“Basically, Dale came off the road—he was Buddy Rich’s drum tech—and started the store with two other friends of his,” Troup said. “It was down in the basement. You had to duck your head to get down in, but I remember, the first time I went in, I was amazed at how much gear he had fit into that small space.”

The shop opened in 1982, and was originally called BCR, which stood for Bluegrass, Country and Rock n’ Roll. BCR still exists today in Lemoyne, but with different ownership. Wise’s two business partners handled the guitar end of the business, and he had the drums.

Troup remembers Wise tinkering in his limited space, making everything stand out perfectly. He speaks of him with a reverent and respectful tone, but he doesn’t gush. He tells the stories of the shop’s origins with the same humbleness Wise is known for, but he still takes great pride in what they’ve accomplished.

“A lot of times, he’d sneak in at night and maybe move his stuff one or two more inches to pick up space from the other guys that were there,” he said. “They never even knew that he did it, but he knew, just like it is here now, that you have to have product and that’s why people come in.”

The shop drew customers in from near and far. Troup says that he used to make a sometimes 45-minute commute himself.

“If you bought anything else from around here, you were paying full list price,” Troup said. “Dale’s prices were, at that time, roughly 40 percent less than anyone else’s.”

In 1985, the shop moved to its current location, a renovated, two-bedroom blue house just off of Jonestown Road, behind a strip of commercial properties. Grass-lined sidewalks separate the neighboring homes from the quiet street. Most of the traffic is made up of cars going in and out of the small parking lot in front of Dale’s. A large sign in the shape of a cymbal hangs over the door.

The late-night tinkering in the original basement shop continued in the new location, where many late nights were spent renovating the house, preparing displays and getting the shop ready for customers.

“We used to spend evenings here, just like Dale used to in the old place,” Troup said. “Rearranging displays, building displays, just trying to make space for one more piece of gear. We still do it but not to that extent.”

“I remember stories, you guys would work all night, and then be like, ‘Oh, we have to open in an hour and a half!’ and then clean up and sell all day,” Grabski said. “And then you’d have to go back and do it again at night.”

Perhaps the most interesting piece of Dale’s history comes from the equipment itself. While he was on the road with Buddy Rich, Dale had amassed a collection of equipment that once belonged to the drummer.

Buddy Rich was an American jazz drummer and bandleader. Known for his innovative techniques, versatility and precision, he was heralded as one of the greatest drummers ever to have lived.

Much of the shop’s original merchandise had belonged to Rich, though Dale never advertised this fact. It was like selling a guitar that once belonged to Eddie Van Halen, or cleats that belonged to Barry Sanders, and never telling your customers.

“That’s the difference between this shop and any other shop,” Grabski said. “If it was any other shop owner, he would’ve been selling himself, saying ‘You know who I am, look at what I have,’ and Dale is the complete opposite. He wants to cut you a great deal, and it’s about you, not him.”

In keeping with the sign over the counter, customer service is first and foremost at Dale’s Drum Shop. Whether you buy a huge drum kit, a pair of sticks or nothing at all, the staff is glad you came. Grabski says the keys to their success are never being satisfied and always striving to make the shop better. It helps when your staff is made up of real-deal drummers, and better yet, real-deal drummers who are all friends.

“I think that’s what sets us apart from other retailers,” Grabski says. “At night, you’re either gigging, working on your personal equipment, or your staying here and working late. It’s not just reading out of a book and studying it. We’re actually into it and interested in it for our own needs and know it for our customers.”

This small, close-knit team takes pride in the shop they work in, literally day and night. It’s a family affair, and, when you’re at Dale’s, you are a part of it.

“This isn’t just a hobby for us,” Troup said. “This supports a lot of families. We care about the gear we sell, and we care about the people buying it. I think that’s what keeps us getting better.”

Dale’s Drum Shop is located at 4440 Fritchey St., Harrisburg. For more information, call 717-652-2466 or visit www.dalesdrumshop.com.

Mission Trip: A single night in the century-long life of the Bethesda Mission.

November 28, 2014 | by Paul Barker

On weekday nights, around 8 p.m., the halls of the Bethesda Mission men’s shelter, at the corner of 6^th and Reily, are cleared for cleaning.

The long-term guests do most of the work, according to a schedule of duties pinned up next to a poster for HIV testing. The other men either wait in the chapel, watching TV, or go outside, where they can have a smoke and look out at the view: a parking lot, a grassy field, a luxury residential high-rise.

This routine was underway at Bethesda when I arrived to check in there, on a mild, foggy night in mid-November. On the recommendation of the shelter’s program director, whom I’d interviewed a couple of weeks before, I showed up unannounced and asked for a place to sleep.

On Dec. 22, the Bethesda Mission marks its 100^th anniversary. Most people associate Bethesda, if they know it at all, with the men’s shelter at 611 Reily, a grand brick structure with an iconic green cross hanging out front. The shelter has been at that location since 1934, when Bethesda purchased what had previously been the Railroad YMCA. But, since 1983, the organization has also operated a women’s shelter in Allison Hill, in a former elementary school. And, since 1990, it has run a youth ministry out of an old fire station at 15^th and Herr.

This year, the Bethesda Mission has undertaken a campaign to spread awareness of its lesser-known programs, through billboards and radio ads bearing the tagline “Inspire Hope.” A second goal of the campaign, according to Scott Dunwoody, Bethesda’s vice president for business development, is to educate the public about Bethesda’s mission. Traditionally, a homeless shelter was thought of as providing bare essentials—“three hots and a cot,” Dunwoody said. “But now the goal is long-term recovery.”

While the employees at reception figured out how to accommodate me, men streamed out of the chapel into the front hall. A few minutes later, a voice over the speakers, polite but firm, reminded everyone to keep out of the way of the cleaners.

The men at reception didn’t push too hard. They didn’t ask for my name or my information, but they did want to make sure I needed just the one night. Unless you enter Bethesda’s recovery program, New Beginnings, you’re limited to one 10-night stay every four months, and they were puzzled I didn’t want to stay longer. “You miss the bus or something?” one of them asked. They said they could put me up on a mat on the chapel floor. “Now, don’t come back tomorrow saying you want the 10 nights,” one of them added.

The recovery program at the men’s shelter extends a guest’s stay in phases. A guest in the New Beginnings program can stay for four months, but he has to opt in by his fifth night. A second phase, called the Helmsman program, extends the stay another six months. Doug Barger, program director at the men’s shelter, explained Bethesda wants guests to make a considered decision to sign up for recovery—and not just a last-ditch choice because they have nowhere to go. “We make a long-term commitment to them,” he said. “They have to make a long-term commitment to us.”

Barger has been with Bethesda for 13 years. He previously worked at America’s Keswick, a Christian addiction recovery program in Whiting, New Jersey. Like many people who go into recovery work, he overcame his own addiction. “I gave my life to Christ and asked my church to pray for me,” he said. When I asked if his experience helped him understand Bethesda’s guests, he replied, “I speak their language. I know where they’re coming from.” Many of them, he said, don’t believe he ever had an addiction, because they don’t think theirs can be defeated. “But I tell them, ‘It’s very possible. Just make the next right decision.’”

Programs at the women’s shelter operate on a different calendar. Residents must commit to a full year, and their movements are restricted for an initial period, the length of which varies depending on the circumstances that brought them there. As Shelley Brooks, who has been the director there for the past 30 years, explained, “We don’t do emergency shelter. We focus on recovery and homelessness.”

Brooks took me on a tour of the house in late October. Where the men’s shelter feels like a dormitory, the women’s shelter feels like a home—quieter, cozier, more evidently inhabited. We passed a mural, titled “Fruits of the Spirit,” showing a tree bearing fruit of a dozen different varieties. I took note of a banana labeled “patience” and a pineapple labeled “love.” “People become very gentle, very caring for one another, one they find out that they’re safe,” Brooks told me. She recounted the looks on women’s faces at Christmas, when they receive gifts from donors who learned about their specific needs. “They don’t understand that someone took their name, and went out and bought clothes that fit them, and wrapped it—that there are still good people in the world.”

Brooks introduced me to Margarita, the shelter’s house manager, who has worked at Bethesda for 14 years. Margarita, who came through the program herself, recalled her feelings the night she arrived. “It was a release for me,” she said. “They had these raggedy blue chairs. I didn’t care. I said, ‘I got somewhere to lay my head. I got some peace.’”

After being admitted, I entered the chapel, a large room with a high, tapered ceiling. In the center are a hundred upholstered metal chairs, divided into eight rows with an aisle up the middle, and facing a squat white lectern. Behind the lectern is a flat-screen television, mounted on a glass wall. Flanking the television are cream-colored banners, one saying KING OF KINGS, the other LORD OF LORDS. Flanking the banners are poles holding American flags.

I sat in one of the chairs to get my bearings. A young man, perhaps 19 or 20 years old, stood in the corner with a ping-pong paddle, serving a ball to himself off a spot high up on the wall. After a few minutes, I headed to a lounge behind the altar, dimly visible through the glass. Here, perhaps two dozen armchairs were crowded together in front of another television. Several men reclined in them, some with shoeless feet draped over the arms, watching “Thirteen Ghosts.” At one point, someone remarked he’d once walked from Philadelphia to York. At another, someone said the chairs were comfortable. But mostly no one said anything.

I headed back out to the chapel. In the interim, maybe half-a-dozen men had drifted in and taken seats, and the television was now on. Someone flipped the channel to a documentary about Randy Moss. In addition to ping-pong, the chapel is home to a foosball table. While I was eyeing it, a young man walked over and picked up a small cardboard box off a stack of hymnals on a bench nearby. It held a traveler’s toothpaste. He gave it a little shake. “There a foosball in there?” I asked him. “Huh?” he said. He started to walk off, and then he turned around. “You want to play foosball?”

The young man’s name was Preston. It was hard to guess his age. He had short, dark hair, light brown skin and a compact build. He said he grew up in the area; he’d played foosball at his daycare in Allison Hill. He’d been at the shelter for two and a half months, and was enrolled in the New Beginnings program, which he highly recommended. I asked if he knew Barger, and told him I was there on Barger’s advice, to help with a story I was working on for a local magazine. He sounded disappointed, but not fazed. He told me his story in basic outline. He’d developed a drinking problem, and had been in the shelter once before; this time, he wanted his recovery to stick. He hoped someday to go into either counseling, personal training or theater and the arts. Then, after making a winning shot, he shook my hand, said it was nice meeting me, and disappeared.

By this time, the cleaning was finished, and the men starting moving around more freely. In a corner room off the main hallway, I came upon two men in raised swivel chairs, singing Little Anthony and the Imperials’ “Tears on My Pillow.” Their names were Phil and Steve. Phil was white, with a bushy beard and gray hair parted neatly in the middle. He wore a long V-neck T-shirt over his round belly. He sang the lead in a reedy vibrato, baring long white teeth and keeping time with his hands. Steve, on the bass line, was black, bald, wore glasses and carried a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. When they finished the song, Steve wanted to take pictures with his Fujifilm disposable camera: first of me and Phil, then of himself and Phil.

They continued to sing doo-wop songs for the next half hour, usually introduced by Phil: “Blue Moon,” “Under the Boardwalk.” Phil had to grope to come up with each next song, but once he’d started he knew the words. In between songs, they talked about their situations. Steve was from Philadelphia, where he and his brother worked in a barbershop. “Each day, I’d cut hair, take my money, and go buy dope,” he said. He had a plan that was a little hard to follow: the gist of it was he hoped to sell some property he owned in Philly, save up while going through the full program at Bethesda, and eventually buy a home. Phil left and came back with a gray pinstripe suit on a hanger. “Look what God gave me,” he said. His daughters, he added suddenly, would not be coming to visit this weekend after all, because their grandfather had fallen ill. “But that’s just part of God’s timing,” he said.

As the men sang, a small crowd gathered to listen or sing along. Then, all at once, the group dispersed—it was time for roll call and prayer. Men filed into the chapel, filling up the rows, and a man named Israel, one of two who had checked me in, approached the podium. He made reference to the grace of God, soliciting applause. Then his tone became more somber. “Gentlemen,” he said. “If you sign up for the doctor on Tuesday night, then you gotta be here.” The men were rapt; the chapel fell into a guilty schoolroom silence.

Israel moved on. It was Veteran’s Day, and after thanking those who served, he reflected on the private “war” of addiction. “Use the tools you pick up in here out there,” he said. “‘Cause guess what? Nothing’s changed out there.” Then he told the group they could take “late showers”—an opportunity not afforded every night—and that the laundry, which held a stockpile of toiletries, would be open for people who needed them. He waxed briefly on the topic of deodorant. “Use it!” he said. “It’s here for you, man. You know what I mean?” Then he called roll, cracked a joke about the “barbershop quartet” in the hallway, and said a short prayer.

After prayer, the night wound down quickly. Heading back into the hall, I learned that the corner where Phil and Steve were singing was, in fact, Bethesda’s actual barbershop—someone was now sitting on a swivel chair, getting a buzz cut from another guest. For a while, a few men hung around in the chapel, watching the CBS crime drama “Person of Interest.” The episode was a potboiler, built around a gratuitous riff on the Ebola crisis. But the plot was engrossing, and there were murmurs of disappointment when, halfway through, the loudspeakers crackled on to announce it was time for lights out. I went back to collect a mat from the hallway, a thick foam slab encased in a rubber sheet. When I got back, I was alone.

Two of the chapel walls are lined with stained glass windows, all made in an identical abstract pattern: yellow in the center, with green, red and blue along the borders. Though the windows don’t look out on anything, they are lit by fluorescents from behind. Now, with the other lights off, they gave the room a yellow-green glow. I placed my mat on the floor, between the ping-pong and foosball tables.

Also along the chapel walls are quotations from the Bible, and at various points in the evening, I’d read and re-read one from Paul’s letter to the Colossians, intrigued by one line in particular: “You were enemies in your minds because of your evil ways.”

With nothing better to do, I found a Bible on an empty chair and flipped to the relevant passage. The letter to the Colossians, only a few pages long, is a note offering encouragement and some guidance on the faith to a new Christian church in Colossae. At the end of it, Paul notes that he’s writing from prison. “Remember that I am being held by chains,” he says. It’s a curious way to end a letter. For me, it has the effect of making the preceding advice seem less preachy. It’s as if Paul is saying, “I need this stuff as much as you do.” I thought of what Barger said about overcoming his own addiction, and the fact that most of the men working at Bethesda at one time or another went through the program themselves.

Just before 11 p.m., a voice came over the loudspeaker a final time. “All conversations, guys, must come to an end,” it chided gently. “Please respect yourself, your neighbors and this facility. Some of these guys have to get up and go to work in the morning. And some of them have to get up and cook.”

Scent of Christmas: Roasted chestnuts offer wonderful holiday smells, tastes.

November 28, 2014 | by Rosemary Ruggieri Baer

Growing up, I knew Christmas was near by several subtle, yet unmistakable, signs at our house.

Plump and fragrant tangerines appeared for dessert. There were savory blanched almonds that my mother tossed in olive oil and salt, roasted in the oven until golden brown and served as a snack or, for some, with a pre-dinner cocktail.

My father dragged out his bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream, a sweet, dark and rich sherry that we drank even before dinner. (That bottle lasted for years.) And then there were chestnuts, a must-have treat for every Christmas holiday. My mother roasted them in the oven for my father, who relished them along with a little sambuca or amaretto for dessert. Even without an “open fire,” the smell of chestnuts roasting at home is just as lovely as on the streets of New York City.

Chestnuts have strong ties to Italy where, in centuries past, they were a staple food of peasants. Chestnut harvesting, which was backbreaking work, also provided a livelihood as the nuts were packaged for exporting to other countries. Chestnut groves still cover the hillsides of Tuscany, and little villages celebrate chestnut harvest every fall. They are no longer considered peasant food, rather a coveted ingredient in many Italian dishes and baked goods.

Preparing chestnuts can be rather time-consuming and hard on the hands. But, after trying chestnuts sold in vacuum packs or in jars, I have decided that the taste doesn’t even come close to buying the fresh nuts when they are in season. No special equipment is needed, although Williams-Sonoma once sold a chestnut-roasting pan for use over a wood fire. I can’t imagine many were sold.

Be picky when you are buying fresh chestnuts. They should be a beautiful, glossy brown, very round and plump. Pass on those that seem to have a crackly space between the outer hard skin and the nut itself, and avoid those that have a dull or dusty appearance.

To roast chestnuts, place the nuts on a flat surface and, with a small, sharp paring knife, cut an “X” into one side. The goal is to cut through the tough outer skin, but not pierce the “fruit.” There is a little disagreement as to which side of the nut should be cut. My mother always cut the flat side, although some recipes advise the rounded side. I think both should work.

Roasting Chestnuts

There is no set amount of chestnuts to cook at one time. Buy what you think you can eat and that will fit on your rimmed baking sheet. A metal pan is best.
Spread the chestnuts out in a single layer on your baking sheet. There is no need to grease the pan first.
Sprinkle the nuts lightly with water before placing in the oven.
Roast in a pre-heated, 400-degree oven for 15 to 20 minutes, shaking the pan a few times while roasting.
After 15 or 20 minutes, the chestnuts will turn a darker brown and the cuts in the shell will begin to peel back.
When the chestnuts are cool enough to handle, peel away both the brown outer shell and the thinner inner membrane.
Eat and enjoy.

My family used to eat chestnuts while they were still warm, and their wonderful aroma still permeated the kitchen. But you can freeze them for later use or keep them for a few days in the refrigerator.

Chestnuts can be used in so many ways—tossed with Brussels sprouts or other green vegetables; in your Christmas stuffing; with pasta (especially gnocchi); and even in soup. And, somewhere out there, an Italian grocer can sell you chestnut flour for baking holiday cakes.

Wishing all TheBurg readers a wonderful holiday. Buon Natale!

Chestnuts with Grappa

Here is a traditional Italian way to serve roasted chestnuts at Christmastime. The recipe calls for grappa, a strong and clear after-dinner brandy much like the Greek ouzo. But you could also use regular brandy, amaretto or perhaps even Grand Marnier.

Roast 1 pound of chestnuts (see main story).
Toss the cooked chestnuts with:

o 4 tablespoons grappa

o 4 tablespoons sugar

o A tiny pinch of salt

o 1 teaspoon grated orange zest.

Serve in a little dessert dish.

Serve the chestnuts with additional spirits on the side and some vanilla gelato. What could be better than a Tuscan treat at Christmastime?

Sharing the Harvest: It’s easier than ever to donate your surplus venison.

November 28, 2014 | by Kermit G. Henning

The opportunities to harvest more than one deer in Pennsylvania abound.

Besides an antlered buck allowed on your general license, there are many ways to take an antlerless deer as well. Doe licenses are available in every part of the state; numbers depend on the Wildlife Management Unit you hunt. It’s possible to add another three deer if you are fortunate enough to be drawn for additional licenses.

Then there are harvest permits from the Deer Management Assistance Program (DMAP). DMAP provides an additional means for landowners to manage deer to meet their land-use goals. It also provides additional opportunities to the hunters who participate in the program. Hunters can get up to two DMAP harvest permits per property. The more DMAP properties you hunt, the more deer you may take.

Finally, the Pennsylvania Game Commission has issued 13,000 special antlerless deer harvest permits for use in Disease Management Area 2 this fall, an area in the south-central part of the state, including parts of Bedford, Blair, Huntingdon, Cambria and Fulton counties, where Chronic Wasting Disease has been identified in wild, free-ranging deer. Hunters may purchase an unlimited number of permits until all permits are issued.

Therefore, at the conclusion of all seasons, a hunter in Pennsylvania can add a considerable amount of tasty, healthy meat to their freezer. It also affords the opportunity to help feed those less fortunate in our commonwealth.

The Hunters Sharing the Harvest Program, founded in 1991, coordinates the processing and distribution of donated wild game from hunters and municipal herd reduction sources to hungry people throughout Pennsylvania. You can donate a deer through one of the program’s many participating processors closest to where you hunt or live. An average-sized deer will provide enough highly nutritious, low-cholesterol meat for 200 meals.

To donate, a hunter takes a deer to a participating butcher, who will process the venison into 1-pound bags to be distributed by food banks to local charitable, hunger-relief organizations, such as soup kitchens and food pantries. One deer produces around 40 to 50 pounds of ground venison that can feed more than 30 families.

“The venison we get from the Hunters Sharing the Harvest program is like gold,” says Brad Peterson, director of communications for the Central Pennsylvania Food Bank. “Many people who are struggling with hunger go without that center-of-the-plate protein to try to make their meal dollars stretch. When we get this venison in, we just can’t keep it in our freezers. As fast as we put it in, it goes on our inventory, and it goes right back out. People want this. It is highly desired. It’s a high-protein, low-fat meat that everyone loves.”

Some significant changes in the program for 2014 make it even easier to donate an extra deer. Hunters had been asked to donate $15 when they dropped off their deer at the butchers to cover the cost of processing, but not any more.

“This copay has been dropped for this year,” said John Plowman, executive director for HSH. “Costs of processing are now covered by the program and its many sponsors. Hopefully, this will encourage even more successful hunters to participate.”

Finding a processor to take your deer is easy, as well. The HSH has a toll-free phone number (1-866-HSH-2141) that hunters can call to find a processor, or go to the website (www.sharedeer.org) to find a list of processors by county.

Hunt safely this season. Shoot straight and remember all of the needy families you can help feed in the state.

Harvest Time: New farm-to-table helps satisfy the midstate’s growing appetite for fresh, local.

November 28, 2014 | by Alexis Dow Campbell

Two o’clock is generally pretty quiet in a restaurant.

The big lunch rush is done; staff is busy preparing for dinner. This is not the case at Harvest Seasonal Grill and Wine Bar, a farm-to-table restaurant that opened after much anticipation in the Shoppes at Susquehanna in August.

I walked through the doors expecting the usual mid-afternoon restaurant calm, but was greeted by an energized atmosphere and insanely delicious smells.

The Harrisburg location is the fourth Harvest opened by Philadelphia-based restaurateur Dave Magrogan, whose other restaurants include Dave & Anthony’s Stella Rossi Ristorante, Doc Magrogan’s Oyster House and Kildare’s Irish Pub. When I asked Magrogan why he decided to open a farm-to-table restaurant, I was honestly surprised by his answer.

“Well, before I got into the restaurant business, I used to be a chiropractor,” he said. “So, I learned a lot about health and nutrition and processed foods, and I saw a real blank space for this type of restaurant in the industry. Most farm-to-table restaurants are smaller, but I thought, ‘why can’t there be a healthful chain?’”

So Magrogan opened the first Harvest in Glen Mills in 2010 to great acclaim. All of Magrogan’s other restaurants are in Philadelphia or the surrounding area. So why was Harrisburg a good spot for the next location?

“There were a lot of reasons,” he said, “but the most attractive thing was the proximity to farms and farmers. Also, there are lots of great restaurants in the city of Harrisburg, but not as many as you move outside the city. The opportunity was clear.”

Harvest’s menu changes seasonally, and nearly everything (including dessert!) is 500 calories or fewer, made with locally sourced, fresh ingredients. Items more than 500 calories are marked with a little plus sign, and are, of course, also locally sourced and fresh.

The menu changes seasonally, and I mean the whole menu: the food, desserts and many of the drinks switch up every three months.

“We try to change it as close to the beginning of the new season as possible,” explained Gary Grasela, Harvest Harrisburg’s general manager.

Harvest has partnered with 12 local farms to provide meat, produce, dairy, vegetables, even honey for its menu. The day that I met Grasela, he had just come from a meeting with Keswick Creamery in Cumberland County. It was a cheese meeting.

“Our proximity to these farmers allows us to dial in deeper to the farm-to-table concept,” Grasela explained. “Many of these farmers are willing to deliver. We have so many choices.”

Grasela says that among the most popular entrees on the fall menu are the cedar-roasted Atlantic salmon ($19), coq au vin ($19) and the filet mignon ($31). Another highlight is the local cheese plate.

“It has local, raw, grass-fed, cave-aged cheddar from Lancaster that this guy makes by hand,” Grasela said. “It’s amazing.”

If you’re looking for something on the lighter side, there are some scrumptious-sounding sandwiches and salads, as well as flatbreads and vegetarian dishes. The portobello “cheese steak” caught my eye, which replaces meat with the steak of ‘shrooms ($11), as did the slow-roasted chicken sandwich ($10) and the vegan black kale Caesar salad, featuring a mix of lacinato kale and baby spinach, tossed with pickled red onions and herbed breadcrumbs (small $6, large $9).

As the mother of a 2-year-old who isn’t the most adventurous of eaters (although her favorite food is hummus, which she licks off any vegetable I serve with it), I was excited to see that there is a kid’s menu, which includes staples like spaghetti, mini-cheeseburgers and cheese quesadillas.

“My 8-year-old son loves it!” Magrogan told me excitedly when I asked if Harvest was the kind of place where you could bring a kid. “It’s his favorite of all of our restaurants. And, I mean, we have a pizza restaurant. Like, a really good pizza restaurant.”

So, how’s business?

“Really, really good,” Grasela told me. “We are the busiest restaurant in the company right now. The crowds have been exceeding expectation.”

Looking around Harvest, I saw all sorts: lots of business-y people catching a quick bite, couples, a mom with a toddler, a pair of older ladies (one of whom stopped Grasela on her way out to compliment him on her meal). Grasela said that the demographic is “really hard to pin down.”

“We see tons of couples for dates,” he said. “Large groups, whether it’s a corporate group or a birthday party or something, lots of families on weekends. And, of course, we get lots of shoppers from the stores around us. All of our customers appreciate the options that our menu provides.”

And those options are one of the things that Magrogan is most proud of.

“It’s great for date night or a business dinner, and you can bring the kids after soccer practice,” he said. “I think that we created something that appeals to everyone.”

Harvest Seasonal Grill and Wine Bar is located at the Shoppes at Susquehanna, 2625 Brindle Dr. in Susquehanna Township. More information is at www.harvestseasonalgrill.com or 717-545-4028.

Voices of the Season: Choral groups portray Christmas in song.

November 28, 2014 | by Deanne Shirey

Jason Vodicka

For many people, music is a big part of the holiday.

Fortunately, here in central Pennsylvania, we have several choral groups that will bring new life and a sense of spirituality to a genre often defined by the stale songs one hears in an endless loop at the shopping mall.

First up, the Harrisburg Singers will perform their concert, “Holiday!” in early December at three different venues, presenting a collage of classical and secular Christmas music. The anticipated highlight: three joyous movements from British composer John Rutter’s “Magnificat” (“Song of Mary”) and two choruses from Handel’s “Messiah.”

“The group changes sound and mood throughout,” said Artistic Director Sue Solomon Beckley. “Several of our own members will be featured in solo roles. And you will hear percussion—the timpani (kettle drums) on two songs, in addition to the organ and piano. It’s a mixture of styles that all will enjoy.”

The Harrisburg Singers were founded in 1984 by vocalist Ron Sider.

“He brought together the best soloists in the capital city at that time to create and showcase a professional sounding group,” said Kat Prickett, secretary of the Harrisburg Singers. “Back then, they were semi-professional paid performers.”

For the past two decades, Beckley has led the group of 40 singers. She has an extensive background in music education and is an adjunct professor of voice at Bucknell University.

“We are known as ‘One Voice,’” said Beckley. “The singers work to blend the quality of the sound, as if just one person is singing. Since each voice has a special quality, the blend comes out as a lush sound.”

Closer to the yuletide, the Harrisburg Choral Society will put on its holiday concert, “Christmas Celebration.” The group will spread holiday cheer by performing 20 minutes of Bach’s “Christmas Oratorio,” balanced by 40 minutes of traditional carols.

“The opening chorus of this piece (Bach) is incredibly exhilarating. It captures what Christmas is all about,” explained past president Glenn Murray. “Even if you are not familiar with the music, it is so overt—just hearing the musical content hits you emotionally.”

Founded in 1895, the Harrisburg Choral Society recently welcomed the youngest music director in its long history, Jason Vodicka, who is just 34 years old. He also is the coordinator of music educational programs and an assistant professor of music at Susquehanna University.

Vodicka brings a focus on vocal technique to the group. He is interested in musical style—making Berlioz sound like Berlioz and Bach sound like Bach.

“I put the focus on the text and expressing the music together, as opposed to instrumentalists, to communicate with the audience,” said Vodicka.

He added that he is impressed with the level of talent and hard work that his group possesses.

“They come with expertise, and they are willing to try new methods,” he said.

The admiration appears to flow in both directions.

“He has different ways of warming up our voices and presenting the music,” said veteran soprano Jayne Kopko of Mechanicsburg, who’s been with the group for 12 years. “We are excited to have such a young director.”

The Harrisburg Singers

The Harrisburg Singers will perform their concert “Holiday!” at three different venues:

Friday, Dec. 5, 8 p.m., Faith Presbyterian Church, 1801 Colonial Rd., Harrisburg

Saturday, Dec. 6, 7:30 p.m., Trinity Lutheran Church, 2000 Chestnut St., Camp Hill

Sunday, Dec. 7, 3 p.m., Mechanicsburg Presbyterian Church, 300 E. Simpson St., Mechanicsburg

Tickets are available at the door: $20 adults; $15 seniors; $5 students. More information is at www.harrisburgsingers.org.

Harrisburg Choral Society

The Harrisburg Choral Society will perform its “Christmas Celebration” concert on Dec. 21, 3 p.m., at the Grace Milliman Pollock Performing Arts Center, 340 N. 21^st St., Camp Hill.

Tickets are available at the door: $20 adults; $17 seniors; $5 students. More information is at www.harrisburgchoralsociety.org.

Cookies and Punch: Maybe what Harrisburg needs is less bloviating and more socializing.

November 28, 2014 | by Tara Leo Auchey

It’s been a long year, Harrisburg.

For those of us who live in the city, it’s been a trying one. In fact, as Thomas Paine wrote, “These are the times that try men’s souls.” Women’s, too.

To live in the city at this time requires a thick skin and a strong resolve. It means enduring a barrage of unabashed criticisms, insults and disappointments. There are battles galore, big ones and little ones from inside and out, fights to make Harrisburg better. Every which way are meetings, headlines, announcements, calls to action, warnings, proclamations, declarations, accusations and aspirations.

Not only is there so much to pay attention to, there’s also the need to discern what’s true and what isn’t. That in itself can be a wearisome feat.

When it comes down to it, it’s plumb tiring to be a part of a broken city in the midst of reconstruction.

Of course, it’s the end of the year, and much of the bah-humbug blues are just part of the season. In Harrisburg, though, the circumstances tend to exacerbate the normal trials and tribulations of life.

Yes, it takes strong resolve to persevere in these times.

It also takes cookies and punch.

The theory of cookies and punch is something that struck me a few years ago after a neighborhood holiday party.

Like this year, that year had been a long, exhausting one. The city’s crisis was just cresting and apprehension filled the air. However, that community gathering on a frigid night helped cut the unease we were all feeling.

Everyone brought something. There were homemade cookies, cakes, breads and dips, along with punches and wines shared amongst all of us. The room was filled with engaged residents happy that something festive was organized for them. It wasn’t a meeting obsessed with “Robert’s Rules of Order” or an open mic forum of too much venting about personal frustrations, concerns and desires. It was intended to be a purely social evening, yet there were more productive conversations about our neighborhood and our city than I had witnessed in a long time. Over and over throughout the night, I had fruitful discussions about the state of things.

What I realized is that neighborhood-wide, citywide, we are all sharing the same experience of Harrisburg, and it is only a matter of time until more and more of the gaps that seemingly separate us are bridged.

Where will those bridges come from? I dare say that social gatherings may be the wave of Harrisburg’s change. In the past eight years, I have been to more city and community meetings than I can count. All too often, I walk away from these meetings thinking, “What was that?! I can’t believe I just gave two-and-a-half hours of my time for that. What will even come of it?” And I’m a pretty patient and committed volunteer.

When it comes down to it, though, the most productive exchanges I’ve had have been in front of my house with passersby, with people I bump into at the Broad Street Market, and in spontaneous conversations over cups of coffee or pints of beer.

In these instances, I have learned more about the structure of cities, operations of the city’s administration, the power of the school board, crime in my neighborhood, codes legislation, projects, history and points of view than at any formal meeting I have attended. I have learned who to contact about this and that and how to really get a response from so and so. That night so many years ago, I walked away from the party with new contacts, new ideas and future meetings scheduled to actually get something done. Tangible next steps. Something to count on.

I was a renewed ball of energy and hope.

Fortunately, I have experienced that same sensation many times since then. Away from the formalities and to the essence of communal gathering—that’s when there is an encouragement of the spirit and a rejuvenation of the soul.

As this tiring year ends, let us rethink how we get things done. We should ponder what really encourages people to participate and why so many don’t, leaving the grueling tasks of reconstructing a broken city to too few. We should think about how we communicate and what certain approaches imply about power and order. Ultimately, we must consider how to organize processes that represent the dynamics of our city more fairly and bring more people together.

I say let there be more cookies-and-punch gatherings and see what happens.

May this season be filled with many such endeavors in the city and, with them, a renewed sense of vigor to take us into the new year.

Tara Leo Auchey is creator and editor of today’s the day Harrisburg. www.todaysthedayhbg.com.

You May Also Like

You May Also Like

You May Also Like

You May Also Like

You May Also Like

You May Also Like

You May Also Like

You May Also Like

You May Also Like

You May Also Like