And the last shall be first. Instead of tarte tatin, we ordered oysters for dessert.
It was the inspired suggestion of my colleague Jamie Larson, editor of Rural Intelligence. Neither of us has much of a sweet tooth, and we were looking for one more “punctuating bite” (Jamie’s phrase) at the newly opened Mr. Cat Brasserie in Hudson. Two briny bivalves promptly arrived alongside a shot of the house martini, laced with house-pickled onion juice. A surprisingly delightful conclusion to a satisfying meal.
A restaurant reveals itself in its final moments. Are diners glancing at their watches? Declining dessert? Quietly signaling for the check? Or are they looking for excuses to stay? At Mr. Cat, we found ourselves lingering.
The restaurant occupies the former Kitty’s space on South Front Street, a handsome building across from the train station. Kitty’s, which opened in 2020, quickly became a fixture of the city’s dining scene. Mr. Cat, which debuted this spring, trades some of its predecessor’s freewheeling eclecticism for the timeless pleasures of the French brasserie.
Mr. Cat is part of developer Ben Fain’s Nice and Weird Group, which has become an increasingly visible presence in Hudson through ventures including The Caboose, Grapefruit Wines, and The Wick Hotel. Fain’s influence extends beyond hospitality; his company recently unveiled plans for a large mixed-use development right behind Mr. Cat. Taken together, the projects suggest a long-term bet on Hudson’s future. Mr. Cat may be a restaurant, but it is also part of a broader effort to shape the kinds of places where that future unfolds.
On a recent evening, the dining room hummed with the kind of energy restaurateurs spend years trying to manufacture. During the course of dinner, I spotted artists, musicians, writers, and assorted members of Hudson’s cultural ecosystem. Some lingered at the bar, others clustered around tables. The atmosphere felt lively but never scene-y, stylish but never self-conscious. People seemed genuinely happy to be there.
That struck me as significant. Hudson has no shortage of excellent restaurants—and more being added by the minute—but many of them function as destinations. You make a reservation weeks in advance. You anticipate the meal. You tell your friends about it afterward. A brasserie serves a different purpose. It becomes part of the fabric of a place. It is where life happens between occasions.
The menu, overseen by culinary director Hagan Whelchel, reflects that sensibility. Whelchel’s resume includes time under Alain Ducasse and Thomas Keller, two chefs who have shaped modern American fine dining. Yet there is little interest here in showing off. The deviled eggs ($8) arrived neatly piped and dusted with paprika. The salmon rillette ($16) was rich and generous, accompanied by toast points sturdy enough to support it. Escargots ($16), tucked beneath a golden puff pastry cap, offered a small flourish of French theater. A frisee salad ($14) delivered exactly what one hopes for: bitter greens, smoky bacon, and a softly yielding egg.
Nothing felt designed to astonish. The pleasure was in how well everything worked.
For entrees, Jamie ordered the moules frites ($26) while I opted for the half chicken ($28). The mussels were the standout of the evening, delightfully plump and swimming in a broth so good we briefly discussed taking it home. We didn’t, a decision I regretted almost immediately. The chicken, meanwhile, was everything a brasserie chicken should be: deeply browned, expertly cooked, and comforting without being dull, served atop a Francophile succotash of corn, fava beans, bacon, and green garlic with thyme-scented chicken jus wafting up from the plate’s perimeter.
The wine list follows a similar philosophy. While rooted in France, it avoids the sort of performative seriousness that can turn wine programs into exercises in intimidation. Loire Valley whites, rosés, and reds mingle with thoughtfully selected American bottles. There are enough unfamiliar producers to spark a conversation, but the list never lapses into obscurity for its own sake. Like the menu, it rewards engagement without demanding homework. The impression is of a wine program designed for the pleasures of the table: oysters, roast chicken, good company, and the possibility that one bottle might become two.
Just as important is the service, which strikes the difficult balance between attentiveness and ease. Water glasses were filled, plates cleared, and questions answered without ceremony or interruption. Nobody appeared to be performing hospitality; they were simply practicing it. It reminded me of something the chef Waldy Malouf, then culinary director at the CIA, said to me years ago: “If you work in the restaurant industry, your goal should be to bring people joy. That’s it.” It felt like the waitstaff were genuinely excited to help us have a good time. In sum, Mr. Cat seems conceived less as a backdrop for social media than as a place where one might happily spend an entire evening.
Perhaps that’s what Mr. Cat says about Hudson right now. For years, the city’s story was one of discovery. People arrived. Businesses opened. New ideas were tested. Today, many of those newcomers have become longstanding residents. They own businesses. They raise children. They serve on boards. They still appreciate novelty, but they also value continuity. They want places they can return to. Mr. Cat appears poised to become one of those places.
By the end of the evening, after deviled eggs, rillette, escargots, salad, mussels, fries, roast chicken, wine, conversation, and a martini sharpened with pickled onion juice, we found ourselves ordering oysters for dessert. Which is to say we weren’t quite ready to leave. That’s probably the highest compliment one can pay a brasserie.
