Raven's Bakehouse — Restaurant in New Milford

Once upon a daybreak dreary While I pondered, weak and weary meandering Bank Street, seeking out some respite from this small town bore

I came upon a shop so subtle hidden by the theater's bustle how quaint and curious it did appear as I approached and rapped upon the door

Realizing it was not locked I pushed with might, and yet was stopped I paused -- then pulled and entered warily, wiping my feet across the floor

Once inside, observing keenly black and red and sights unseemly Who here might undo my life and leave me amidst a pile of gore?

And so, I met the shopkeep pleasant relieved to find baked goods in crescent smoldering with chocolate and gold my stomach bade me, GIVE ME MORE!

I sat amidst the patrons quiet several entered; perchance a riot? Surely this shop held a secret; one which no one could ignore

Fearing for my life at present hastily I went among the peasants to spread the word of Raven's Bakehouse with pastries, lattes, and gothery galore

And so, with trepidation I declare it's worth the risk if ye be scared enter all who need a break and enjoy your respite,...

I am very disappointed that I drove 35 minutes to visit this cafe. I was looking forward to relaxing and reading a book by the fireplace. However, the staff was so obnoxiously loud that I couldn’t even think. My infant son cried briefly because he was hungry, but the girls were way louder than he was. The owner and her employee carried on two separate conversations with patrons and were basically screaming over each other. A gentleman who was reading nearby just gave up and closed his book. When those patrons left, other people went up to the counter, and more loud (yelling) conversations ensued, including with one girl who spoke about suing someone and used profanities. After about 15 minutes, I quietly strolled my son back to the car and drove home. The cafe’s decor was very pretty and inviting, but the atmosphere was not calming...

“Ode to the Ravens Bakehouse” The raven of closing time taps at the door— four o’clock, nevermore. Within, the espresso burns black as my soul, the croissant weeps chocolate like forbidden tears, the Earl Grey exhales bergamot ghosts that curl, aristocratic and cruel, above the rim. All perfection, all ecstasy— snuffed at four, as if joy itself were a candle the barista must blow out before the witching hour of five. Quoth the sign:...