From The New Orleans Menu Daily By Tom Fitzmorris Originally published February 17, 2006 Antoine’s Post-Storm Ratings: B, 5$ French Quarter: 713 St. Louis 581-4422 Dinner Mon. and Thurs.-Sat. Sunday brunch. AE DC DS MC V www.antoines.com A few months ago a frightening article appeared in the Chicago Tribune in which Rick Blount, the CEO of Antoine's, painted a very dire picture of his family's venerable restaurant. It had serious problems. The oldest part of Antoine's took an unexpectedly hard slam from Hurricane Katrina. "It looked like a bomb had gone off in there," Blount told me. "The walls were all bowed out, and a main ceiling support was sagging." The top of the exterior wall facing Royal Street, with its iconic painted advertisement for the restaurant, collapsed. The way the Tribune article was written, it almost seemed as if Antoine's--the oldest continuously-operated restaurant in America, since 1840--might not go on. That idea sent a chill into my chest. We've always heard that the French Quarter has stoop up to every storm in the past, and is still there. Obviously we can't count on that as a given anymore. And New Orleans without Antoine's? Brrr. This pessimism--espoused by many Orleanians and many businesses in the first couple of months of aftermath--turned quickly. In November, Blount called me with his plan: Antoine's would try to open for Christmas Eve. They would have a limited menu and could only use one dining room, but he thought it could be done. The date was important. Christmas Eve at Antoine's is one of Those Days in New Orleans dining: a full house of the best-heeled people eating and drinking in the largest way, lingering from lunch into dinner. That proved too optimistic. But not by much. Antoine's got its doors open five days later, as I discovered by accident. On my way back from lunch around the corner, I saw the alleyway into the kitchen open. I walked back there and found familiar waiters, familiar cooks, and general manager Michael Guste standing around. He told me that Antoine's would reopen that night. They already had 200 people on the books. They made it 201. Then we toured the restaurant. I saw depressing things, notably the closed front dining room and the empty wine cellar. But the kitchen looked fine and well-staffed (although it wasn't, really). And the Annex--the big red room in the back where most locals dine--looked the same, and ready to go. When my family and I showed up for dinner, it took over a half hour to say hello to everyone--the Gustes, Rick Blount, the great old waiters, and the customers, all of whom were familiar regulars. It took awhile to get drinks and the first orders of soufflee potatoes (served without the familiar woven-potato baskets; not enough staff to make those yet). The potatoes were not quite right; the guy who used to do them must be among the missing. Nor was the French bread--always the best in town before the storm--its usual self. "Angelo Gendusa Bakery isn't back to normal yet," said Blount, who went on to unload his feelings about reopening. "I was really scared that this machine, which has never been shut down this long in a hundred and fifty years, would be really hard to start again. But we've only had little problems. Like a Champagne cocktail the first customer ordered. The bartender reached up for a sugar cube and--whoops! We didn't remember to order sugar cubes. But the kitchen is keeping up. That's a relief." We started with crabmeat ravigote, lumpy and mayonnaisey, and it was which was fine. The trout amandine and the grilled pompano were more workmanlike than inspired, but they tasted like they always did in the past. And were a little overcooked, which is a long-standing problem here. Two filets mignon were just right, including the marchand de vin sauce on one of them. The creamed spinach was perfect. On another dinner a few weeks later, the fried oysters Foch, with the thick brown sauce unique to Antoine's and one of its finest creations, was right on the money. So was the combination salad of five greens, tomatoes, hearts of palm, avocado, and Roquefort cheese, a very large and good salad that could easily be shared. As it always has been, it was served too cold. The entree in that meal was a dish I had the first time I ever went to Antoine's and many times since. Chicken Rochambeau was a baked chicken half with most of the bones removed, served on a slice of grilled ham, and surrounded with a slightly sweet brown sauce and topped with the restaurant's curious, brilliantly yellow, lemony bearnaise. But here was a post-hurricane revision, one I hope is not permanent: a grilled skinless, boneless, tasteless chicken breast in place of the half chicken. The dish is so much about the sauces that this is not a major disaster, but it is a discount to the flavor of the dish. All this adds up to this: Antoine's is back, and for the most part it's the way it was. From the unique dishes like oysters  Rockefeller and Foch, steak marchand de vin, and baked Alaska, to maddening (cut consistent!) quirks like the overchilled salad. I was almost happy to experience those familiar problems, and it made me nostalgic as I slapped my forehead and said, "Drat! I forgot to tell them not to overcook the pompano!" If this sounds like masochism, it may be. I've always thought that enjoyment of Antoine's is dependent on a suspension of one's standards in favor of letting them have their way with you. That's an idea from the past, and it's akin to what you need in sex and religion. It's out of vogue in today's restaurant world. But you don't go to Antoine's to see what's in vogue today, but for Antoine's special world. Nevertheless, change is coming. The hours have completely departed from tradition, to serve the customers when they are there to be served. They're closed Tuesdays and Wednesdays and staying open Monday. And, for the first time in the restaurant's history, they have Sunday jazz brunch. (That is no huge dislocation, since Antoine's menu always had fancy egg dishes on it. In fact, they invented eggs Sardou.) So, like everything else in New Orleans, Antoine's is nudging gingerly into the new world, holding on to what it considers essential, reinventing what needs to be changed. On that first night, we were just thinking about dessert when a baked Alaska of large size began circulating, stopping at our table first. "Antoine's," it said on one side, in whipped cream, like it always does. "Welcome Back!" it said on the other. Click here to return to today's edition. Click here for an index of all restaurant reviews. © 2006 Tom Fitzmorris. All rights reserved. news@nomenu.com.