From the New Orleans Menu Daily
By Tom Fitzmorris
May 2007
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Tuesday, May 1. On Their Way Home, With A Flat Tire. This is a day that I've been awaiting for quite some time. Mary Ann and Mary Leigh have left Washington, DC for what I hope is the last time, to return home for what I hope is for good. Believe it or not, as many conversations and evaluations as we have made about this we're still wondering whether it's the right thing to do. I'm sure we will continue that process for the rest of our lives.
The girls were doing just fine until they got to Tennessee. Then out in the middle of nowhere (the only place where such things happen), they found themselves with a flat tire. After a number of phone calls to me attempting to deduce the proper way of handling this disaster, they walked about a quarter-mile to a gas station at the next exit and bought some flat fix stuff. Mary Ann filled the tire, but it was only enough to get her to the gas station again. There a good Samaritan helped her actually change the tire. That was an almost easy job after getting the spare out from under the mountain of junk in the back of the vehicle.
That flustered them so much that I insisted that they spend an extra night in Knoxville. Mary Leigh in particular is enamored of the Cumberland Hotel there, and the prospect of spending two nights instead of just one made the bother of the flat tire seem insignificant.
I planned to write my restaurant review column in CityBusiness this week on Mandina's. I could do that if I had one more meal at their original restaurant on Canal Street. To my surprise, at six-thirty the restaurant was not full--although it would have a waiting list by the time I laughed. I was also surprised to see relatively small population holding the bar up--a tradition at Mandina's every bit as celebrated as its turtle soup and trout amandine.
I started with the oyster and artichoke soup, always one of the two or three best versions in the city. It was loaded with many large still-plump oysters, but it wasn't quite its old self. After a salad came half a fried chicken. While the chicken was clearly fried to order, it was innocent of any significant seasoning. That is something I don't believe I will order here again. But we always knew that Mandina's menu is full of items included more for the sake of tradition and than distinction.
After dinner, I encountered Romney Richard, the publisher of Louisiana Cookin' magazine. Her offices are less than a block away, so she and her staff are in here all the time. We discussed the revival of the neighborhood, which is picking up momentum rapidly. And of the scene at Mandina's, which warps back to pre-K times.
Then I took a walk around the block to get a close-up gander at Christian's, to see if any progress is being made there. Not much, it seems. I continued the circumnavigation of that square and approached Canal on Cortez. A streetcar passed as I achieved the corner. As it did, it revealed Mandina's neon-splashed exterior. Seeing that glow in the gloaming brought a happy smile to my lips. For us locals, that sight is one of the most heart-warming imaginable.
Wednesday, May 2. No Move. My usual overloaded Wednesday, interspersed with phone calls from my girls, telling me how much fun they were having in Knoxville, and how pleased they were to have the luxury of taking a day off from their grueling 1200 mile trip. I was pleased to, because it gave me time to get the house cleaned up at least enough that Mary Ann's first reaction will not be disdain.
Today was the new date for the moving of my radio station to our new location. However, this deadline blew right past as all the others had. I can't complain; I'm still doing all my shows from home. So it's no big deal that might little station is the only one left in the battered old building.
Thursday, May 3. My Girls Come Home. Dinner At Del Porto. The drive from Knoxville to home is significantly longer than the first leg of the trip from Washington, DC, but the girls are making very good time, even though they made significant dining and shopping stops along the way. In a variation on the long-running shtick too complicated and boring to explain, Mary Leigh sent me a text message when they passed through Toomsuba, Alabama. Don't ask.
A pretty significant rainstorm came through from the West, threatening both they are drive and the jazz festivals we opening tomorrow. The storm proved to be later and much more ferocious than we were expecting. So the girls got in without so much as a sprinkle. The Jazz Festival may have some problems with their opening tomorrow.
Mary Ann and Mary Leigh arrived near the end of the radio show. I was surprised to see that they were driving the old Dodge Caravan, which as far as I'm concerned is designated as Jude's car. Somehow Jude talked Mary Ann into letting him hang onto her much better Honda. That kid can sell cactus to a rancher.
A couple of days ago, Penny Kelley called to invite me to a dinner with an Italian winemaker at Del Porto. Penny and her husband Stephen used to run the North Shore wine merchant, a good but under patronized wine store on Causeway Blvd. She's in the wholesale side of things now, and her winemaker du jour -- or should I say del giorno -- is from Tenuta San Guido, which owns hundreds of acres of good vineyards in Montepulciano. We had a basic red and the much more famous Brunello from that district, and it went well with the antipasto, the restaurants wonderful bean dip, the mushroom ravioli, and the sirloin strip steak. I have resisted ordering a stake in the past at Del Porto; it seems jejune to order that from a menu with so many other points of interest. However, it was as good as anything else I've ever had here. And I will certainly have it again. With or without wines so well matched to it.
I was surprised that Mary Ann wanted to join me for this dinner, since wine isn't really her thing, and since she had just arrived home. But then again they were supposed to arrive yesterday, and I asked permission, so. . .
Friday, May 4. Breakfast With The Big Girl, Dinner With The Little One. A heavy downpour began in the evening and continued throughout the night. I'm glad this didn't fall while the girls were on their way home.
When we awakened, the sun had begun to come out. Mary Leigh did not want to waste any time before sliding back into the routine that we've always enjoyed in the past, so we went to breakfast at the Abita Café, ordered the usual things, and held on tenaciously to our tradition, a delightful, lingering relic of a much earlier time.
The girls spent the better part of the day unloading the car with not only the usual massive amounts of baggage, but an actual piece of furniture. It was a futon that necessitated they are taking the old man home from Washington, DC. I had no idea they were coming home in that thing. Otherwise I would've worried more about that flat tire.
I stayed home for the radio show, and almost as soon as it was over Mary Leigh was asking about the possibilities of dinner. Somehow we decided to go to belay prime house, where we'd had a delightful dinner months ago. This one was less so. It began on the wrong foot when I asked for a martini with a little bit extra vermouth, my usual order. This never seems to puzzle anybody but it apparently did this bartender. It took me a few sips to realize that what I was drinking was almost entirely vermouth. In fact, I wouldn't swear that there was any gin in it at all. It that long for the problem to register because I couldn't believe it. This place always had a good bar in the past.
We began with salads, which Mary Leigh has recently begun to eat at virtually every meal. She went on to have a filet. Nothing new there. The pork chop on the menu here seemed interesting, but it wasn't. I find this restaurant hard to figure, but Mary Leigh likes it. And that's good enough reason for me.
Saturday, May 5. Fired And Rejected At The Auction. For some reason I didn't have to do a radio show today. Mary Leigh was going to sleep late, so that gave Mary Ann and me the opportunity to have breakfast together at the Courtyard. It's wonderful to be back together with her, but I feel guilty about being the near occasion of sin. She is trying to eat less, but that's hard to do when you're around me.
The big event on my schedule today was the Taste of Tammany. That's a combination grazing event and charity auction for Our Lady of the Lake Church in Mandeville, as well as a couple of other charities. I've been either the emcee or auctioneer for this event for about 15 years, and the chairman of the event asked me to do it again months ago. I thought it was funny that I hadn't heard from him for some time. I thought it even more peculiar to learn, when I got there, that I'd been fired. Not only that, but the dinner with me that I've auctioned for tens of thousands of dollars over the years wasn't up for bids. They said they couldn't get hold of me. How is that possible?
On the plus side, the food was significantly better than it has been in many years. On the other hand the auction items were less than inspiring. And the new rule promulgated by a the archdiocese was puzzling: no hard liquor was to be had at any of the bars. What's the deal on that? Don't they know that tipsy auction participants bid extravagantly?
Sunday, May 6. A New Steakhouse. My entire family is working on an ambitious project involving chain restaurants. We've been visiting every one we find. And there were plenty to be found in the Washington, DC area. The New Orleans area has a relatively small population of chain restaurants; you don't realize how thoroughly the chains have taken over the restaurant business until you travel somewhere else. Particularly if the somewhere else doesn't have a strong tradition of local dining.
A new chain in our area is the Longhorn Steak House. As soon as I set foot in the door, I recognized the scene. It's the same Texas cowboy theme been used by steak houses for at least fifty years. Some ideas never die. However, the menu here wouldn't have been found in such a place even ten years ago.
The steaks aside, the menu here was essentially the one in any other chain dinnerhouse, including such things as spinach artichoke dip and Southwest style egg rolls. (The latter are the hot item in chain restaurants these days. I would tell you why if you would tell me why.) They're fried, of course, filled with chicken and cheese (of course), beans and other sources of plumpness.
The steaks were actually interesting. They claim USDA Choice grade. I ordered the porterhouse, knowing that the filet side would be tender enough, but wondering what I would find on the strip side. I was very surprised that it was juicy and fat-rich. They wouldn't tell me what they'd done with the steaks, but my suspicion is that they're either marinated or cooked with some admixture of oil or fat. Maybe not, but I'd really like to know what the trick is here.
The Longhorn has only been open for a few weeks, at the burgeoning intersection of I-12 and LA 21. The perfect place for a chain restaurant. Much of the management team has been brought in from other locations in the chain to set the standards. The waitstaff, very well-trained, came from closer to home. The Longhorn was better than I expected, but it left me more suspicious than satisfied. My wife laughs at this; she thinks that I'm so prejudiced against chain restaurants that I can't see straight.
Monday, May 7. New Radio Home. Today, at long last, I moved my radio show into new studios, on the eighth floor of the 400 Poydras Building at the corner of Magazine.
The first thought that came to my mind about this location is its proximity to many good restaurants. Our old building had nowhere to eat for many blocks in any direction. But here? The Bon Ton is across the street. Cuvée is across the street from that. Mother's is half a block away; Zoe Bistro across from that. Other restaurants within two or three blocks are the Windsor Court, Café Adelaide, August, RioMar, Tommy's, Emeril's, La Cote Brasserie, and Azul.
I am also back in the immediate neighborhood of the old offices of New Orleans Magazine, my first really big job. So it's nostalgic, too.
The studios themselves are quite spiffy. I have a view of the Mississippi River bridge is, the whole warehouse district, and the lands to the east. We have six microphones in there; I wonder how often we will use all of those. Some things remain to be adjusted yet; the thermostat keeps the studio at near meat locker temperature is.
But the most thrilling improvement of all is that we now have a telephone system for callers into the show. They can actually be heard on the air, and they can hear me. If someone is on hold longer than he wants to be and hangs up, we now know that. (A really bad element of my show in the old studio was that we'd go to a line that looked live, but where we'd just sit there repeating the now-gone caller's name again and again.)
We even have a convenient new number, one that can be recalled by people who aren't memory experts. All of these improvements resolve problems that have vexed me sorely for 15 years.
Despite all those restaurants, we didn't take advantage of them today. It will be a busy week of dinners, and I wanted to spend time with my newly-returned girls. So I went straight home after the show.
Tuesday, May 8. Eat Club Champagne Dinner At Ralph's. As soon as Mary Leigh woke up in the morning, she asked whether we could go to breakfast at the Abita Café. Of course we can! I miss doing this once a week. I wonder if we'll get tired of doing it twice a week.
After having had a little bit of trouble filling our Eat Club dinners in recent weeks, we experienced a runaway success with a dinner at Ralph's on the Park. The dinner was a terrific bargain: $85 for six courses accompanied by four Veuve Clicquot Champagnes. The restaurant planned to offer this menu for the remainder of the month, and they asked the Eat Club to kick off the word-of-mouth. They shouldn't have much trouble: our dinner sold out two weeks ago. We probably could've sold out two of these, in fact.
The dinner itself had its ups and downs. The best course of the evening (few people agreed with me on this) was the first one: big oysters baked on the shells with a crust of garlic, bread crumbs, and a little fennel. This not only tasted good but smelled fantastic. Next came some very large shrimp in a Creole seasoned scampi style sauce. Mary Ann liked this a lot more than I did, and called it her best of the night by the end of the meal.
That was followed by crawfish ravioli, which suffered from having been fried instead of boiled. The flavor of the sauce and the stuffing were fine, but the crunchy pasta was no bonus. The entree was a grilled redfish of no distinction whatsoever, served with a lobster tail that had been poached in butter. You do that by bringing melted butter up to the boiling point of water, instead of the sizzling degree usually employed when butter is brought to bear on a protein. It sounds, I think, a lot better than it tastes.
The dessert was a raspberry flavored panna cotta, which tasted good enough. But it didn't fit my description of that dessert. The Champagnes were all utterly beyond reproach. I thought that the vintage 1999 was the class of the night, but the only other oenophile I spoke with felt that the familiar yellow-label Veuve Cliquot non-vintage cuvee still was the standout.
On the way home a, Mary Ann repeated her mantra that dinners like this constitute far too much food for anybody's good. Nothing new there.
Wednesday, May 9. Birthday. Spicy Chicken. It is Mary Leigh's fifteenth birthday. For the occasion I stayed home from our new studio. I don't think anyone will mind my contribution to its underutilization.
The birthday girl had the right to pick the dinner menu. She surprised us by wanting to cook at home. Her menu choice was also out of character. "I want that chicken with the really spicy crust on the outside," she said. Really? You mean the grilled chicken with the bones? Amazing! She didn't go too much farther afield. The requested side dish was very familiar: mashed potatoes. I know that she will tell me that I make the best mashed potatoes she ever had anywhere. That makes me as happy as anything.
I fired up the Big Green Egg with charcoal, and liberally encrusted the chicken breasts with Creole seasoning and a spray of olive oil. The chicken was out there about 15 minutes, the well focused heat of the Egg blasting the outside, leaving the inside of the white meat juicy. I took a taste of the skin, and thought that maybe I had overseasoned it. But Mary Leigh said it was exactly the way she liked it. She's always had a taste for high pepper levels.
After dinner, while waiting for Mary Ann to clean up the kitchen so we could move on to something else, I began to work the crossword puzzle in the newspaper in a desultory way. I've never been much of a crossword puzzle fancier, and I really don't know why I started in on this one. But Mary Leigh pulled up her chair next to mine and we worked on it together. After about a half-hour, we had it done--with more fun than I would've guessed. It was exactly the sort of activity of which Mary Ann approves one hundred percent. So we all went to bed happy.
While waiting to fall asleep, the fact that I now have a fifteen-year-old daughter gave me a lot to ruminate upon.
Thursday, May 10. Bosco's Lunch. Nawlins Flava. Peristyle. Yesterday's birthday girl woke up too late to so much as suggest going to breakfast. That left lunch open, and all three of us found the thought of having it at Bosco's irresistibly appealing. So there we were, having salads with that fine, simple, lemony Italian vinaigrette and spaghetti with the restaurant's very good, very basic red sauce. Mary Ann had antipasto, thinking she'd get something approximating what she'd had a few days ago at Del Porto. It wasn't, but at least she got her quota of olives, which he regards as food for the gods.
The special was cannelloni, stuffed with a light mixture of veal, spinach and cheese, then flowed over with the same red sauce Mary Leigh enjoyed on the spaghetti, and the same sauce yet again mixed with a little cream to make what is variously known as sauce Aurora or sauce Rosa. Fine plate of food, that.
After the radio show in my refrigerator-temperature studio, I spent a little time unpacking my books at the new studio in the small office space I share with a couple of other hosts. For some reason, it's a wind tunnel. I don't figure on spending a lot of time in here anyway.
After having had enough of being chilled to the bone, I set out for our Eat Club venue, Peristyle. I parked a half block away on Rampart Street, which walked me past a restaurant I'd not seen before. Nawlins Flava Cafe had a menu I recognized, even though I'd never actually seen one like it before. For example, this is the first menu I've seen in 35 years of eating in backstreet restaurants--even those with unimpeachable soul food credentials--that actually had chitlins on the menu. I've had chitlins a couple of times, and I agree with Bill Cosby's assessment that the word is misspelled by one letter. I'll check this place out some other time; I don't think I'd look right eating there wearing a suit.
The short story about our dinner at Peristyle is that it was the finest meal I've had here since chef Tom Wolfe took over four years ago. For the occasion, he brought back a number of dishes that he had formerly done at his first restaurant in Lakeview, notably the Steen's cane syrup-glazed, slow-roasted duck and the white chocolate butter bars he named for his mother.
We started with a crawfish martini garnished with caviar, moved on to a spectacular little Provencal-style, pizza-like tart with caramelized onions and three different versions of tapanade, all salty and savory. Already, the Eat Clubbers were enthusiastic in their praise for this dinner; usually, that doesn't happen until much later.
Then the duck emerged, accompanied by a generous slab of foie gras--an unexpected treat. Then followed a filet mignon moistened with a classic red-wine Bordelaise sauce and a little bit of bacon; delicious and juicy. The butter bars (I don't know why he calls them that; they look more like little pies) finished off the meal perfectly.
Throughout the evening Patrick Van Hoorebeek -- who has been running Peristyle's dining room for the past few months -- kept some good wines circulating and the joie de vivre at acceptable levels. I think Patrick is the perfect person to run this dining room, but I would learn that he was not long for this restaurant.
Friday, May 11. A Birthday Dinner, A Prom, And Manale's. Today began a very exciting weekend for our family, and it couldn't have gone better. Mary Leigh celebrated her birthday with a dinner attended by some of her former classmates from Sacred Heart. I reserved a private room for the girls at the Zea on St. Charles Ave. -- her pick. Mary Leigh's friends were pleased to insert her dinner into their busy schedules. (It's astounding how crowded the calendar for such young people can be.)
Simultaneous with that, twelve hundred miles away, Jude was in the throes of his junior prom. When he started high school, I had it in mind that I would finagle my way into his prom as a chaperone, floor sweeper, parking valet, or something -- just so I could be there. I never guessed that the big night would be in another city. But I did get involved, anyway, at Jude's request. I called Simone Rathle -- a New Orleans native who now lives in Washington, DC, and who handles public relations for John Besh here and Jeff Tunks's restaurants in the DC area. She reserved the table for Jude and his buddy and their dates at Acadiana, the great Creole-Cajun restaurant where I did the radio show for a week in February. Part of the arrangement was making sure that no bill showed up at the table. I wish I'd had such a resource on my prom nights.
While those two galas unfolded, Mary Ann and I had dinner at Pascal's Manale. That venue was chosen by Travel Channel host Bill Delano, who wanted to see a different side of the New Orleans restaurant business than he had so far. I guess he'd heard about barbecue shrimp. The main reason for the dinner, however, was that Mary Ann -- in her ongoing efforts to turn me into a national television food star -- wanted a copy of the television interview Delano had with me at Restaurant August a few months ago. I thought it went pretty well; as it turned out, it wasn't exactly what she had been hoping for. But I very rarely am what she had been hoping for.
I need only the tiniest pretext for having dinner at Manale's. This was a luscious dinner. We started with oysters Bienville, the oyster combination pan roast, and an order of barbecue shrimp, split among the four of us. Although I think Manale's original recipe for barbecue shrimp is overdue for renovation (the trans-fat issue, given that the sauce is made largely with margarine, seems like reason enough), this batch was among the best I've had here in decades. We're at the beginning of shrimp season, and that had something to do with it. But the sauce was terrific too.
Bill Delano acts as if he finds me highly amusing. But he's so much younger -- in his twenties -- that at times it seemed to me that the source of his delight is the disconnect between our generations. I remember acting the same way around the older members of the food community when I was beginning my career as a food writer in my own twenties.
Reports filtered in from the birthday party and the prom throughout the evening. Mary Leigh went home with her cousin Hillary, so Mary Ann and I would have to wait for the full report till tomorrow. As for Jude, heaven only knows when this evening will end for him. Certainly long after our bedtime.
Saturday, May 12. An ordinary Saturday. But I like some days to be ordinary -- especially Saturdays. Mary Ann and I had breakfast at the Courtyard. I did a couple of hours of radio. I cut an acre of so of grass. She went across the lake to collect Mary Leigh. I took a nap. You know, that kind of day. It would be the last normal day for awhile.
Note To Readers: If you're as squeamish about reading about health issues as I am--especially as regards the eye--you might want to forgo reading the parts of the following in blue. --Tom.
Sunday, May 13. Mother's Day. In past years, we've had a Mother's Day party at the Cool Water Ranch for all the mothers in our family--a lot of mothers. But since the death of Mary Ann's own mother last year, all such celebrations seem to have come to an end. So it was just us noting the annual Mother's Day blooming of the big, yellow, showy flowers on the gigantic prickly pear cactus at the corner of the house.
Mary Ann gets whatever she wants on Mother's Day, of course. I cannot buy her presents; by the time we get to Mother's Day, she's already figured out what she wants, and ordered it. This year, it's an exercise unit.
And a cake from Mary Leigh. Our daughter is such a good baker that when she puts her mind to it she produces amazingly delicious pastries. Today's may have been the best ever. She made a three-layer cake with chocolate swirled into vanilla, vanilla swirled into chocolate, and what seemed to me to be an all-chocolate layer. She applied a light frosting over it and between the layers, and there it was.
Even she was surprised by how fine it came out. Rather dense, its flavor was so suave and refined that every time we took another slice of it -- which we would do for many days until every crumb was gone -- we remarked on how wonderful a cake it was. I think we may have gone a little overboard with that praise. Mary Leigh made it clear that she was sick of hearing it after a day or two. (But it really was a tremendously good cake.)
My own contribution to Mother's Day was to be fried chicken. I've been joking for many months in a mock sexy voice on the phone that when Mary Ann came home I would make her some fried chicken. I put it in the brine last night; this morning I rinsed it off and put it into the second marinade of buttermilk, mustard and herbs. It was going to be great.
Taking a distant second place to Mother's Day today was the fortieth anniversary of my junior prom at Jesuit, one of the three or four most pivotal days of my life. This anniversary had particular resonance, because of the total success of Jude's prom Friday night. He sent photographs: there he is in a sharp tuxedo, arm around a pretty girl. His was an ideal prom night, and once again he moves beyond the record of his dad.
Mary Ann and Mary Leigh went out to do some shopping. I set about trimming weeds and grass here and there around the property. We have had a particularly superb crop of Louisiana irises this year; a shallow ditch across the property gives them the perfect environment when we get enough rain -- as we have this year. Everything is lush and green.
I was watering parts of the lawn that looked thirsty when what I thought was some sort of bug started crawling up the bottom of my left eye. I brushed at it but it didn't go away. I went inside to check it out in a mirror, but saw nothing. Yet this black crawly thing continued to move and grow. My brain began to compute what it might be. That was enough for me to know that if I didn't lie down, I might pass out and hurt myself. For reasons I can't rationally understand (and am very embarrassed by), vision issues trouble me to the point of vasovagal fainting.
Those who have similar reactions to such issues may want to stop reading here.
I began seeing streaks of red in my field of vision. I suspected that a blood vessel had broken in my eye. Mary Ann's brother Tim -- Hillary's dad -- has extensive experience with this very malady. I called him and described my symptoms. He said that what I was seeing were classic signs of an eye hemorrhage, and that I should consider going to the hospital.
I called Mary Ann, who rushed right home to minister to me. Tim told me I should stay quiet, and so I remained in bed. After an hour or so, it seemed to me that the situation at least was not growing worse. Another call to Tim told me that this was a good sign, but that I should still see a doctor as soon as I could.
Talk about ruining a day. I remained in bed most of the rest of it. No fried chicken would be had. I had been thinking about listening to CDs I made recapitulating the songs popular on my prom night. But I didn't want to associate that magic with this horror. I just lay there, alternately sleeping and worrying, till the morning.
Monday, May 14. The Eye. When dawn's early light revealed just how clouded the vision was in my left eye, I knew something had to be done. The first person I called was my internist, a doctor I trust deeply, and whose breadth of knowledge is very wide. When I described to him what was wrong with me, he advised me to get to the hospital "sooner rather than later." And that it was likely that I had retinal damage to be repaired.
Mary Ann's brother Tim referred me to his ophthalmologist, who repaired this very problem numerous times for Tim. That doctor was unreachable. I left a message, and tried to carry on as best as I could. This included doing the radio show from downtown, which required Mary Ann's driving me there.
At two minutes before air time, the a different ophthalmologist called me, listened to my presentation, and said that I should get to the hospital immediately. I hated to ask Todd Menesses--the guy at the radio station who handles the nuts and bolts of programming--to fill my time on the radio on such short notice. But there was nothing else to do.
I expected a very disturbing ordeal. Perhaps because of that, the proceedings were nowhere near as upsetting as I'd feared. The worst part of it, really, was the examination. Dr. F., who at first doubted my self-diagnosis, confirmed that indeed I had suffered quote "a pretty significant hemorrhage." He recommended laser surgery immediately. That was a surprise; I had no idea such things were done so routinely.
Dr. F. was fully understanding of my anxiety, and invited my questioning. It seemed inevitable, so I went with it. But the procedure took only a few minutes, and was utterly free of even slight discomfort. He said I might have a headache later, but I didn't even have that.
What could have caused this? Dr. F. said that it's most common after an eye injury. But I'd had no such thing that I knew of. He said other causes were diabetes (that's Tim's problem) and extreme hypertension (I have high blood pressure, but not that high). He said that it's common among near-sighted people--which I have been since age ten.
I'd heard that detached retinas could be caused by drinking. "That's not in the literature," he said. That was a relief.
Dr. F. warned me that he was having as much trouble seeing into my eye as I was seeing out of it, and that he would need to try again in a few days. He also said to take it really easy. Every part of me except the one that wants to work all the time can handle that.
Tuesday, May 15. Mary Leigh and I began the day with breakfast at the Abita Café, chauffeured by Mary Ann. I wonder how long it will be before I can drive again.
About the only writing I was able to do was an advisory to my newsletter readers but I wouldn't be able to produce much for the next few days. That was an understatement. Although I can already see improvement in the vision of my left eye, the effects of Sunday's attack make reading and writing very troublesome. The prospect of living without those two activities--so central as they are to my livelihood--is very scary. I took two naps instead of one today. Did the show from home, of course. It's a good thing my main employment doesn't require much seeing.
Wednesday, May 16. A little improvement from yesterday, but not a lot. I spent a lot of time napping. Not so much because I'm tired, but because I can only keep my eyes open for just so long before they need rest. Bright light is the worst.
Mary Leigh made a batch of her red sauce from scratch, and we had that with pasta and salads. Afterwards she and I struggled through another crossword puzzle. The time it takes is more than I can comfortably see before needing another rest. This is no fun at all.
Thursday, May 17. Another Round. Muffuletta Maneuverings. I had an early-morning appointment with Dr. F., who told me that my eye had cleared up significantly. That was the good news. The bad news was, now he could see more clearly in there, that he saw more areas that needed attention. I apparently have a small retinal tear. I felt that chill in the center of my chest.
So I underwent another round of laser surgery. This one was much longer and much less comfortable than the first one--but still not what I would call painful. It was, however, more than a little nerve-wracking. Still, I'm proud of myself for not passing out. Dr. F. praised me for my patience and cooperation. I don't usually get that from doctors.
Mary Ann and I arrived back in Covington at lunch time. She was hungry; what I had just been through had killed my appetite. But I found it easy enough to revive. We stopped at our in over his, where her goal was one of those roast beef and ham poor boys that they do there. By the muffuletta sounded better.
I made our usual nonconforming request: that half the muffuletta be heeded, as they usually do, and the other half be left at room temperature. The owner came out and said that he couldn't do that, because the mozzarella was shredded, and it would be a mass to attempt it. I withdrew my request, but when the sandwich came out, it had indeed been prepared the way I'd ask for. So I guess it wasn't such a big deal after all.
After this surgery, I did indeed have a headache, as Dr. F. predicted. It was like a hybrid of a sno-ball headache, sinus headache, and earache. Meanwhile, my eye was dazzled. It was all bad enough I begged for another day off from the radio show. I think it's been almost ten years since the last time I took a sick day, but I'm still reluctant to ask for one. Mary Ann thinks that this indicates a different sort of illness.
But we had big doings tonight that I would have to miss. It's our Eat Club dinner at Drago's new downtown location. Today was the first day that they would be open to the public. Over three hundred of our people showed up for the pre-fixe wine dinner. Three hundred! That's by far an Eat Club record, one that will stand for a very long time. Tommy Cvitanovich, who runs the restaurant, was totally understanding of my absence and all but ordered me to stay home. I hope the Eat Clubbers will miss me. But maybe they won't. The food will certainly distract them.
Friday, May 18. Big Lunch. All three of us agreed that a good lunch would be just the thing today. So the girls and I went to Keith Young's Steakhouse, where I'd never attended a noon meal. The crowd they attract in the evening wasn't there, but it was busy. There's a range of lunch specials, but as I looked around the dining room, it seemed that most people were eating steaks anyway. Pretty hard to come here and pass those up.
Mary Leigh ordered one of the specials--a chopped steak. It occurred to me that hamburger steaks have largely fallen off menus. I can't remember the last time I saw one in a restaurant, let alone ordered one. We talked about some of the great ones; the ultimate being the one served at the old Steak Pit restaurant on bourbon street. I'll have to write an Extinct Restaurant column on that place. In any case, a hamburger steak is more or less what Mary Leigh orders everywhere she goes. She loves hamburgers; she hates hamburger buns. I had a pair of soft-shell crabs, which I think I would've liked better without the sauce. But I'll bet they sell a lot more of them with than without.
Saturday, May 19. Our Daughter Lifts Off And Leaves Us Alone. It's another milestone in the life of our daughter. Mary Leigh had to return to Washington, DC, to take her final exams. Long as she's doing that, Mary Ann thought it would be good for her to go a week early, so she could attend a party put on for all the people who worked on the last play at Jude's school. And a couple of other social events. Problem: Mary Leigh doesn't really have a place to live up there, so we will be at the mercy of the hospitality of friends.
More significant is that this was the first time Mary Leigh traveled by herself. Although we have a lot of experience with Jude's doing that, this is our baby girl, and that's different. Mary Leigh was utterly unfazed by at all, and a little embarrassed that we were making such a big deal over it. Mary Ann was much relieved to see that an old friend of ours (a doctor at that) would be on the same flight. Still, when I walked Mary Leigh to the gate, Mary and told me to check out the creepy-looking guy with the baseball cap.
The flight was delayed; the pilot was running late. Mary Ann was concerned by the delay, and before I could tell her what the deal was, she said, "And there was a car that drove up, and a guy dressed like a pilot opened the door and literally fell out onto the tarmac. He was all disheveled. I wonder where he was going?" I kept my mouth shut about this until after the plane landed in Washington, so she wouldn't worry about it.
Leaving the airport, Mary Ann was up for breakfast. Specifically, she wanted to go to the hotel formerly known as Le Meridien, which has a history of offering an excellent breakfast buffet. Now J. W. Marriott, the hotel has maintained a fine spread since just a few weeks after the hurricane. However, the main food service outlet in the hotel these days is Shula's steakhouse. I don't know whether that's the reason, or whether it's because it's Saturday, but both of us agreed that the breakfast buffet here is less than half as good as we remembered it.
With Mary Leigh gone, Mary Ann and I entered into the longest. Since Jude was born in which we are home alone together. How unfortunate that I'm under doctor's orders to limit my activity and stress levels. He told me not even to bend over or carry anything heavy. Mary Ann says that I'm walking around like a very old guy.
Sunday, May 20. My Saturday radio show was bumped over to today and extended to three hours. That made for an entirely new audience for me, since the only time I've ever done a Sunday show was in the few weeks after the hurricane. Not a lot of my people are awake at ten in the morning on Sunday.
I lay low the rest of the day. For dinner, Mary Ann assembled her favorite things: leftovers. Dirty rice, fried chicken from last week, boudin, salad with the blue cheese dressing that Mary Leigh has been making lately (a sudden new taste for her), and nothing for dessert. I worked out the Sunday crossword puzzle, and Mary Ann kept coming by to see how I was doing with it. It was a good question. Not only do I have problems seeing the puzzle after a few minutes, but I miss not doing it in the company of Mary Leigh. We sat around and talked about this empty nest condition, and how we will handle it when it really happens.
Monday, May 21. Looks Stable. Felipe's Mexican Cafeteria. Back to the hospital to see (or, rather, for the doctor to see) whether the second round of laser surgery did the trick. Dr. F. was out of town, so another ophthalmologist--a young, very serious man--did the investigation. At the end of it, he said, "Everything's stable." I released a relieved lungful of air.
By the time we left, it was lunchtime, and Mary Ann and I went to check out one of the many new taquerias that have opened up around town since the recovery began. This one is allied with Elio's Wine Warehouse, just off South Claiborne at Calhoun. It's a cafeteria setup, with a dizzying array of possibilities. I had tacos al pastor--a variation on the puled pork tacos that Mary Ann tried. Also some guacamole and tamales. I thought it was pretty good, by New Orleans standards.
"There are places like this all around Washington," Mary Ann said. "In fact, this is what that Chipotle chain is like." Jaded by her stay in the big city, I see. Struggling hometown not good enough for her anymore, I see. But the same point of view is shared by my kids, and lots of others who left and try to return. (Unless, of course, they're real foodies. After all, Chipotle was an arm of McDonald's until recently.)
We went home in time for the radio show. The lingering effects of the medicine the doctor uses to dilate my pupils (or, to be more accurate, pupil) leaves me dazzled and unable to read or write the rest of the day. But I'm still glad that things are stable, to use the doctor's word.
Tuesday, May 22. Thai Spice, Chapter Two. I continue to avoid the drive into town, because my eyesight is not good enough to allow me to drive. So I just do my radio show from home. Mary Ann cobbled together a blue cheese salad dressing, and she made a salad for us with it. That's right in line with my typical lunches for the past few months. If I have lunch at all.
I persuaded Mary Ann to have a Thai dinner with me. She is no fan of any cuisine with the word "curry" in its menu, but I told her that this had almost nothing in common with Indian curry, which she says she despises.
It was my first visit to the new location of Thai Spice, which opened shortly after the hurricane in the bamboo-walled restaurant on Causeway Blvd. and Three Rivers Road in Covington. A guy by the name of Ricky ran it; there was no way you could eat there and not know who Ricky was. But a couple of months ago he and his sister, who held the lease on the premises (this is Ricky's side of the story, anyway) parted ways. The sister changed the name and menu to Thai Flavor, and Ricky went searching for a new location. He found one in the closed Volcano's (a terrible taqueria)--right across the highway from where he had been. The signs told the story: Thai Spice, Thai Cuisine By Ricky.
It doesn't have the atmosphere of the original restaurant, but it's certainly pleasant enough. Ricky is less omnipresent than he had been; he's doing all the cooking, he told us. The menu was much the same as it was across the street, with a couple of dishes I didn't remember. I ordered one of those: jungle curry, a red Thai curry with a wider assortment of vegetables than one usually finds. That was very good, with a great balance of sweet and hot peppers. In the bowl were stems of green peppercorns, which I'd never seen in so natural a state before.
The spring rolls and the Thai fried rice managed to keep Mary Ann pleased. Very pleased, at that. I might be able to get her to come back here, and to other Thai restaurants.
Wednesday, May 23. Vintner Dinners. Tonight the vintner dinners took place all over the French Quarter for the New Orleans Wine and Food Experience. I may be wrong, but it seems to me that more restaurants have sold out their dinners to a greater number of people than in any previous years. As always, a handful of restaurants have very few takers for their vintner dinners, for no reason I can see from the menus. (Although there are a few that have pretty strange offerings.)
I was planning on attending one of the thirty-four vintner dinners myself, but I decided to give my ailing eye one more day of rest before going back into the city for a big deal event. I have the whole Wine and Food Experience ahead of me, and I'm heavily committed to it.
Thursday, May 24. Royal Street Stroll. Big News. I guess I must be delivering the goods for NOWFE. The organization found itself with an extra press room at the Royal Orleans hotel, and offered it to me for the weekend. How delightful! I knocked out my newsletter, and Mary Ann and I drove into town and checked in. I was just in time for my radio show in the Rib Room, where we have broadcast before NOWFE's Royal Street Stroll for the past several years. This year we're on at such an absurdly early hour that not nearly as many winemakers were available to visit. Because of that, at first we were going to blow the whole thing off.
I'm glad we went ahead with it. I learned several pieces of fascinating news while on the air. First, Patrick van Hoorebeek told me he's been named assistant maître d' in the Rib Room. That introduces an error into an article that will come out Monday about Peristyle, where Patrick has been maître d' for the last several months. I'm sorry about that restaurant's loss, but the Rib Room may be the perfect place for Patrick. As it is, he's hanging around the restaurant every time I come by.
Patrick had another reason to be excited. Two days ago, he became a United States citizen. He had buttons printed up to proclaim this fact, and gave me one.
More breaking news involved Patrick's alma mater, the Bistro at the Maison Deville. It will reopen next week, with Greg Picolo back in the kitchen. I'd all but given up hope of that little gem's return. It will be different without Patrick, but Greg's talents are plenty strong enough to keep it on the A-list. Somebody found Greg and brought him over to my microphone, where he confirmed everything, looked good, and seemed to be raring to go.
After the radio show, Mary Ann and I joined the Stroll, NOWFE's street party. We walked up Royal Street a half block to say hello to Jennifer Wall. She's the winemaker at Barefoot, which makes millions of bottles of popularly-priced wines. She seems to really like New Orleans, and comes to NOWFE every year. It makes the wine snobs froth at the mouth that I give her the time of day on the radio, but to hell with them.
We turned around and headed downtown, being stopped as usual by dozens of people as we tried to make our way. Events like this are, for me, much more about talking to people than sampling food or wine. (Of course, if that ever stops, I'll be in trouble.)
I did insist on entering what is always the finest venue along the Royal Street Stroll: M.S. Rau Antiques. That's an amazing store, whose winding galleries never seemed to come to an end. One can walk so long here that it almost seems impossible that you're still on the same block of the French Quarter. Dickie Brennan's empire of restaurants supplied the food; they were serving prime rib with a garlic and red wine sauce upstairs, and you could literally sniff your way to it. A lot of good wines in here too.
On our way back, we detoured the half-block up Toulouse Street to the open house at the Bistro. Chef Greg had mussels and pulled pork out for the taking, but the big attraction were his nonpareil, fresh-cut French fries. A few dozen partygoers filled the tiny room; almost all their faces were familiar to me from past lunches and dinners here. The return of the Bistro is cause for rejoicing.
Back on Royal, we encountered Patrick again, in full carnival-style captain's regalia. He led his Krewe of Cork, a large organization of wine-lovers who hold regular dinners and this annual parade. He keeps asking me to join, but I have conflicts with every meeting. (One of the few disadvantages of hosting a radio show is the the hours are inflexible.)
When the Krewe of Cork cleared, I noticed something I couldn't believe I never noticed before. A barred window had a plaque beneath it that said "Antoine's Wine Cellar." This is the other end of the vanishingly-long corridor where most of Antoine's wine collection lives. For decades, I've taken guests to the inner terminus of this alternative cellar to show off its amazing visual. So this is where it ends! How could I have missed this in the hundreds of times I have trod this stretch of sidewalk?
It was about nine-thirty. We retired to our suite. It had a Jacuzzi. A shower guy, I take a bath only when there is a compelling reason for me to do so. Here it was.
Friday, May 25. Calas. Pearl Is Still There. Antoine's. Yesterday, as we strolled Royal Street, I caught sight of the familiar sign of the Coffee Pot restaurant on St. Peter Street. That was the first restaurant I reviewed on the radio, back in 1975. I'd not been there in many years. So, this morning, Mary Ann and I went.
In the late 1960s and early 1970s, I was in the Coffee Pot several times a week. In those days, if you lived in the French Quarter (as I did for a few years then), or knew people who did, the place was all but unavoidable. Even now that the French Quarter has been overwhelmed by tourism, the Coffee Pot remains a favorite of Quarter residents, particularly for breakfast.
The Coffee Pot's culinary claim to fame is that it was for decades the only restaurant in town where you could find calas. Calas are golf-ball-size rice cakes, held together with rice flour, flavored with cinnamon and vanilla, fried, then dusted with powdered sugar and moistened with syrup. A couple of those with grits and sausage makes a breakfast that could only be had in New Orleans. An authentic Creole treat going back at least a century, calas had disappeared from all its former vendors (along with the vendors themselves), save for the Coffee Pot.
I asked the waitress whether she knew what had happened to Pearl, the lady I remember waiting on me in my long-ago visits. "Pearl?" she asked. "She's right back there! Didn't you see her?" What? Sure enough, Pearl was still there. Not only that, but she looked the same as the last time I'd seen her. How is it that some people are ageless? Pearl Jefferson (I'm ashamed to admit that only today did I learn what her last name was) has waited tables in the morning at the Coffee Pot for forty-six years, she told me. I'm sitting here thinking now about whether anyone else in any restaurant has served that long.
The calas were delicious, the grits were perfect, the bacon was thick and crunchy, and they even had chicory coffee, which solves the only complaint I ever had about the Coffee Pot -- that their coffee was never particularly good, ironically enough. And I met the owner, a dentist who with his wife bought the place shortly before the hurricane. I like that he has the good sense to let this historic cafe be. It dates to the 1940s. When it was around the corner on Royal Street, Leah Chase--now the doyenne of Dooky Chase and one of New Orleans's most famous chefs-- had her first cooking job.
All that and Pearl too. It delighted me, this knowledge that a largely unremarked piece of New Orleans remains steady and changeless.
After the radio show (which originated from the studio for the first time in two weeks), I rushed back to the Royal Orleans to prepare for dinner. We were joined by Mary Ann's brother Tim and his wife Desirée at Antoine's. In the big Annex room, we had an exquisitely enjoyable evening. Oysters Rockefeller, oysters Poche, escargot bordelaise, crabmeat ravigote, shrimp remoulade, grilled pompano with crabmeat, soft-shell crabs. And, for me, a brace of thick lamb chops with the highly distinctive (and controversial) béarnaise sauce they make here. We paired that with a couple of bottles of Meursault. It all started with a round of cocktails and ended with baked Alaska. We were there for a good three hours. It was the kind of dinner that you go to a place like Antoine's for.
The icing on the cake was being able merely to cross the street to go to bed.
Saturday, May 26. Rib Room Breakfast. Rabbit. Galatoire's Premier Vintner Dinner. Mary Ann so much liked the looks of the breakfast buffet down in the Rib Room yesterday that we indulged in it today. It was indeed very good--about half of a brunch buffet, but with the same goodness of eats. Omelettes made to order, very good pastries (the Royal Orleans has always had those), and some wonderful, herbal little sausages.
I had a busy day ahead. First was my annual NOWFE seminar, this year on the subject of rabbit. Mary Ann and I walked to Harrah's new hotel on Poydras Street from the Royal Orleans, which I thought incurred a little bit of risk. It was incredibly bright outside, and I'm still concerned about the effects physical stress will have on my healing eye.
We had the best panel of chefs in the six or seven years I've moderated these seminars. Frank Brigtsen, Steve Stryjewski from Cochon, Kim Kringlie from Dakota, and Tom Wolfe from Peristyle. Frank, who has become quite the speaker, particularly delighted the room with a number of stories of his past experiences with rabbit. And rabbit seminars. He said that last time he talked about rabbit in public, he was picketed by a group called HARE--Humans Against Rabbit Execution, or something like that. I looked out the door to see if any such group was forming today; the coast was clear.
These guys were preaching to the converted in the room. But it would have been worthwhile to broadcast their comments. I don't think anybody realizes just how delicious rabbit is, and how good it is for you. For its leanness, it has an uncommonly fine flavor, and lends itself to as wide a variety of cooking styles as chicken does.
After the seminar, I walked the four blocks to the radio studio, where I was on with a three-hour radio show on WWL. That was unexpected, and prevented me from acting as emcee of the cooking demos at the Grand Tasting. But Chef Andrea doesn't really need someone to speak for him.
I didn't get to the Grand Tasting until they were nearly over, but I was very pleased to see that a great deal of excellent food still remained, even though the attendance was very strong. That is a welcome change from many past years, when the food ran out after about an hour and a half, with still hundreds of wines left to be tasted. John Besh in particular impressed everyone by serving enormous barbecue shrimp with a great sauce.
Mary Ann, who doesn't really care much for events like this, nevertheless ran into enough friends to keep her entertained in my absence. So all was well. We walked back to the Royal Orleans in the warmest sunshine yet this year, and took a nap.
The day was not yet over. We'd been invited to be part of a new event on the NOWFE schedule: the Premier Vintner Dinner. It's like the regular Vintner Dinners, but with a more adventuresome menu and better wines. The inaugural was at Galatoire's, where the wines of Château Beaucastel and its California running mate Tablas Creek.
The menu combined the restaurant's classic dishes and some new creations of chef Brian Landry. That was a good plan; more than once I've heard people complain after going to Galatoire's for a wine dinner, and not finding anything familiar.
The upstairs dining room was more than a little too full. But being crowded at Galatoire's is more or less normal. At $125 per person, it must have been gratifying to see a full house at this extreme of the New Orleans Wine and Food Experience. I think it's safe to say that this festival has regained all its momentum.
Sunday, May 27. Cathedral Singing. We rose late in the Royal Orleans Hotel, still full from the dinner the night before. Since we were here, we thought it would be perfect to go to nine o'clock Mass at St. Louis Cathedral. The cantor was a very good tenor, which gave rise to a criticism from Mary Ann that when the singer is that listenable, I should cut back my usual volume in deference to him, even in the parts of the singing when the cantor encourages the congregation to join in. I do not agree with this stance. I think that if you're going to sing (or do anything else), you should do your best. I'm not embarrassed to stand out; I'd be embarrassed if I didn't stand out. Mary Ann says I'm just being a showboat. I don't think we'll resolve that one.
We ambled back to the hotel and were delighted to see that the breakfast buffet was still up. So we indulged again, before they had the chance to pull it down to make way for the excellent Sunday brunch (not a buffet).
Then we packed up, checked out of the hotel, and drove home. Both of us got right to work on our various projects.
Monday, May 28. Opaa! $30 Burger Lunch. Dr. F. did another thorough inspection of my retina, then told me to sit back in the chair. He pause. I could feel the center of my chest beginning to cool. "That all looks good!" he said.
I took a deep, warming breath. "Well, that makes me think of only one word: opaa!"
Dr. F., who is of Greek heritage, laughed at that. "Yes! Let's break out the saganaki!"
"That reminds me," I said. "I'm going to Greece in three weeks. Is there a problem with a long flight for me?"
He said that I shouldn't worry about that, and added that there were retinal specialists in Athens of high quality. I hope I won't have to find out whether that's true.
Mary Ann collected me and we set out for lunch. It was still pretty early, and we were in Metairie, where the only restaurants that would be of any journalistic worth to me were the kind that Mary Ann wouldn't dream of dining. Vietnamese, sushi, that sort of thing.
Then I offered Phil's Grill. Phil himself had called me on the radio show a week or so earlier, promoting his new hamburger restaurant on Severn. That grabbed her interest, so there we were, the first customers of the day. The proposition here is hand-formed hamburgers grilled to order, served with one's choice of almost anything one would dream of jamming into a hamburger. We started with an order of stuffed potato skins, good but clearly beyond what either of our appetites demanded. The burgers themselves were decent, at least in the meat department. I think they ought to re-shop their buns. The dressings and cheeses were fine.
But the main theme here is that they will get you to spend nine dollars for a hamburger. They are generous in size, and accompanied by fries or some other side dish. Still, it's hard for me to get my head around the idea of a $30 hamburger lunch for two. While better than the average hamburger, Phil's work is well short of brilliant. If it were my place (and I'm glad it's not), I think I'd serve fresh-cut French fries. Now that would make it stand out.
Forward to June 2007
© 2007 Tom Fitzmorris. All rights reserved. news@nomenu.com