Masson's

Written by Tom Fitzmorris January 27, 2015 11:01 in

ExtinctSquare-219x219StarsExtinct4 [title type="h6"]Masson's Restaurant Francais West End: 7200 Pontchartrain Blvd. 1945-1990s [/title] The original name was Masson's Beach House, but when the first swarming of the gourmet bug was in the air in New Orleans, Ernie and Albert Masson figured they could play that game. They had traveled in Europe a bit and had a chef who was easily capable of producing what they called "provincial French cuisine." Masson's was a big, rambling restaurant that looked elegant through the 1960s and 1970s. That was when, year after year, it won the Holiday Restaurant Award, the equivalent at the time of today's DiRoNa and James Beard awards. The certificates covered the better part of the wall separating the main dining room from the bar, and they wanted to make sure that you knew it. I wish I still had a copy of Masson's menu from those days. There would be no better illustration of how far we've come. It was corny even in the 1970s (hopelessly so in the 1980s), but nobody (not even the Massons, I believe) knew this. Or cared. Because, actually, Masson's food was actually fairly good. It was what a French chef would have put out in those days. But we didn't have many of those in Masson's heyday, so who knew? This is not to say that Masson's had a hack for a chef. Robert Finley, who led the brigade for decades, was one of those old-school Creole chefs who knew it all. He taught a lot of it to chefs who are still working today. Most of the menu was assembled into table d'hote dinners of four courses, which even as late as 1995 (not long before the place closed) were only about fifteen dollars complete. You started with a basket of peppery, hot breadsticks, a pleasant and unusual welcome. The baked oysters were always good. Three kinds: Rockefeller, Bienville, and Beach House (I can't remember what that last one was, only that they were good). They had a little casserole of artichokes and crabmeat that was rather delicious. The soups were always well made. My first pick for an entree would be the fine rack of lamb, marinated and roasted to a juicy turn, eight chops wide. When's the last time you were served a full rack of lamb? They sent it out with a natural jus and mint jelly, the latter of which you'd ignore if you knew anything. As good as that was, the better part of the menu at Masson's was seafood. They had the entire range, starting with fried platters that were only slightly fancier than the ones being slammed down around the corner in West End Park. But they had a lot of complicated dishes, too. Shrimp Robert, a major specialty, took the idea of shrimp Creole up two or three notches. A clever dish called surf and surf (you read that right) paired a broiled tropical lobster tail with a shrimp, oyster, and fish brochette. Broiled fish here was always good; stuffed fish and stuffed shrimp, less so. Tt was almost a certainty that one would at least consider veal Oscar. Perhaps no dish better captured the imitation-Continental style that ruled upscale restaurants in the 1960s and 1970s. It was sauteed veal medaillions topped with crabmeat, flanked with asparagus, and covered with hollandaise sauce. It always sounded better than it was. Each element of the dish fought for supremacy with the others, and none of them won. On the other hand, on more than one occasion I enjoyed a simple broiled chicken flowed over with bearnaise sauce. We don't see that too often now, but I make it at home often, always with the memory of eating it at Masson's in my mind. For all that, the dish most people recall most vividly from Masson's was a very strange dessert they called almond torte. Many claim to have loved it; I never did. A better dessert was the sabayon--a flowing custard flavored with Marsala, I think. And their bread pudding was good. I seem to recall that it had maraschino cherries in it. Or was that the millionaire's pie? One of the oddities of Masson's is that it was one of only two restaurants here (the other was and is Antoine's) that served sugar not in packets, but in bowls. But it wasn't normal sugar. They used "party sugar," whose grains were about the size of couscous and came in all the colors of the rainbow. Masson's went out of business in the early 1990s, then soon after reopened as Debbie Masson's--a new business entirely, her father Albert said. (I heard rumblings of discontent about that from a number of suppliers.) The building was greatly in need of renovation, its floors sagging here and there. The food remained reasonably good, but the magic was gone. Holiday Magazine was gone, too--let alone its awards, which kept on coming every year for Masson's to the very end. An era had closed, and Masson's--a paragon of the old ways--did too.Masson's Restaurant Francais West End: 7200 Pontchartrain Blvd. 1945-1990s [/title] The original name was Masson's Beach House, but when the first swarming of the gourmet bug was in the air in New Orleans, Ernie and Albert Masson figured they could play that game. They had traveled in Europe a bit and had a chef who was easily capable of producing what they called "provincial French cuisine." Masson's was a big, rambling restaurant that looked elegant through the 1960s and 1970s. That was when, year after year, it won the Holiday Restaurant Award, the equivalent at the time of today's DiRoNa and James Beard awards. The certificates covered the better part of the wall separating the main dining room from the bar, and they wanted to make sure that you knew it. I wish I still had a copy of Masson's menu from those days. There would be no better illustration of how far we've come. It was corny even in the 1970s (hopelessly so in the 1980s), but nobody (not even the Massons, I believe) knew this. Or cared. Because, actually, Masson's food was actually fairly good. It was what a French chef would have put out in those days. But we didn't have many of those in Masson's heyday, so who knew? This is not to say that Masson's had a hack for a chef. Robert Finley, who led the brigade for decades, was one of those old-school Creole chefs who knew it all. He taught a lot of it to chefs who are still working today. Most of the menu was assembled into table d'hote dinners of four courses, which even as late as 1995 (not long before the place closed) were only about fifteen dollars complete. You started with a basket of peppery, hot breadsticks, a pleasant and unusual welcome. The baked oysters were always good. Three kinds: Rockefeller, Bienville, and Beach House (I can't remember what that last one was, only that they were good). They had a little casserole of artichokes and crabmeat that was rather delicious. The soups were always well made. My first pick for an entree would be the fine rack of lamb, marinated and roasted to a juicy turn, eight chops wide. When's the last time you were served a full rack of lamb? They sent it out with a natural jus and mint jelly, the latter of which you'd ignore if you knew anything. As good as that was, the better part of the menu at Masson's was seafood. They had the entire range, starting with fried platters that were only slightly fancier than the ones being slammed down around the corner in West End Park. But they had a lot of complicated dishes, too. Shrimp Robert, a major specialty, took the idea of shrimp Creole up two or three notches. A clever dish called surf and surf (you read that right) paired a broiled tropical lobster tail with a shrimp, oyster, and fish brochette. Broiled fish here was always good; stuffed fish and stuffed shrimp, less so. Tt was almost a certainty that one would at least consider veal Oscar. Perhaps no dish better captured the imitation-Continental style that ruled upscale restaurants in the 1960s and 1970s. It was sauteed veal medaillions topped with crabmeat, flanked with asparagus, and covered with hollandaise sauce. It always sounded better than it was. Each element of the dish fought for supremacy with the others, and none of them won. On the other hand, on more than one occasion I enjoyed a simple broiled chicken flowed over with bearnaise sauce. We don't see that too often now, but I make it at home often, always with the memory of eating it at Masson's in my mind. For all that, the dish most people recall most vividly from Masson's was a very strange dessert they called almond torte. Many claim to have loved it; I never did. A better dessert was the sabayon--a flowing custard flavored with Marsala, I think. And their bread pudding was good. I seem to recall that it had maraschino cherries in it. Or was that the millionaire's pie? One of the oddities of Masson's is that it was one of only two restaurants here (the other was and is Antoine's) that served sugar not in packets, but in bowls. But it wasn't normal sugar. They used "party sugar," whose grains were about the size of couscous and came in all the colors of the rainbow. Masson's went out of business in the early 1990s, then soon after reopened as Debbie Masson's--a new business entirely, her father Albert said. (I heard rumblings of discontent about that from a number of suppliers.) The building was greatly in need of renovation, its floors sagging here and there. The food remained reasonably good, but the magic was gone. Holiday Magazine was gone, too--let alone its awards, which kept on coming every year for Masson's to the very end. An era had closed, and Masson's--a paragon of the old ways--did too.