Tuesday, November 15,2016.
The Peak Of The Pontchartrain.
I am engaged tonight to give a presentation to the best customers of a good-sized local company. The plans were made so far in advance that there was a dazzling array of opportunities to forget about about the event, or for getting so worked up about it that I drive myself nuts. Every day for past few weeks, I've checked my calendar to make sure I have it right. Unfortunately, my principal calendar is designed in such a way that it seems to nudge the dates half a block to the right.
But everything worked out perfectly. I told the hosts that I might be a little late, because I get off the air at the same moment that the party begins, and have to make my way to the Pontchartrain Hotel. But I was one of the first to arrive, which gave me time to circulate among the guests as they showed up. An astonishing (to me) number of the guests know who I am and what I do. Either that, or they also went to Jesuit.
The cocktail party is on the roof of the Pontchartrain, where is a bar with the clever name Hot Tin. It's the first time I've been up there since some thirty-five years ago, when Mr. Albert Aschaffenberg, whose family owned the hotel, was surprised to learn that there used to be a broadcast FM radio antenna on the roof. (It was originally WWMT, 95.7 on the dial, the first stereo radio station in New Orleans. It later became WBYU during the era of elevator music, then went through several formats and call signs after that.)
When Mr. Albert and I climbed up to the roof, the first thing I noticed was the spectacular view is up there. You see all of downtown, the Garden District, and even across the lake. Fourteen floors will lift you high enough to really see things. After all those years, a recent major renovation made the Hot Tin into a great spot for having a drink. Maybe the best in the city.
So tonight I am back there again, shooting breeze with the company president and a lot of his employees' wives. Very classy bunch--although very few of the men are wearing ties. (But I don't think there's a dress code on the roof.)
Dinner is served on the ground floor, in the Caribbean Room, where there is indeed a dress code: men must wear jackets, if not ties.
Even though Chef John Besh is managing all of the food services in the Pontchartrain, the Caribbean Room's menu for tonight's dinner party is almost entirely made up of C-Room classics. Shrimp remoulade, baked oysters with a toasty bread-crumb topping, shrimp Saki, filet mignon bordelaise. Missing were crabmeat Remick and trout Veronique, but you can't serve everything in one meal. I'm happy enough to see that a concerted effort has been made to keep intact the best dishes of the C-Room's golden years.
My talk goes well, although I had to speak in two rooms at the same time. I may have gone on a bit too long. I got the usual barrage of laughter with my perennial Soup du Jour Trilogy (now in its thirty-fifth year!). While I indulged in the mile-high ice cream pie, I autographed some 160 copies of Tom Fitzmorris's New Orleans Food (my cookbook) and Hungry Town (my history of the New Orleans restaurant scene.) The hosts have given copies of both tomes to all the guests, who seem very happy to received my two best works. Nicest bunch of people I've ever spoken to.
Two days from now, my daughter Mary Leigh will reside on the South Shore, in the first apartment she's had on her own. I hope she'll let me stay there once in awhile if, as happened tonight, I am kept at a party until midnight, facing the fifty-mile drive to Abita Springs with trepidation.
Caribbean Room. Garden District: 2031 St. Charles Ave. 504-323-1500.
