[title type="h5"]Tuesday, November 25, 2014.
Two Strikes And I'm At Vincent's.
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My first attempt at dinner is at Bucktown Burgers and Seafood. I'm stopped halfway across the room by a man who is either the manager or the owner. He has bad news. I can't eat here tonight because there's some utilities problem in the kitchen, and they're unable to cook. If I'd like to stay for a drink, I would be welcome, and if not, please come again.
Seems fair enough.
I roll down to West Esplanade and take it to just past Causeway Boulevard, where the new location of Bistro Orleans beckons. The come-hither act is clearly working, because their part of the parking lot is full. Inside are a few open tables, but something tells me that the balance between customers and servers may not be at equilibrium. This is the sort of thing that happens in new and newly-relocated restaurants so often that one must expect it. I don't want to see this place on an off-night so soon. I'll return here, too, another night.
I stay on West Esplanade until I'm just over Transcontinental. I wonder why that road is so named. I remember bicycling most of its length to go to work at the Time Saver in the summer of 1966. Most of Transcontinental was gravel at that time. I think Transcontinental is the longest one-word street name in the area. It's two letters longer than Tchoupitoulas.
Once past that curiosity, I have to choose between Austin's and Vincent's for dinner. I see Austin's first and it looks very busy. I make the turn and see a nearly-full parking lot at Vincent's. But someone is backing out of a space, and I feel the need to fill it.
Vincent Catalanotto himself is there, managing the dining room. That's unusual. He's a late-night kind of guy, and I rarely see him here. He gives me a bigger and better table than I deserve. But we're old friends, going back to 1977, when the two of us worked in the same restaurant. Romanoff's, where Andy's Bistro is now. I was working on an article about the waiter's life. Vincent was living it for real.
It's cold outside, and what tipped my decision is the appeal of a cup of Vincent's hot Italian chicken soup. "I don't know why anybody orders that," he tells me, as I order it. "It's chicken and vegetables. Soup. Big deal. People love it." I love it, although it could have been hotter. Two days in a row that's happened to me.
"Get the Roma," Vincent says. This is his version of a baby artichoke breaded and fried, with a sauce of olive oil, herbs and garlic. It is incredibly good under the name "Rose Of Sicily" at the Uptown Vincent's. "They open it up over there," Vincent says. "I leave it whole. You get less breading. Theirs looks better but this one tastes better." I like both.
I have a salad with the blue cheese vinaigrette that everyone seems to like more than I do. For an entree, I have a parmesan-crusted redfish, recommended with enthusiasm by both Vincent and the waiter. And it is very good indeed. Big, too. Vincent's is a four-star restaurant with two-star prices.
Vincent tells me that a man at a table in the next room would like me to stop by and say hello. "He has something to do with Rummel," Vincent adds. "Did you go to Rummel?" he asks. "I thought you went to Jesuit." I did. Rummel is where I went after they threw me out of Jesuit, a career I share with at least five guys I know.
The man who asked me to come over does indeed have something to do with Archbishop Rummel High School. It's Brother Gale Condit, the president of Rummel, and a personal friend for many years. I tell him to be careful what he says to me, because I am just back from Manresa and feeling very powerful. He is with some other friends. They are in real estate, among other things.
We have a fine time telling funny stories. I am invited to join this threesome for dinner for a fundraiser in the near future. I've done it before, so why not?
[title type="h5"]Vincent's. Metairie 3: Houma Blvd To Kenner Line: 4411 Chastant St. 504-885-2984. [/title]
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[title type="h5"]Wednesday, November 26, 2014.
Wheel, No Tire. Thanksgiving Cooking Begins.
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I call the car dealer to ask whether there is any sign of the new wheel for my car. I can't drive the car without it. One of my radio listeners told me that my car was notorious for rotting wheels, and that I should be able to find a complete set for less than what I paid for one. I'm not sure I needed to hear that. I am about to ask the service guy about itt, when he says that my wheel did indeed turn up this morning. They would mount the tire from the old one and I would be back in business.
It was not to be, however. The tire for the bad wheel seems to have caught a disease from the wheel, and won't hold air on the new rim. Of course, no tire that size is available at hand. It will ship out tonight, and be installed Friday.
Thanksgiving is between that plan's elements, so it doesn't matter much to me. I will be in the kitchen pretty much non-stop from the time the radio show ends today until the mountain range of dirty dishes and trash is pushed up against the north wall. And I have a three-hour radio show Thanksgiving morning, just to make sure that no slack time works its way into my life.
I really don't have all that much to do. The most time-consuming job is making the cheesecake. That's four hours, if I'm lucky. I am stymied at first by the absence of cream cheese and of sour cream. Mary Leigh makes a store run and comes home with the house brand of cream cheese from Fresh Market. I find it terrible, with a gooey consistency. I have made this mistake before. The original Philly from Kraft is the only way to go.
The sour cream presented a bigger problem. When I grab a container from in back of the refrigerator (where Mary Ann directed me), I found it open and covered with bright pink color. It's sour cream mold. Yes, it's possible for sour cream to go bad. Not something you want to eat. I find another container of sour cream, this one with the top seal intact. But it's expired for months. I decide to go with it. It wasn't a problem, but it did add to my stress level. Never again!
I make the ham glaze, using the last of a two-liter of flat Barq's. I have been looking forward to this moment for many months. Now that thing is off the pantry floor, after who knows how long.
Then I brine the turkey. It's a fourteen-pound fresh turkey from Fresh Market. I pour the brine into the plastic roasting bag, with the turkey already inside. For the first time in all the years I've done this, the bag springs a leak. No problem. I put it into the plastic bucket I have ready for exactly this eventuality. I dump some ice over the top, snap the lid shut, then put the apparatus out on the picnic table on the deck outside. It's only going down to about fifty tonight, but the turkey will remain safely cold. (Indeed, the next morning, the ice is still unmelted.) Besides, we have nothing like room in the refrigerator for a turkey.
The cheesecake cooled faster than normal--maybe because I made it wider and less thick than usual. I am in bed by ten-thirty. All is ready for another Thanksgiving at the Cool Water Ranch.
