There wasn’t much time to go across the lake before the show on Thursday, so we wound up at Ristorante Fillippo, but not before learning a powerful lesson about COVID world dining. ML has been warning me about Google trying to keep up with ever-changing regulations and requirements that cause restaurants to open and close.
Searching for Fillippo assured us that he didn’t open until evening. We headed on to Kenner, where the owner of Falafel King had been chatting with us via IG in social media world. He wanted to meet Tom, and here was a great opportunity.
The trip was like visiting my roots in Kenner, which is, save for a few familiar landmarks, barely recognizable to me. Kenner is much more interesting than the homogenous place where I grew up. It is a global village now, and very culturally fascinating. Falafel King was in a strip mall housing a Brazilian restaurant and a fried chicken place. On the way, we passed a Honduran restaurant where we had an Eat Club when it was a seafood place. And a few familiar favorites like the Brick Oven and the sadly-defunct Andy Messina’s, now corporate offices for the Messina’s various venues.
When we arrived at Falafel King the owner was not there. We will come back and eat here. It was a cute little walk-up type place that clearly had a following. For people who are looking for truly authentic homestyle versions of ethnic cuisines, they will not be found in the Bywater or on Magazine Street. Those are the hip American versions. If you want to find out how someone’s mother cooked a particular global cuisine, drop in on a place in Kenner.
ML didn’t make it out there either, but was clearly looking for that type of food, so the following day she went to Acropolis Cuisine, a Metairie version of all of this. The meal started rocky but ended with her dreaming about the chicken. Forever in search of the perfect hummus, she now knows she can rule this one out. Ordinary, it screamed. And she got the Village Salad, called Horiatiki, which intrigued me when we went to the opening of Acropolis Freret (they have since parted ways.) The menu says in all caps NO LETTUCE, then goes on to describe all the crunchy delicious fresh vegetables that are tossed in a tangy vinaigrette. She loved this, as I did, because the dressing made it all pop. The vegetables are plentiful and a little large to eat, but this is a great “authentic” thing to get. When the chicken came she had the same reaction to it I always do - this is the way chicken was meant to be eaten. Brushed with olive oil and herbs and garlic, here is the definition of “cooked to perfection.” Tender, juicy, crusty on the outside in parts, this is a sublimer version of the poor over-eaten bird.
So at least someone ate Mediterranean food in those two days. But back to our search for lunch that ended at Fillippo...
It was getting late and we wanted to make our way back toward the bridge, with an idea to eat around there. Just for fun I called Fillippo, as ML had instructed me to do in the first place. They were serving lunch. It would be tight but we went, and Phil promised to get us out quickly.
Fillippo’s is the place that best illustrates the bar/restaurant dilemma. Where do you eat if the two spaces are so different so as to almost not belong together? We sat in the bar at our favorite table close to the tiniest private room I’ve ever seen. I love this place. It is comfortable in a way that reminds you of being in someone’s Italian home, complete with holy statues that greet you at the door.
One of my favorite things about going to Phil Gagliano’s place is Phil. I love to talk to him. He comes to the table to yak when he is not in the kitchen. And yak he does. We could talk for hours. He’s the kind of host that if you were one of the last customers, he’d sit until the wee hours with a bottle of wine, exploring the meaning of life with you.
Phil has lost weight, which is an extraordinary accomplishment. His wife is small and thin, which is an even greater accomplishment. This man’s food is deeeelicious. Delicious, right down to the last morsel. Whether it’s the Oysters Oreganato, the crab salad, any soup, any red sauce dish, and aglio olio, or literally anything out of this kitchen, it is plate-licking good.
It’s funny that after gushing like that, I have to start by saying I was underwhelmed by the soup special, spinach and artichoke soup. I was shocked by my lack of enthusiasm. Maybe it’s because Tom ate most of it with my permission, because Phil and I were in a rapid-fire conversation. It was good enough but not great, which everything else here is. The small order of Oysters Oreganato was so small I wondered what it was. Tom was still plenty pleased by the little ramekin of garlicky and oily soaked breadcrumb dish with plump oysters. Baked just right, this is a staple menu item for Tom here.
Phil and I got into a spirited discussion on a question I have lately raised about Angelo’s bread, which he serves. Are there two kinds? Phil’s theory is that the denser crust might be coming from DeSalvo’s rather than Angelos. Phil’s bread seemed to be a hybrid of the soft pillowy interior crumb like Impastato’s, and the denser and coarser crumb from Austin’s.
The crab salad here is a thing of beauty, and a must get if it is on the menu, usually in the summer. Piles of Italian vegetables sit on a base of interesting and very fresh lettuce, all of which is topped by a blanket of lump crabmeat, which is tossed in a light Italian vinaigrette.
A spear or two of baby asparagus and a sprig of fresh thyme elevate this delicious salad to star status presentation. This is an expensive salad at $25, but it is lump crabmeat. A meal in itself, and an extraordinarily delicious one.
For some inexplicable reason, Tom settled on the onions and peppers with Italian sausage over penne pasta. His entree course here is usually the Oysters Oreganato. This came in a large bowl with pieces of Italian sausage and chunky onions and peppers in a light tomato broth. Tom was enchanted with this, but didn’t finish it. I did.
It’s too bad Fillippo’s isn’t a neighborhood restaurant for us, or maybe it’s not. That place is deliciously dangerous.
