It is tradition each year for at least 40 years that Tom said goodbye to beef each Mardi Gras at The Crescent City Steakhouse. This tradition predates me, and for many years I was doing parades with kids, but these last 8 or 9 years I have been with him for the celebration.
The Crescent City Steakhouse has been around now for 91 years, and not a thing has changed. The steaks are prime aged beef, and maybe the best in town. The sides are done as they were in the middle of the last century, with shoestring fries that are perfection, like your mom made before frozen fries became ubiquitous, even at home. Some of the other sides are old-fashioned, like the creamed spinach. Mushrooms are fresh and sliced and then sauteed with butter. Very good.
In short, everything Tom said about the goodness of his favorite steakhouse is correct. And over the years, his talking about it caused interest in the place to grow incrementally, until the four-hour wait on Mardi Gras caused people to tailgate as they waited for their table.
The restaurant recognized this phenomenon by printing a special menu for yesterday. Mary Leigh and I were so touched to see it.
We had plans to be there for Mardi Gras, and when Tom passed away three weeks ago I felt that maybe I wouldn’t go because it was just too fresh. But so many people asked if I was going that I decided I could and should do it.
Krasna, the family matriarch, is lovely and I always enjoy visiiting with her. She was there yesterday and came to the table to sit. She casually mentioned in her reverie about the early days of Tom visiting that he always sat at the very next table, in a particular spot. When the inhabitants of that table got up, I asked her if we could move there and she said of course. We were waiting for two others to join us, so it was an easy move. We’ve been going for years now and I only learned about that table yesterday.
I was going to order a filet, which is what I have been ordering for Tom for years. I know he was always a big strip guy but he also continually complained about how tough and chewy beef had become. When I slipped in a filet he loved it, and we never went back.
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For the last few years we have gotten the filet, but Mary Leigh wanted to honor Tom by getting a porterhouse. And of course we had fries. We also got some onion rings first and garlic bread while we waited for our companions.
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Krasna left to mill around, but not before mentioning tripe soup, that she made for Tom. She had read that he said that no one does tripe, so she made him some one year, and it became a tradition for him to eat a bowl of tripe soup every Mardi Gras. This was also offered to all guests at the table, and I’ve only seen one person try it. That person was definitely not me.
The porterhouse came along with the other sides, and we began the repast. It was not a large meal but it was certainly gratifying in its symbolism. I was again struck by the tenderness of the beef here.
And Mary Leigh was delighted with the fries. The onion rings were not as great as the previous year’s versions, but the garlic bread hit the spot.
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It was wonderful to be in this place that meant so much to Tom for so many years, and humbling to see the party that he built. I stood up and clinked the glass, trying to make a dent in the thunderous noise of all those people having a good time. I was recognized by enough people before I spoke that it quieted enough that the clinking was unnecessary.
My toast was simple: “To my husband Tom Fitzmorris, who started this party.” A lot of others stood up to cheer and toast and sing in his honor. I know he loved it. Many people came to the table to say they wouldn’t be there without Tom. One guy told me he met his wife because of Tom’s influence. I was glad Mary Leigh could witness all this. Naturally, I forgot to tape it. But one of the girls at the table got some of it.
And one of them tried recording our exit which was accompanied by more applause and cheers. So glad I went. It was indeed fresh, but not sad at all. More celebration of the life of Tom Fitzmorris, one very well-lived, right up until the end.
