Friday, January 22, 2016.
Off She Goes. Delmonico Veers Retro.
Mary Ann cut a good deal on Priceline, and she is off at midday to Los Angeles, our son, our grandson, and all associated personnel. The travel plans were made two days ago. "You really ought to head out there," she says.
"When would I do that?" I ask.
"How about next weekend?"
Right. I remember how nice life was when all I did was freelance. I could take an impromptu vacation and not consult with anyone about it, and return when I returned. But, frankly, even though my every day is full beyond capacity, I like this life better, with its kids and not-kids-anymores and all they bring into the day. Not having a full day of work every day will come soon enough.
I have the morning half of my daily load done. I have time for lunch--two days in a row!--and I take the opportunity. The lady who runs the Royal Blend on Metairie Road comes to mind. She has asked me a couple of times to stop in for breakfast or lunch, and learn that the place is not merely a coffeeshop, but a full-menu café.
It is also, apparently, a meeting place for a lot of people in my ambit. Marc Leunisson was in front of me in line to place his order. Marc is a longtime radio station manager in these parts. I remember him for an adventuresome programming change he made in the early 1990s, when he transformed his biggest FM music station into a talk station. He was ahead of his time in doing that. After Katrina, time finally caught up, and they talk incessantly on FM now.
Marc and I update each other about people we both know. Almost all of them have moved on, or disappeared. The conversation makes both of us realize how different radio is now from what it was when we started out.
Marc grabs his packages of food and moves on. A bowl of lobster bisque arrives at my table. It's made in the Cajun style--a dark brown roux kind of swamping the lobster flavor--but it's well worth eating. I follow that with a deluxe club sandwich. I learn too late that this is the biggest sandwich on the menu. I stop after one-quarter of it goes down. It's good, but I am finished.
I had recognized Marc Leunisson after just a few seconds. It takes me some five minutes for my brain--never good at recognizing people I met even a few minutes ago--to understand that the woman I am speaking with now is Jeanne Nathan. She was a reporter for a long time on Channel Six, and our circle of friends back then intersected a good bit. I have not encountered her in perhaps twenty years. But she sends promotions now and then about a radio talk show called Crosstown Currents on WBOK, 1230 AM.
Jeanne is using the Royal Blend as a stopping point in her day's activities. A couple of people come and go from her table, as others do at other tables. I ought to do more of this sort of thing. I am often greeted in restaurants, but most of the restaurants I visit are beyond the hangout category. But before I leave, several other people--some I know and others I don't--stop at my table to exchange pleasantries.
En route to the radio station, I stop at the Bridge House. Before I can even get out of my car, the man who accepted my PT Cruiser as a donation runs out with the PT's license plate. When you give a car away or junk it, you should get the plate for some reason that everyone seems to know, but nobody explains. It's the fourth such plate in my shed.
The radio show ends at six. I walk around the offices to shut down the four computers I use. I find that the only people in the facility--a full floor of a rather large skyscraper downtown--are the board operator for WWL and me. Ah, yes. It's Friday evening. A memory flies from my brain of other lonely Friday evenings when I was a student at UNO, where I had a job showing films (actual 16 mm movies, not videotapes). A continuum forms, then is gone.
It's cold and windy outside. I am thinking about dining at Antoine's, but I couldn't face the chill. I go to Delmonico, where I have not been in awhile. The two young female greeters want me to sit at the bar, but a waiter I don't recognize sneaks behind them and says that I should be given not only a table, but a good table.
Another waiter wheels around to offer wine or cocktail. They are featuring a meritage blend red wine from California, and it takes me through the dinner. Another waiter comes forth with a heavy but small cast-iron cornbread griddle, with a sweet, overly moist cornbread the size and shape of a thick slice of bread. It's so crumbly that it's hard to eat, but I can't deny its goodness.
Now comes Chef Anthony Scania, following a waiter bearing an amuse-bouche: one oyster Rockefeller, one oyster Bienville. This is exactly what I want to eat (hence the Antoine's temptation). Not long after I put those good bites to bed, the waiter comes by with suggestions. One of these is turtle soup. Bing! Something else my palate is more than willing to host. It's an intensely-flavored version. The waiter makes a point of not adding sherry at the table. Is this because I am on record saying that adding sherry at the table is a bad idea, or because the chef or the waiter concur? I decide that I am flattering myself. And then I recall the turtle soup that was so good in the long, Pre-Emeril epoch of Delmonico.
I came to Delmonico with steak on my mind. Haven't had it here in a long time. The strip has long been celebrated for being Prime and dry-aged in house. But I am tempted by the pompano. The waiter says I should get the steak. I do. It is less than perfection. It's not thick enough. If only I could persuade the chefs who cook fine steaks to take up my suggestion of cutting the steak New Orleans style (12-16 ounces, but cut to be thick, not long), this problem wouldn't have come up.
On the other hand, I can't say I didn't enjoy it. I ate every scrap, which I have not been able to say about any other entree this week. Part of this owed to the sauces: a bearnaise, a straight butter sauce, and--best of all--chimichurri sauce, an import from Latin America that ought to be on more steaks.
And the sides were exceptionally good. One was a boat of green lentils cooked in what I think was a broth. The other is collard greens. Yum! Mary Ann would have loved this.
I was there for a couple of hours. During all that time, jazz pianist and singer Ron Jones kept the atmosphere jumping. He has been there for years now, and is among the top three or four regularly-appearing musicians in New Orleans restaurants. He remembered me from last time I was in, a slow night during which he and I alternated on versions of Johnny Mathis tunes. The man is versatile.
The wind battled me all the way across the Causeway, and my new Beetle proved its streamlining by being much easier to steer than if I were driving the PT Cruiser. It better have. Why buy a new car unless you get better driving in the deal.
Speaking of. . . I am catching unexpected razzoos from a few readers who say that a man of my station should drive a Mercedes, not a Beetle. I say happiness is what I am after in this car, and so far I am getting it.
Royal Blend. Old Metairie: 204 Metairie Rd. 504-835-7779.
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Saturday, January 23, 2016.
Fine Dining In Slidell.
I have an easy day for a change. No radio show (we have moved from LSU football to LSU basketball as the pre-emptions keep on a-coming). I have a few hours' worth of fiddling with the website. I want to get a haircut, but the Lions' Den is apparently booked up for today. It's cold outside, but the winds have died down, so I take a four-lap, hour-long, brisk walk around the Cool Water Ranch's plashy fens. [Note: That expression was suggested to me by a caller on the radio show.]
I am good and hungry by dinner time. I decide on Michael's in Slidell, where I have not dined in a couple of years. The motivation behind that choice is not that, however. I wanted an excuse to drive my new Beetle. It really is fun, even more than the PT Cruiser was. Which is saying something, since I kept the PT for a dozen years--the longest time I've owned any of my lifetime dozen vehicles.
Michael's is as busy as I have ever seen it. Random unoccupied tables around the dining rooms make for a long walk as the hostess and I try to figure out where I belong. I wind up at the perfect table, the one closest to Hank Mackie, who is as usual sitting just inside the front door, playing his guitar with nonpareil listenability. Hank is famous as the man who taught many New Orleans-area musicians how to play. I could listen to him all night.
Between the first time we spoke and this second, the waitress taking care of my table learns a few things about me, and becomes very friendly. I look over the menu and find that what I have said about Michael Frederic's place for over a decade remains true. The cookery is based on classic New Orleans-French recipes, but with a few original touches. But this is my favorite style of food, and I look ahead to a fine dinner.
I begin with Michael's version of oysters 2-2-2: Rockefeller, Bienville, and the house-baked oyster with a lot of crabmeat. I get six large shells filled with big oysters and better sauces than I remember last time I had them here.
I get the comp Caesar salad next, and await the arrival of the peppercorn pork chop entree. But somebody got it mixed up, because instead of that I get an immense speckled trout fillet with a light brown meuniere sauce and a tremendous amount of gigantic crabmeat lumps. My first impulse was to send it back and wait for the chop. But the appeal of the fish dish is such that I just stay with it, and enjoy it well enough. Although I would like to know exactly where this crabmeat came from.
[caption id="attachment_50396" align="alignnone" width="480"]
CAP[/caption]
An interesting dessert: spumone cheesecake. The layers are in the exact colors and flavors one would get in a wedge of Angelo Brocato's famous spumone. Nothing wrong there.
Next to my table is a gathering of some twenty celebrants of somebody's birthday. The average age is thirty-ish, as is that of the entire restaurant's customer base. I'm glad Michael is holding on as the best restaurant in Slidell.
Michael's. Slidell: 4820 Pontchartrain Dr. 985-649-8055.
Now comes Chef Anthony Scania, following a waiter bearing an amuse-bouche: one oyster Rockefeller, one oyster Bienville. This is exactly what I want to eat (hence the Antoine's temptation). Not long after I put those good bites to bed, the waiter comes by with suggestions. One of these is turtle soup. Bing! Something else my palate is more than willing to host. It's an intensely-flavored version. The waiter makes a point of not adding sherry at the table. Is this because I am on record saying that adding sherry at the table is a bad idea, or because the chef or the waiter concur? I decide that I am flattering myself. And then I recall the turtle soup that was so good in the long, Pre-Emeril epoch of Delmonico.
I came to Delmonico with steak on my mind. Haven't had it here in a long time. The strip has long been celebrated for being Prime and dry-aged in house. But I am tempted by the pompano. The waiter says I should get the steak. I do. It is less than perfection. It's not thick enough. If only I could persuade the chefs who cook fine steaks to take up my suggestion of cutting the steak New Orleans style (12-16 ounces, but cut to be thick, not long), this problem wouldn't have come up.
On the other hand, I can't say I didn't enjoy it. I ate every scrap, which I have not been able to say about any other entree this week. Part of this owed to the sauces: a bearnaise, a straight butter sauce, and--best of all--chimichurri sauce, an import from Latin America that ought to be on more steaks.
And the sides were exceptionally good. One was a boat of green lentils cooked in what I think was a broth. The other is collard greens. Yum! Mary Ann would have loved this.
I was there for a couple of hours. During all that time, jazz pianist and singer Ron Jones kept the atmosphere jumping. He has been there for years now, and is among the top three or four regularly-appearing musicians in New Orleans restaurants. He remembered me from last time I was in, a slow night during which he and I alternated on versions of Johnny Mathis tunes. The man is versatile.
The wind battled me all the way across the Causeway, and my new Beetle proved its streamlining by being much easier to steer than if I were driving the PT Cruiser. It better have. Why buy a new car unless you get better driving in the deal.
Speaking of. . . I am catching unexpected razzoos from a few readers who say that a man of my station should drive a Mercedes, not a Beetle. I say happiness is what I am after in this car, and so far I am getting it.
I begin with Michael's version of oysters 2-2-2: Rockefeller, Bienville, and the house-baked oyster with a lot of crabmeat. I get six large shells filled with big oysters and better sauces than I remember last time I had them here.
I get the comp Caesar salad next, and await the arrival of the peppercorn pork chop entree. But somebody got it mixed up, because instead of that I get an immense speckled trout fillet with a light brown meuniere sauce and a tremendous amount of gigantic crabmeat lumps. My first impulse was to send it back and wait for the chop. But the appeal of the fish dish is such that I just stay with it, and enjoy it well enough. Although I would like to know exactly where this crabmeat came from.
[caption id="attachment_50396" align="alignnone" width="480"]
CAP[/caption]
An interesting dessert: spumone cheesecake. The layers are in the exact colors and flavors one would get in a wedge of Angelo Brocato's famous spumone. Nothing wrong there.
Next to my table is a gathering of some twenty celebrants of somebody's birthday. The average age is thirty-ish, as is that of the entire restaurant's customer base. I'm glad Michael is holding on as the best restaurant in Slidell.
