[title type="h5"]Sunday, April 19, 2015.
Not La Carreta. [/title]
I know that women have an inalienable right to such things, but I'm still miffed that the Marys went out for lunch without so much as a by-your-leave. Not that I need to know what they're doing at every moment (in fact, I don't really want to know), but when food is involved, it seems to me like a family thing. Even in the performance of my work, the only time I don't invite them to join me for dinner is when we are on opposite sides of the lake, and neither of us can or wants to cross the pond for the sake of dinner.
I was busy with my usual catch-up work all morning before I realized I hadn't seen or heard from them. I called and asked whether we would be lunching at La Carreta now or later. My correct guess that they were already at La Carreta made them laugh with a tinge of guilt. The only thing they could to to regain the upper hand was to tell me I could come right over and join them. But we all knew that by the time I arrived--La Carreta is twenty minutes from the Cool Water Ranch--they would be ready to leave. Which they were, with no vestige of the queso and chips remaining. They were finished. I could stay if I wanted, but they were ready to go.
Okay. I gave it all a pass. I know why they left me out. The Boy is coming to stay for a few days en route to a stint of basic training for the U.S. Army, something he owes Uncle Sam for his ROTC privileges at Loyola. On top of that, it's the third anniversary of ML and The Boy's first date.
I go home with grass-cutting on my mind. The weeds are really shooting up, daring me to begin the season. But the recent rains have the front lawn full of mudholes where I will inevitably get stuck. Maybe next weekend.
ML, perhaps feeling a little guilty about the lunch brush-off, offers to have dinner with me if I can make it at the Acme. So grilled oysters, a wedge salad, and a plate of eleven fried oysters with remoulade sauce. That's generous for an under-$10 appetizer.
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[title type="h5"]Monday, April 20, 2015.
A Number-Name Makes A Restaurant Lame.[/title]
When we dined at Gallagher's Grill night before last, Pat Gallagher told me that he is soon to open a second location. It's a great location and building, having originally been built for the short-lived but very good Chef's Domaine back in the 1990s. Since then it's been a variety of other restaurants, most of them Asian, including the original location of the Thai Pepper and an interesting sushi place called Kenko. (I will write about that in this week's Extinct Restaurants department.)
The building is handsome inside and out, and has only one problem: although it's within a hundred yards of the busiest traffic artery on the North Shore, and immediately adjacent to the Winn Dixie with which every Northshorinian is very familiar, it can't easily be seen, even if you're looking for it.
And now Pat tells me that at least half the name of the place will be a number. It's the address, I think. What I know is that before thirty seconds had elapsed since he told me, I couldn't remember the number. Which is the problem with names like Meson 913, or whatever that number was of that now-gone restaurant.
Pat knew I would say that before I did, and he says he's going along with the mystery number anyway. I repeated that this was a mistake, that very few restaurants have survived with numbers. The only two major success stories I know are Rue 127 (whenever someone calls to ask about it, they never remember the number) and Eleven 79.
Today I learned that even that one could not escape the curse. Eleven 79 opened in 2000 with legendary restaurateur Joe Segreto at the helm, and Chef Anthony DiPiazza in the kitchen. Both of them had strong followings, and the place was packed and on a waiting list for most of its history.
I'm sure that Anthony's death some eight years ago hurt the restaurant. And Joe Segreto had a health problem around the time of Katrina that challenged him. And now, in a letter I received today, Joe's daughter and co-manager Alexis says that Eleven 79 had closed permanently. She mentioned her father's advancing age and health as the reason why. He has certainly done his job for many decades, and running a restaurant is real work.
But my own theory is that it was the numerical name that did it in. It's logical--the restaurant's address is 1179 Annunciation Street. But no rationale can alleviate the difficulty of remembering numbers. (And this one had, really, two numbers.)
A lot of people will miss Joe Segreto. He ran quite a few terrific eateries--Broussard's in the 1970s, Elmwood Plantation, and what is now Benedict's Plantation. His family owned a restaurant on Bourbon Street next to Galatoire's. (Which, incidentally, is tempting fate by buying the place and naming it Galatoire's 33.)
Now, perhaps Joe will have time to write his autobiography. He is a fascinating man, and not only because of his involvement in the restaurant business. He was Louis Prima's personal manager during The Wildest's peak years. He is highly literate and has thousands of stories to tell, many of them involving very famous people.
If such a book comes to pass, I hope it doesn't have a number as its title.
Written by Tom Fitzmorris April 28, 2015 12:01 in
