Tuesday, April 19, 2016.
A Homecoming, A Mexican Dinner, A Concert, And A Loss.
My wife Mary Ann called in mid-morning to alert me to her return home today. This is a pleasant surprise. I thought it would be at least another week before her Irish smile brightened this lonely house.
As usual, she arrives with a big schedule of activities before we head home. Her niece and her brother pick her up at the airport while I am still on the radio. They all go to City Park, where the LPO is performing a free concert. She is not sure where in City Park this will be, nor when it will begin and end.
I have not eaten all day, so I let her plans play out while I have one final solo dinner. I walk the four blocks to the new Rebirth restaurant on Fulton Street, about which I am hearing very good reports from listeners and readers. The restaurant is bordered by road and building construction, which was such a big problem for its predecessor Chateau Du Lac that the French bistro closed in less than a year. With that in mind, I figure I'd get right in with no problems. Wrong! The maitre'd asks me whether I have a reservation. I don't, so there was no space for me except at the bar. My aching back would like that, so I resolve to return on another night with a table booked.
[caption id="attachment_51303" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Dining room of El Gato Negro in the Warehouse District.[/caption]
I continue on Fulton to Julia, take a left, and found myself at the front door of El Gato Negro, at the former address of Rio Mar. Even though I had a Mexican dinner just yesterday--or perhaps because of it--I am in the mood for more south-of-the-border comida.
The menu has grown since the last time I had dinner at either of the other two El Gato Negros. The original is across from the French Market, and the second is on Harrison Avenue in Lakeview. Both of these have impressed me as possibly the best Mexican restaurants in the area. The current menu is graphically wild, perhaps a bit too much like you'd find in a chain restaurant, although the food itself is classy.
[caption id="attachment_51301" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Tableside guacamole at El Gato Negro.[/caption]
I begin with one of the strong trends in Mexican restaurants: tableside guacamole. The waiter opens a tray stand next to me and not only lets me watch the house recipe's being assembled, but also offers to let me take a hand in picking the ingredients. I accept fresh jalapenos when they are offered. I do not insist on tomatoes, even though (and perhaps because) I always include tomatoes in my home version. The avocados are at peak freshness. The dry seasoning is the most interesting part of the project, which turns out to be very enjoyable in the eating. Also, there's enough here for my eight bucks to share with three other people. If only they were with me.
[caption id="attachment_51300" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Left to right: refried beans, chicken mole poblano, rice.[/caption]
The entree is my favorite Mexican dish, one too seldom prepared in these parts. Molé poblano is grilled chicken with a thick, dark sauce made of sesame, chile peppers, and bitter chocolate. It's complicated to make, and they don't have it down in this new location. (Too much chocolate, I'd say.) Nevertheless, this beats any Mexican combo plate I've had. Amd at the price of $15 it's a good deal.
Mary Ann calls to establish her twenty. It leaves me with enough time to have some flan for dessert. Very dense, as is common in Latin American versions of caramel custard. And still one of my favorite desserts.
After a good deal of difficulty, I find Mary Ann at City Park. We pick up some of her luggage from her niece Hillary's car, and we head for home. Mary Ann is looking forward to see our big dogs for the first time in over a month. They are so much more fun than the two little yapping dogs that Susan and Jude quarter.
But where are our dogs? They usually come running out to greet us. But they don't appear for a few minutes. And then we see the dog Susie--our oldest pet--limping over to us. MA runs up to her and sees that something is very wrong.
We go to the twenty-four-hour veterinary hospital in Mandeville. We know the way. The cat Twinnery met his demise there a few months ago. It's a busy night, with many critical emergencies ahead of us. When the clock tolls midnight, MA insists on taking me home so I can get some sleep for the work day tomorrow, while she returns to the vet's and waits. She winds up not returning home until a quarter to five a.m. One of Susie's legs is wrapped and splinted from the shoulder down. We carry her inside and go to bed. Only our fatigue allows us to sleep in the throes of this crisis.
El Gato Negro. Warehouse District & Center City: 800 S. Peters St. 504-525-5752.
Dining room of El Gato Negro in the Warehouse District.[/caption]
I continue on Fulton to Julia, take a left, and found myself at the front door of El Gato Negro, at the former address of Rio Mar. Even though I had a Mexican dinner just yesterday--or perhaps because of it--I am in the mood for more south-of-the-border comida.
The menu has grown since the last time I had dinner at either of the other two El Gato Negros. The original is across from the French Market, and the second is on Harrison Avenue in Lakeview. Both of these have impressed me as possibly the best Mexican restaurants in the area. The current menu is graphically wild, perhaps a bit too much like you'd find in a chain restaurant, although the food itself is classy.
[caption id="attachment_51301" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Tableside guacamole at El Gato Negro.[/caption]
I begin with one of the strong trends in Mexican restaurants: tableside guacamole. The waiter opens a tray stand next to me and not only lets me watch the house recipe's being assembled, but also offers to let me take a hand in picking the ingredients. I accept fresh jalapenos when they are offered. I do not insist on tomatoes, even though (and perhaps because) I always include tomatoes in my home version. The avocados are at peak freshness. The dry seasoning is the most interesting part of the project, which turns out to be very enjoyable in the eating. Also, there's enough here for my eight bucks to share with three other people. If only they were with me.
[caption id="attachment_51300" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Left to right: refried beans, chicken mole poblano, rice.[/caption]
The entree is my favorite Mexican dish, one too seldom prepared in these parts. Molé poblano is grilled chicken with a thick, dark sauce made of sesame, chile peppers, and bitter chocolate. It's complicated to make, and they don't have it down in this new location. (Too much chocolate, I'd say.) Nevertheless, this beats any Mexican combo plate I've had. Amd at the price of $15 it's a good deal.
Mary Ann calls to establish her twenty. It leaves me with enough time to have some flan for dessert. Very dense, as is common in Latin American versions of caramel custard. And still one of my favorite desserts.
After a good deal of difficulty, I find Mary Ann at City Park. We pick up some of her luggage from her niece Hillary's car, and we head for home. Mary Ann is looking forward to see our big dogs for the first time in over a month. They are so much more fun than the two little yapping dogs that Susan and Jude quarter.
But where are our dogs? They usually come running out to greet us. But they don't appear for a few minutes. And then we see the dog Susie--our oldest pet--limping over to us. MA runs up to her and sees that something is very wrong.
We go to the twenty-four-hour veterinary hospital in Mandeville. We know the way. The cat Twinnery met his demise there a few months ago. It's a busy night, with many critical emergencies ahead of us. When the clock tolls midnight, MA insists on taking me home so I can get some sleep for the work day tomorrow, while she returns to the vet's and waits. She winds up not returning home until a quarter to five a.m. One of Susie's legs is wrapped and splinted from the shoulder down. We carry her inside and go to bed. Only our fatigue allows us to sleep in the throes of this crisis.
