[caption id="attachment_51433" align="alignright" width="320"]
Dining room at the Italian Barrel.[/caption]
Thursday, May 5, 2016.
Return To The Italian Barrel.
John the computer guy has my job done. My old unit is off to the recycling bin (a real one, not the cartoon on the screen). He did, however, manage to save all my data--including my nearly-finished tax return, which I foolishly allowed to reside in only one place. The price is about what I figured, and now that matter is off my hands. (Almost.)
MA comes into town and we have dinner at the Italian Barrel. It's a small café across the street from the Old U.S. Mint. Since the day it opened, I have heard nothing but praise for the place, whose owner and chef Samantha Castagnetti hails from Verona. That's far up into northern Italy, where the food differs from the Southern Italian eats we find in most New Orleans-Italian restaurants. That expresses itself largely in the salumi and antipasti, and in the use of more white than red sauces.
There's nothing seriously wrong with the food here, and a lot of friends love it. (Indeed, I have never met anyone who doesn't love it.) But I guess it's not the place for me. The food never quite rocks my boat. I also find it more expensive than feels right to me. It must be said that the location is prime, and when you can fill the restaurant every night (and they do), the price must be right for all those people.
[caption id="attachment_51432" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Bruschetta at the Italain Barrel.[/caption]
We started dinner with bruschetta, served atop some good grilled focaccia bread and long slices of Parmigiana cheese, with marinated tomatoes contributing most of the dish. It was easily enough for the two of us. Entrees were penne pasta with a light red sauce (pink might be a better description of the color) with crabmeat. She also had side orders of spinach and broccoli at nine dollars a throw.
[caption id="attachment_51434" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Italian Barrel's ravioli with porcini and truffles.[/caption]
For me, triangular ravioli stuffed with porcini mushrooms and truffles. The waiter told me that the pasta was imported from Italy. This was the sort of dish in which I would expect the pasta to be hand-made. But they have some different ideas here.
I finished with a dessert called the "coppa," which was sort of tiramisu in a cup. Good idea. Also on the table was a glass of Chianti, a bottle of San Pellegrino, and an espresso. Total with tip: $130.
My main complaints in the four previous times I ate here concerned comfort. The restaurant is very small, and the tables are close together. Tonight we were seated at what may be the best table in the house, because it didn't seem crowded there. I also see that the bar top has been reworked, making it more practical to dine there. There are a few tables on the sidewalk. For reasons I don't understand--outdoor dining is her favorite kind--MA said she didn't want to dine out there.
My walk to the men's room passed by a number of people I know. They all love the Barrel, too. Also here having dinner with his brother was Jim Kellett, who in his eighties is one of the last surviving maitre d's from the golden age of elaborate dining in New Orleans. In the 1970s and 1980s, he had stints minding the front doors of Louis XVI, Romanoff's, and the Versailles. He's out of the business now, working in real estate. It was nice to run into him after thirty or more years since the last time.
I still don't get the appeal of the Italian Barrel, but I'm happy that they're thriving in a neighborhood where a lot of locals go. It's been a long time since I last felt that restaurants should all be the kind that I like.
Italian Barrel. French Quarter: 430 Barracks. 504-569-0198.
John's PC Computer Service. 985-807-4948. (He's too good for me not to give him a plug.)
[divider type=""]Friday, May 6, 2016. Listening To Myself. Meat Sauce Pizza.
I called my big sister Judy to ask her out for supper and a play. She is in the throes of adjusting to the loss of her husband of fifty-plus years, which can't be fun. She seems to be getting along okay so far, with a good network of grown-up kids and other relatives. I have not done my part in that, so I will try harder. The play is a production of "How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying" at the Rivertown theater in the center of old Kenner. This is one of my old neighborhoods. I went to school for three years here, but Judy has me beat: she was married across the street from where the play goes on the boards for the next few weeks. It's a good, funny work from the 1960s, and the cast is made up of terrific singers, dancers, and character actors. And there is one voice who is heard but not seen: me. It's the first time I heard myself talk in a good-sized theater. For once, I didn't think the amplification is too loud. With a curtain time of eight o'clock and my getting off the air at six, our dining options are limited. The perfect place, I decide, is the Happy Italian, across the street from another school I attended as a boy: St. Rita's in Harahan. It's right on the way to the theater. [caption id="attachment_43464" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Happy Italian meat sauce pizza[/caption]
Mary Ann joins Judy and me there, and among the three of us we consume a large meat sauce pizza. This is a brilliant idea from owner Lenny Minutello, and a simple one, too. You know the tomato-centric meat sauce everybody eats with spaghetti? How would that be on a pizza? Turns out that almost no other pizzeria makes anything like it. It's a terrific idea. The sauce is made very thick, so it doesn't make the crust soggy. Tasty, too.
The plan for the evening probably kept the girls up later than they really wanted. The script of the play--which, the director told me, was already cut back a good bit--keeps everybody in the theater until after ten-thirty. And then we took a wrong turn going back to the car, taking us two blocks through very dark streets. My brain's direction finder and its memory of the old neighborhood are not what they used to be.
