Saturday, June 25, 2016.
Three-Star-Spicy Curry @ Thai Chili.
I have good luck ignoring the news today, as it freaks out on the Brexit matter. I believe that the impossible will happen: they'll take the vote twice again best two out of three. Dumber things have happened.
I dispatch two jobs this morning. I bring my Beetle in for its first-ever oil change and service. They also rotate the tires, fixed a little problem with a loose screw (really!), washed the car and vacuumed it. The price for all this: nothing. I bought the service package when I bought the car. That always in the past proved a bad idea. But this time, that really was a zero on the bottom line.
While the dealer did the work, I walked the three or so blocks to the Mandeville Café Du Monde. I get an order of beignets and a large coffee with a mug for drinking it. I spend over an hour reading a pre-publication copy of "Miss Ella," an autobiography of Ella Brennan, who is most often recognized as the member of the Brennan family most responsible for their restaurants' success. In her book, Ella herself seems to say that everything she knew came from her big brother Owen, who created the business. But when he died young (forty-five), Ella more or less took over.
My initial impression of the book is that it's full of interesting set-ups, but that most of the stories seem to end before they play out. But after I was five or six chapters in, I am no longer bothered by this. What I keep thinking is that we now have an authoritative source telling the true story of the Brennan family, most of which had many holes, rumors, and inaccuracies in past tellings. It also fills in a lot of blank spots in the history of the New Orleans restaurant scene as a whole. It will make my life much easier if I take Poppy Tooker's suggestion that I write a history of dining in New Orleans.
I have a two-hour radio show at two in the afternoon. After that, I spend some time cleaning the house and trying to install new outdoor light fixtures. I encounter my usual problem: I cannot get the old ones off. That applies to every repair of every machine I have ever owned. In hell, nobody can get the old parts off.
I take a walk through the woods for a bit over an hour. Then I am off to dinner at Thai Chili as the sun goes down. The lady who seems to manage the place is the entire staff of the dining room. I ask her for Panang curry, the orange-yellow kind that has captured my palate lately. I specify three-stars on the hotness scale. (The hottest is four stars, signifying "Thai hot," which all but requires one to have been born in Bangkok.)
I puzzle the lady further by requesting no meat. No seafood, chicken, or even tofu. Just more of the vegetables that make up the recipe. I did this last time and loved it. It hit the spot again tonight.
When I get home, I wish that the television connection worked. I don't watch TV much, but I'm in the mood tonight. The problem seems to be the lack of a remote control. You can't do anything from the screen's panel of buttons.
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Sunday, June 26, 2016.
A Sizzling Day.
I really didn't want to spend the day at my desk, even though I certainly have enough to do there. But the temperature outside rose to 100 degrees. The temperature, not the heat index. It is roasting hot out there, too much for me to go walking.
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Roast beef poor boy at Crabby's Shack.[/caption]
My only meal is a half-dozen oysters on the half shell, followed by a roast beef poor boy at Crabby's Shack in Madisonville. The oysters look as if they have gone into the spawning phase, when they change gender and take on a white color. There is nothing harmful about this condition, but some people get suspicious about it. But isn't everybody suspicious about raw oysters all the time? I gobbled mine right up, as usual.
And the roast beef was delicious too.
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Monday, June 27, 2016.
Unwelcome Rejoinders. Great Red Beans Again. More "Miss Ella."
Mary Ann calls me from Los Angeles at five a.m., her time. She has already called the Honda dealer here to find out if they would take me home after I drop off her car. They say yes. I am told that all dealers do this. This is only the second time in about twenty tries when I actually was so served.
The service manager calls an hour later to say that my prognosis of a dead radiator fan is correct, but doesn't go far enough. There are two such fans, and both are gone. Price: $1000. But one must expect such repairs when a car is approaching 300,000 miles, as MA's trusty Pilot is.
Lunch at Abita Roasters in downtown Covington. This is the second time I have had their red beans and rice. They are exactly the same as last time. Is there a commissary involved? Also here is a good hot sausage patty, my favorite adjunct to red beans. And a corn pancake, which is perfect with the beans. I get a salad with too much cheese on it. Why are so many salads topped with cheese to begin with? Blue cheese or feta are fine, but cheddar?
I've discovered recently that I am not the only one who dislikes the rejoinder "No problem" after the sayer is told "Thank you." I think we may have a movement against that usage.
And there's another, equally objectionable line brandished by waiters: "Are you still working on that?" The reference is to remaining food on a plate. Working? You mean, like with a band saw? Or a crowbar? But I don't think I like the new version of this any better: "Are you still enjoying that, or. . .?"
Come to think of it, I don't like the sound of "Are you going to [phrase describing an action on your part]? Or. . .
Or. . . what?
While I devoured my plate of beans (they are very good, again), I read a couple more chapters of "Miss Ella," the new autobiography of Ella Brennan, the keystome member of the Brennan restaurant family. The story--and if you made it all up, it couldn't be a better tale than the real one--is now up to the moving of Brennan's from Bourbon Street to where it is now on Royal. I thought I knew all about that, but there was much more. Every imagineable kind of the worst luck hit the Brennans right before the relocation. That they carried on anyway is more impressive than I thought.
Abita Roaster. Covington: 1011 Village Walk. 985-246-3345.
Roast beef poor boy at Crabby's Shack.[/caption]
My only meal is a half-dozen oysters on the half shell, followed by a roast beef poor boy at Crabby's Shack in Madisonville. The oysters look as if they have gone into the spawning phase, when they change gender and take on a white color. There is nothing harmful about this condition, but some people get suspicious about it. But isn't everybody suspicious about raw oysters all the time? I gobbled mine right up, as usual.
And the roast beef was delicious too.
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