[title type="h5"]
Wednesday, July 1, 2015.
Black And Blue At Crescent City Steak House. [/title]
Another ferocious rank of thunderstorms passes through, with the rain coming down in ropa-vieja sheets. I watch for a break in the downpour on the radar, then make a run for my car. It's only about fifty unsheltered feet between the radio studio and the car, but I have no umbrella. Well, I have umbrellas--about a dozen of them. But they're always separated from me by about an hour's drive. I do know that you can always pick up a temporary umbrella in any restaurant. People leave umbrellas behind so often that most eateries have a good stock.
The Crescent City Steak House has been on my mind for months, and I go for it. It's about half-full, which through most of the restaurant's eight decades would be considered a busy house. Everybody here is either local or one of those people who have apartments in New Orleans and show up several times a year for threee or four days. (There ought to be a name for these wonderful people, who know more about New Orleans than the typical Orleanian.)
I am served by a woman who speaks in round tones and asks almost-personal questions. She says something about my choice in magazines, since I am carrying a copy of The New Yorker. I have not been served by anyone like her in a long time. I'll bet she's a member of Mensa.
I place my standard order, but with two changes. I don't remember that the Crescent City had a Caesar salad, but it does now, so I order it. It's not big enough, but only by a slim margin.
Then I call for a strip steak, the best cut here unless I am with someone who will share a porterhouse. I ask the server whether I can get it cooked medium rare, but with a good, dark, crunchy sear on the top and bottom. She doesn't question this. Even better, the kitchen delivers: here is a Pittsburgh-style crust. (Also known as "black and blue" or "Indian style." It is precisely the steak I had in mind when I made the run from the car to the door. A little chewy (strips usually are), bubbling in butter, the dry-aged flavor blooming in every other bite.
Anthony Vojkovich--the son of the founder of the Crescent City--told me a few years ago that they backpedaled the degree to which they age their beef. Too many people find that well-aged beef registers as spoiled. It is the same process, but one that gives wonderful results. I think they ought to set aside some strip roasts for extra aging, for people who like it that way. Charge extra, of course. I'd pay it. The Crescent City is enough of a bargain that it would still be less expansive than most prime steakhouses. And I love that aged flavor.
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Black and blue strip.[/caption]
Speaking of the Vojkovich family, I asked the waitress about Krasna, Anthony's mother. She is usually at the restaurant all the time, but not today. I could have guessed her location: her native Croatia, making her annual visit to her family.
I have a side of Lyonnaise potatoes, and slide them onto the steak plate to soak in the butter. About thirty-five years ago, I watched Chef Paul Prudhomme do exactly that as he shared lunch with his beloved wife, the late Kay Hinrichs, in this very restaurant. It stuck in my head as a good idea.
I have a little dessert and a cup of café au lait, and head back into the occasional rain.
[title type="h5"]
Crescent City Steak House. Mid-City: 1001 N Broad. 504-821-3271. [/title]
