[title type="h3"]Dick Brennan[/title]
At the same time comical, knowledgeable, sensitive, understated and wise, Dick Brennan was among the four or five most influential people in the history of the New Orleans restaurant business, easily in a league with Jules Alciatore, Count Arnaud, Jean Galatoire, and Dick's sister Ella Brennan.
For me, Mr. Dick was far more than one of a five-best list. More than a mentor, he was a father figure to me in my early years of writing about restaurants. That's the story repeated by everyone who fell into his orbit. And we're talking about far bigger names than mine. Ask Paul Prudhomme. Or Emeril. Or Frank Brigtsen. The mention of Dick's name is enough to launch them into paeans of respect for the man and what he taught them.
Those encomiums inevitably move to laughter as the anecdotes about Dick Brennan come tumbling forth. I've threatened for decades to write a small book of memorable things I heard him say. All deliver a chuckle first, then leave you nodding at the underlying truth. My favorite example of that:
He and I and Marcelle Bienvenu are having dinner at Commander's Palace in the mid-1980s. A waiter comes over with the first wine of the evening, and pours a thimbleful of it into the glass in front of Dick. He doesn't move. The server waits for approval. Dick points at the glass and says, "Uh, put, put some more wine in there, because if it's bad we'll trow the whole bottle out, anyway."
Funny, and undeniable. A little something is lost in the translation above, because Dick spoke with an honest (because that's where he grew up) Irish Channel accent, compounded by a stutter. (That "trow" above is not a typo.)
Dick's distinctive speech pattern was one of the secrets of his success. When he talked with cooks and dishwashers or waiters, he didn't come across as a wealthy man wearing a suit (always), the co-owner of the most successful restaurant in town. He sounded more like one of them. This opened minds and created trust all around. Dick was one of the Real People.
For instance: Dick and I are walking through the kitchen to the bar. (That's always been the route to the bar at Commander's.) Suddenly, a very foul word flies out from among the stoves. Dick stops dead. He quickly finds the source of the expletive (all the other cooks are staring at the guy). A little smile is on Dick's face. "You know, son, anybody can use that word. It doesn't make you sound smart. Think of a better word next time. Then you might sound like you. . . you. . . you really know sump'm."
With a view wider than most people have, Dick Brennan saw problems before anyone else did. And what needed to be done. In 1980, he did that for me. I'd just published a review of Commander's in which I gave the place a less-than-impressive rating. On a warm afternoon I went there to have lunch in the courtyard.
I wore a tie, but no jacket. I started with corn and crab bisque, replete with jumbo lump crabmeat, fresh corn, and cream. As I ate it, the waiter appeared with a bottle of Chateau St. Jean Chardonnay. "I didn't order that," I said, as he began uncorking it.
"Mr. Dick told me to bring it to you," the waiter said.
"I don't take free stuff," I said.
"You'll have to tell that to Mr. Dick."
The wine was great with redfish Grieg and its buttery sauce of shrimp and crabmeat, all a few hours fresh out of local waters. Dick's tall form (he was six-foot-six, or looked it) loomed over my table. "Hello, Tawm! Mind if I sit down and try some of your wine?"
"It's your wine," I said. "Have a seat!"
We shortly killed that bottle. Another appeared. The chef sent us lamb chops he was testing. Jordan Cabernet arrived. Then dessert. A bottle of Cristal Champagne popped and poured into flutes (how did they get there?). We drank all of that. Then we moved to Hine XO Cognac.
The conversation began with Dick's usual good humor. Weather, sports, food and restaurants. Suddenly came a verbal poke. "How can you come into a place like this without a jacket?" Dick asked. Well, it's just lunch, I said, and there is no jacket rule at lunch, is there? Dick made a small shrug, saying without words that I clearly didn't understand the issue at hand.
Then, a jab. "You ever been to France?" Who, me? I said. No.
"Have you ever thought about spending some time working in a restaurant to see what's going on?" he said.
I felt a chill. The armor of respectability that I imagined having earned as a restaurant critic for ten years kept being dented and knocked off, piece by piece.
Then came an exchange remembered vividly by everybody working at Commander's Palace that day. (Don't ever believe that waiters don't know everything going on at every table in the room.) Dick pointed his finger at me. Speaking in his distinctive cadence--the long vowels stretched five or six times longer than normal--he looked me straight in the eye and said, "Leave me tell you something, Tawm. I'm Irish, and you're Irish. And I'm telling you: yooooooou. . . dooooon't. . . knooooow. . . nothin' about food. You don't know the ABCs. You need education. Now look. I want you to go to France. I'll give you five thousand dollars to go there and learn somethin'. You gotta pay the money back to me. But if you gonna keep writing about restaurants and foooooood. . . that's what you gotta do."
We remained at the table for another hour or two, the excellent alcohol continuing to flow, and the tenor of the conversation returning to full cordiality. When we finally stood up (it was amazing that either of us could) he said, "You call me about France, you hear? I mean it. And let's have lunch again. I enjoyed it." He walked with me out of the restaurant, turned to walk the three blocks to his home, and left me on the sidewalk with a lot to think about.
Dick had me nailed. I did not know enough for a person who posed as an expert. The theory behind my work so far--that all a critic needs to know is whether he likes the food or not--seemed a lame dodge. I never took him up on France. But I began a program of raising my standards, reading about food, cooking, and traveling to food-rich places.
Not long after, Dick invited me to lunch with Marcelle Bienvenu, who had worked at Commander's and had written a very good Louisiana cookbook. I think he wanted her professionalism to rub off on me. This turned into a monthly dinner for the three of us that lasted over ten years. The kitchen had carte blanche to experiment with us on any dish he liked. I learned more about cooking and food and wine (we drank very good juice) in those years than I did anywhere else.
Why did Dick Brennan give so much attention to a young freelance writer to whom he owed less than nothing? Same reason he took his every involvement to the maximum. He was a major basketball star in high school and college. He started working at Brennan's when he was a teenager, and did it all, dishwashing to cooking to serving. He had an idea of how Mardi Gras could be improved, and with a few friends turned the idea into Bacchus. A stray thought Dick had on a trip to London resulted in the original Sunday Jazz brunch--now a fixture in fancy restaurants worldwide.
The high point was the 1980s at Commander's Palace. Dick and his sister Ella created what I believe was the all-time superlative New Orleans restaurant. They revolutionized the very concept of the gourmet Creole restaurant, with the help of Paul Prudhomme, Emeril and Jamie Shannon. It all owed to a balance struck by Ella and Dick. Ella was always ready to move on to the next thing, and dumping old things to make room. Dick was much more a fan of the classics. It resulted in the best of both styles.
He didn't take it easy until, with the next Brennan generation solidly managing the restaurants, he retired. A heart attack slowed him down and ended the monthly dinners with me and Marcelle. But the three of us occasionally got together for lunch. At one of these, Dick told me that he was proud of the way I learned my lessons, and that I had become someone whose words had some sense to them. No praise ever meant more to me.
Dick finished the eighty-four years of his life this past Saturday, March 14. St. Patrick's weekend. Perfect. That's probably the first thing he told St. Peter. He will ever be the most interesting and astute person I've ever met in the restaurant world. We will never again see his like.
