Friday, April 13, 2012.
Talking Food With Dentists. Tony Mandina's.
I read somewhere that every year has at least one Friday the Thirteenth, and that no year has more than three. "That's interesting, Tom," the late UNO drama professor Jim Ragland said when, in 1971, I imparted an equally jejune fact. "But not very," he added quickly.
Last year, I agreed to speak to a group of dentists at their annual meeting. But when I broke my ankle I had to cancel. (They replaced me with a sports writer--just like on the radio.) I guess I didn't make them too mad, because they invited me again this year. This time I made it to the Convention Center, where we were served a salad covered with strips of cheese (how did this practice get started? it's not good) followed by two pork chop cooked until all the juice was gone. Who is handling the food in the Morial Convention Center these days?
The dentists were all about my age, which made the selection of anecdotes easier. I started with my standard three tales of soup du jour. Got the usual laugh. Nobody there had heard them before, although I've told them at every speaking engagement for thirty-five years. These guys appreciated my memories of broadcasting from the Maison Blanche Building, the original home of my radio station when it was WSMB. Our studios shared the roof with a fantastic collection of outmoded dentist's equipment. At one time, the Maison Blanche Building had more dentists than any other place in America, one of the dentists told me. I can believe it.
Mary Ann called in mid-show to say that she was amenable to the idea of joining me for dinner. When I called her back at the end, though, she'd changed her mind. I don't blame her. She would have to cross the lake just for that. I don't think I'm worth it.
I reverted to my original plan: Tony Mandina's, a restaurant on the West Bank that I haven't sampled in at least twenty years. No connection with Mandina's on Canal Street, nor the same style of cooking. It's thoroughly Italian, six meals a week: lunch Tuesday through Friday, dinner Friday and Saturday.
I can't think of a restaurant with a stronger contrast between its environs and its dining room. The neighborhood is a bit worn, with an old barbershop, a seafood retailer, and the gigantic pole for a towering billboard immediately adjacent to the restaurant. The street grid is at an odd angle to West Bank Expressway, which tells us that it was laid out in the early 1950s or before. The houses nearby are very modest. Were it not for a sign visible from the elevated expressway, the restaurant would be very hard to find for the first-timer.
Or for a guy who hadn't been in twenty years. When I finally homed in on the place, a man told me where to park (almost any place I wanted, it seemed), then opened the front door. Inside, the place was handsome, well-furnished, and cool. A pianist tickled the ivories in the dining room. A large group was having dinner in a private room.
I almost went back outside to see where exactly the atmosphere warp was. Tony Mandina's looks good enough to be in an upscale hotel downtown.
The menu showed no surprises. But my appetite was tuned for the standard New Orleans-Sicilian-Italian repertoire. And here it was: pasta with red sauces, white sauces, or olive oil sauces, accompanied by veal and chicken scaloppine (most of it panneed) or seafood. And stuff like lasagna. The braciolone was tempting. So was the hamburger steak, but only because the menu claimed it was the best in town, and only for a future visit.
I started with a martini and a stack of fried eggplant sticks. A little on the bitter side, those, but the greaseless crispness and the sweet marinara sauce on the side kept it enjoyable. The order is easily enough for a table of four. Then artichoke soup, which tasted better than it looked. And it didn't look bad (the cream component had broken, strictly a visual issue).
I couldn't make up my mind about the entree, even after consulting with the young woman serving my table. Then I asked her about chicken Lindsey Grace. "That's really good," she said, "it's named for me." Well, then--sold! "Oh, don't order it just because of that!" she said. Whatever the motivation, this was very nice, with panneed chicken over angel hair Alfredo pasta.
Excellent bread pudding for dessert. I was well-served all night, and the pianist (feller name of Barry Bouvier plays here every weekend) rendered my kind of music, without taking a break. I was going to ask him if I could sing a song with him, but I'll wait till next time, when I will ask for a table closer to the piano.
Tony Mandina's. Gretna: 1915 Pratt. 504-362-2010.
It's over three years since a day was missed in the Dining Diary. To browse through all of the entries since 2008, go here.
