Friday, February 26, 2010. Selling My Presence At Arnaud's. Another windy, freezing cold day with drizzle. I heard that in some places the winds were kicking up to over fifty miles per hour, and roof tiles were being blown off. When will it end?
Warming me up all day was the knowledge that, after all my day's labors are through, I will have dinner at Arnaud's. A group of people who offered a flattering amount of money to Jesuit High School at its Celebration auction last year are cashing in on my package. I said I'd take eight of them out to dinner somewhere, and bring along some wines from my cellar. I forget the amount, but it was in four figures.
I love helping Jesuit, which contributed much to making me who I am (whatever that is), and Jude who he is. But these auctions always make me insecure about the value of my company. (That same insecurity made it hard to get dates, in that era.) So I overcompensate with the dinner and wines. What else can I do?
I was the first to arrive. I slipped into the French 75 Bar and asked Chris Hannah to just make a drink for me. He handed over a concoction of rum, bitters, and a couple of other ingredients that he said he found in an ancient bar manual somewhere. I loved everything about it except that it was cold. Even with double sets of doors in the bar, whenever a group pushed its way inside those winds came in.
My guests appeared. Lisa "Sweetbreads" Sins had us set up at a great table next to the windows. After introductions and a few stupid jokes (those didn't work well for me when I was dating, either), we started cracking an assortment of bottles. First was Reuscher-Haart Spatlese, whose slight sweetness I thought would be the perfect thing with Arnaud's sharp version of shrimp remoulade, as well as with the smoked pompano and baked oysters that others around the table had as a first course.
For the second time this week, a turtle soup showed itself to be worthy of much more attention that I'd been giving it. I was about to order the soup du jour--French onion, which by definition warms ones body and soul--when maitre d' Charles Abbyad shook his head and said, "Get the turtle soup." I always listen to dining room staff, especially those of Charles's caliber. (He's been there longer than I can recall.) The turtle soup was a killer. Just great. Glad I switched.
We went through a Pouilly Fuisse and a big Chardonnay from Simi. The entrees arrived. For me, a pair of quail with a stuffing of foie gras and a jockstrap of bacon. Just okay. (If they're going to do little birds, I wish they'd bring back the Cornish hen a la Twelfth Night.) Lots of trout meuniere and grilled pompano David around the table, and those two dishes never fall short of greatness. The latter was my recommendation to the guests. I didn't take it myself; pompano and red wine is not the best of combinations.
And that was quite a red wine: 1984 Shafer Merlot. I was astonished by how well this wine has stood up through twenty-six years of storage in my much less than ideal storage bin. I passed a glass of it to Charles, who seemed to like it. (When one brings a big wine to a restaurant, one really must share it with the people serving it.)
I persuaded most of the folks to have bread pudding Fitzmorris for dessert. But some heard me say that Arnaud's makes the best bananas Foster, and indulged in that. The Foster accounted for one of two flames at our table; the other was for café brulot, which the house offered us with their compliments. In that and other ways, Arnaud's took extraordinarily good care of us this night. And the dining room was packed with people, too.
Back to the bread pudding. I will have to tell Chef Tommy DiGiovanni that whoever is making the pudding isn't using enough custard. I noticed this last time, and wrote it off as an aberration. But it was a bit dry tonight, too. I can't let a bread pudding that has historically been so supreme slip. Especially since it bears my name.
Arnaud’s. French Quarter: 813 Bienville 504-523-5433. Classic Creole.
