Friday, July 16. An Adult Son. No Oysters At Pascal's Manale. Today is Jude's twenty-first birthday. The first thing I did this morning was to send him a two-page letter I composed late last night. I sent it by unsentimental e-mail--but his media of communication are all electronic. I did send the letter as an attachment, so he could print it out and save it. I still have a card my big sister Judy sent me on my twenty-first. "Now you are a man," she wrote in it. "Not a boy anymore." I'll say. I was already living on my own for two years. Jude's got me beat on that one, and almost all the other ones, too, as I told him in the letter. He's lived away from home almost five years now, and is moving up in his avidly-pursued career at an age when I didn't quite know what I wanted to do with myself.
I told him that this was the last time I would give him unsolicited advice on life. I sent him six articles of wisdom, reflecting as I did how much better off I'd be if I'd followed all of them myself. He seems to have most of it figured out. His career is blasting off. The only thing that has held him back was that he wasn't old enough to do some of things he needed to do. For example, he had a problem getting a bar to let his film crew shoot some scenes inside. The problem that he couldn't get in to talk to the manager, because he wasn't old enough.
Jude and his co-worker Steve talked about driving to Las Vegas today so he could enter adulthood in the time-honored manner. But Jude isn't really a drinker, other than an occasional glass of wine with dinner. A big deal about his first real drink strikes him as ridiculous. As it turned out, he and Steve were too busy filming to take the day off. That's my boy--man, I mean.
I've not dined at Pascal's Manale in a year or so, and it's been on my mind. They were reasonably busy, with a good-sized party going on in one of the main dining rooms. I was served by Eric, the husband of Linda, The Gourmet Aerobics Instructor--a regular caller to my radio show. He worked at Brennan's a long time, but said he needed a change of scenery.
No oysters, he told me. They got their last sacks over a week ago. Sandy DeFelice, one of the owners, told me that the beds owned by their usual suppliers were closed to fishing. This puts a major dent in their menu. As famous as Manale's barbecue shrimp are, the place has always cooked better oysters than almost anything.
I started with crabmeat-stuffed mushrooms. The management needs to look at this dish through the eyes of a customer. They were good and the price wasn't unfair, but the three mushrooms were small and served on a small plate, creating an ungenerous impression. It could have passed for an amuse-bouche.
Eric said the soft-shell crabs were nice. I charged him with bringing out a big one, with a puddle of meuniere sauce underneath and a substantial pile of jumbo lump crabmeat above. That worked for me, but I thought they should have had something else on the plate. A few brabants, or green beans, or asparagus. I ordered some potatoes au gratin, and that did the trick.
My taste for old restaurants gives a pass to some of them for certain things, just as the glitter of newness and hipness lets others see those restaurants get away with outrages. But some of these venerable eateries would benefit from having someone who understands the dynamics of old local institutions come in and kick ass once in awhile. Otherwise, they slip into old, comfortable habits that are not, let's say, optimized for customers. I know how easy it is to fall into that trap.
Pascal's Manale. Uptown: 1838 Napoleon Ave. 504-895-4877. Creole Italian.
