Friday, July 5, 2013.
A Slow Night At Antoine's. The Old Choctaw Trail.
Some commercial work required me to go into to town today. I knew I would be among the few. Those who have the option of taking off the Friday between a major holiday and the weekend do so. As a result, that's a calendar artifact that restaurant people really hate.
But the Essence festival is in town, and downtown was more crowded than I would have guessed. I've heard many reports about the neighborhood restaurants being very busy. A line down the block led to Wille Mae's, for example.
I had Antoine's on my mind for dinner, and I wasn't sure whether I would arrive to a full house or an empty one. It was the latter, and it was depressing. The big back room was so empty that Jimmy Liuzza, the maitre d', told me that he would bring me to a table back there if I liked, but that he wouldn't recommend it.
So I sat in the front room which, really, is a very beautiful dining parlor. It's in the same style as Galatoire's, but in this case it can't be accused of being an imitation, since Antoine's was sixty-five years old when Galatoire's opened.
None of the waiters who usually take care of me were on duty. I drew a young man who I think is in the early years of his career here. All the little tricks I use to make sure they know I am not only a local but a long-time customer went past him. His spiel is for the tourists.
I started with oysters Foch, which were perfect except for the pate-spread toast, which was done carelessly. That's not all that big a part of the dish, anyway.
Then a nice-sized piece of pompano with brown butter. On the side, an order of steamed asparagus with hollandaise. But wait! I didn't order that, I ordered creamed spinach! Well, half of one, six dozen of the other, I thought. Then the waiter emerged with the creamed spinach, saying, the spinach wasn't ready when I brought the fish out, so I brought the asparagus to keep you going." Fair enough.
Caramel custard for dessert. This is one of the major improvements at Antoine's in the post-K era. It used to be far too sweet. Not only have they toned that down, but they now serve the custard with fresh berries. Strawberries were perfect.
Still, this was a depressing night. Going to restaurants at slack times like the day after July 4 is madness.
When I go to Antoine's, K-Paul's, Brennan's (hope I do again someday), the Court of Two Sisters, or a few other restaurants around there, I park at the Royal Orleans Hotel and walk through the hotel lobby en route to the restaurant. That way I avoid the heat of the day. It occurred to me a few years ago that this route is almost like a trail through the woods. I have walked it so many times--hundreds, maybe thousands--that it qualifies as iconic.
I mentioned this to Errol Laborde once, and he said, "I believe that started out as an old Choctaw trail!" I proposed doing an article about the Royal O Route, and he said he'd be interested in seeing it. (Errol is the editor of New Orleans Magazine.) I never did, until now. Complete with photos, for posterity.
I begin in the garage itself, where I tell the attendant that I am "going to the restaurant." I don't say which restaurant. I do this not to get the free parking one has a right to when dining at the hotel's Rib Room. I just want them to let me use the garage (left photo, above) when it's crowded.
Next, I walk down the stairs (never the incline) to the basement (center photo above). Going through the door at the bottom puts me in air conditioning. I walk past the mechanical plant for the hotel, visible through the windows on the left.
Walking ahead, I take a left at the entrance to the hotel's offices (right photo above). In a few feet I pass the barber shop (below), where my haircutting friend Harold Klein may be working late. I look in to see whether I should wave. I won't go in, because he will tell me I need a trim.
The passageway takes me to a choice of modes that get me to the lobby itself. I can take an elevator, or walk up the white marble stairs (below, left). I take the latter, unless my wife is with me. She prefers the elevator.
At the top of the stairs, I take a U-turn onto the white marble floors of the lobby (center, above). I often stop to refresh my cash supply from the ATM that's about ten feet of the old Choctaw trail. Then I cross the lobby diagonally, passing the old Esplanade Room (right, above), which in the early days was the gourmet restaurant of the hotel. Chris Kerageorgiou was the maitre d', in the days before he opened La Provence.
I pass through the big square columns past cocktail tables (left above). If it's after five or so, someone will be playing the grand piano. Sometimes someone is singing--part of the act. I have often attempted to do a song myself, but no matter who the pianist is, his body language says I am not welcome to mess up his act. Not that I blame him.
Just beyond the piano is a wide staircase (center, above) descending to street level. (The main lobby is up about a half-flight, for reasons that have always seemed to me mysterious.)
Off the stairs, I wave at the front-door staff of the Rib Room. They always ask me why I don't come in for dinner more often. There are always people at the bar (right, above), which sticks out into the Choctaw trail a little bit.
Then I am through the set of double doors and onto the banquette at the corner of Royal and St. Louis. Someone is always playing music for tip right across the street. I head in the direction of the restaurant du jour.
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