Friday, May 3, 2013.
Antoine's Jazz Festival Crowd.
Harold Klein, my long-time barber, called today to say that he was back at work. I told him that a month was a long time to get over the gout, a malady about which I know more than I wish I did. "It wasn't the gout after all!" he said. "I had a torn ligament!" Well, that would bring you down for awhile if your job has you on your feet all day.
During his disability, I had to get a haircut elsewhere. In fact, I need another one now. Such was my motivation for having dinner tonight at Antoine's. To get to the old restaurant, I would park my car in the Royal Orleans Hotel's garage, then follow the old Choctaw trail down the back steps of the hotel into its basement, past the mechanical plant and the managerial offices.
A left turn put me right in front of the barbershop. Harold wasn't there, as I knew damn well he wouldn't be at seven in the evening. (He tells me he does take appointments that late, but rarely on Fridays.)
The ancient Native American track continues another few feet to a flight of marble stairs to the lobby, which I cross to the landmark that is a grand piano. Then down a wider marble staircase to street level, past the Rib Room, then out the doors onto the corner of Royal and St. Louis, where the trace disappears and I'm on my own for the half-block to Antoine's.
The place was nearly empty, but that figures. The weather was perfect for the Jazz Festival: sunny and cool. Everybody must have been there. However, visitors who wanted to get the most out of their trip to New Orleans started showing up around eight. The large red room was about three-quarters full by the time I left.
It was not the greatest dinner I've had here. It started with a Sazerac, then a cup of crawfish bisque in the old style--dark roux and a stuffed crawfish head. It was a bit oily, though. The combination salad (hearts of palm, artichokes, lettuce, tomatoes) was its usual enjoyable self. Then, in lieu of the large pompano the waiters told me about, I had two small ones. Not the end of the world, but not peak. Peach Melba (below) for dessert, with the ever-marvelous coffee.
While mulling over the whys and wherefores of this, I had an idea. What if chefs--particularly sous chefs and line cooks, who do most of the actual cooking--could go on sabbatical for a week every year (or maybe more often), and work in another New Orleans restaurant? There they could pick up new habits and get rid of some old ones. This is common practice in Europe, where they even have a name for it: "stage" (pronounced "stahzh"). I think this would be a particularly useful exercise for chefs working in restaurants with a lot of inertia--Antoine's being one of them. But I think the hot young chefs would get benefit from seeing where all their deconstructions came from, too.
I sure wish I knew of a place I could go to sing with a pianist tonight. With Mary Ann gone all this week, the house seems lonely. And all I can think to do when I'm there alone is work on one project or another. But on Friday night, I've had quite enough of work for at least a little while.
To browse through all of the Dining Diaries since 2008, go here.
