Friday, October 8. Parental Revisiting. One. The cool spell seems to be waning. It was fifty-one at eight a.m., and it reached well into the eighties during the day.
It's Parents' Weekend at Tulane. Mary Ann, who never misses anything like this, thought we ought to participate. Mary Leigh is ready to cooperate, but if I'm reading her correctly I think she'd just as soon blow the whole thing off. At least the parts of it that involve parents.
Mary Ann said I should meet her and Mary Leigh on the campus after the radio show ended. She is already vexed that this isn't playing out the way she wanted it. There's not a lot going on of interest to parents. On my way over, she called to report that the dinner aspect of Parents' Weekend was not worth eating. She described it as a lame version of the grazing-cum-silent-auction events that we attended several times a year at the kids' grammar and high schools. It was fifty bucks to attend--which seemed reasonable, even if we get next to nothing in terms of food or drink out of the deal. We wrote the check but eschewed the food.
A large concert stage on the Quad was staffed by a band I could hear when I emerged from the car--three blocks away. It was a somewhat folky-jazzy-rock group that sounded reasonably good until you got close, when the volume made the listening unpleasant. Even Diana Krall would have been painful at that sound level.
Nevertheless, a large crowd jammed in at the stage. It was a miracle that I found Mary Ann, who just happened to be heading my way as I approached the University Center entrance. She wanted to go inside, to escape from the band's bass, which she said was making her literally nauseated. We cruised around the UC, looking the place over.
It's thirty-six years since I was a college student, but the vibe didn't seem a lot different. Posters with a tone that I immediately recognized appealed to students to take part in activities, some of them very abstruse. Mary Leigh has not joined anything other than a Brazilian exercise dance class. It wasn't until I got involved with extracurricular goings-on that I began to get anything significant out of my college experience. (Indeed, drawing cartoons for the campus newspaper is what led to my career.)
We wandered down a hall that led to the campus media. Tulane's weekly newspaper, the Hullabaloo, reads just like the Driftwood, the paper I wrote for in college. Also here is a radio station, staffed by students. WTUL was my radio station of choice in my twenties. Listening to it moved my taste away from current hit music to jazz and avant-garde rock. I peeked into the studios and saw an astonishing mess. That's a radio station, all right.
Mary Ann and I found our daughter in the crowd outside, near the Lucky Dog stand (!). She was with a passel of girls and boys, smiling from ear to ear, clearly enjoying the scene. There was no doubt that what she wanted most from us was that we make ourselves scarce. So we left.
We thought about dinner at Brigtsen's, but on a Friday night it would probably be a full house. I hate making restaurateurs uncomfortable, which is what many of them are when I walk in when they have no place for me. (But probably not the Brigtsens, who turn away far more desirable customers for lack of space all the time.)
Mary Ann suggested One. A couple of tables were open. Lee McCullough swore that he didn't need the four-top, but this was that discomfort I mentioned above. I insisted on the microscopic deuces. The restaurant is small. Sure enough, a party of four for the other table showed up almost immediately.
And sitting at the deuce put us right next to Bob Angelle and his girlfriend, who were sitting at the food bar. Bob performed tonight's proof that only five hundred people live in New Orleans. Two of Mary Ann's sisters worked in his law office for years. He composed our will.
We had an engaging conversation with Bob and his lady (also an attorney). She and Bob--who is always smiling but stays in a low key--seemed to be having a great evening. He's a foodie, and was intrigued by a dish he'd just had involving fish and peaches. Fruit and fish sounds wrong, but I think it's a nice match.
Once we got down to our own eating, Mary Ann tried to pull that I'm-just-going-to-watch-you-eat routine. I talked her into Chef Scott Snodgrass's spectacular crabmeat-and-mirliton gratin. And a little salad.
I started with gnocchi with beans and rapini, in a brothy, herbal sauce. The gnocchi were so big as to to stress the limits of the definition, but they had the right texture and flavor. This is the third time this week I've eaten gnocchi. I believe that's a personal record.
My entree was a new dish on the fall menu, one that sounded as offbeat as fish and peaches. A roasted (not confit) duck leg, paired with a grilled chicken sausage. Potatoes and figs. Underneath all this was. . . applesauce? Yes. Tasty enough, but not a dish for the ages. But you some to bistros like this to eat dishes like this. I'd prefer to get an occasional near-miss than the same old dishes getting duller with each passing day.
And then we were off for home, in two cars.
One. Riverbend: 8132 Hampson. 504-301-9061.
