Monday, August 9, 2010. ML To LA. Home, On Vacation. Bear's. Up at three-thirty to pick up Mary Leigh at quarter to five so she can fly to Los Angeles at six. I should have been traveling with her, but the gods seem to want to prevent my taking a vacation this year. I stayed with her until she got to the front of the extra-long security line (just one TSA agent at the head of it!), then hugged her good-bye.
Here was the opportunity to eat breakfast somewhere. My coverage of that meal is not up to my standards. I went to the Tiffin Inn, the old pancake-and-burger joint on Veterans. I have not been there in decades. A few people--including a well-dressed, successful attorney I know--have been bragging on the place. But at six-thirty they weren't open! I though it was a twenty-four-hour place.
I joined the commuters heading downtown. I had one more duty at the radio station before I could forget about the show for the next seven days. The sixteen commercials I recorded at home last night need to be loaded into the system at the station. It was the first time I did this irritating but necessary task this much easier way.
Time on my hands, I entered Bob Del Giorno's studio and sat down while he rambled on about something or other. He didn't see me come in, and I startled him when he looked up and saw what he called "this face on the other side of the desk." We spent a few minutes talking about food and the oil spill and the fish and stuff. I made my prediction again that by Thanksgiving we would all be wondering why we were so worried.
"What are you doing here at this hour?" a number of people in the hallways asked.
"I'm on vacation, and I can do whatever I want," I told them.
What I wanted now was breakfast. I thought about getting it at Café Adelaide, but I know that story. I remembered Deanie's in the Warehouse District, which has always did a marvelous, cheap breakfast. Hardly anyone was there, and the lady behind the counter--not the owner, who I know well--said that all she had were eggs. No biscuits, bacon, omelettes, or any of the other good things they serve. Bah.
My third attempt met with success--sort of. I drove up to the lakefront and Russell's Marina Grill. They were as busy as I remember from the days when Jude and I occasionally stopped there for breakfast on our way to Christian Brothers School. (Was that really eight years ago?) I have never been a fan of Russell's, but enough people are wild about it that I keep coming back now and then, just to see if maybe I'm missing something.
I ordered an omelette with Italian sausage and cheese, and a side of potatoes and a biscuit. They make omelettes the way the Camellia Grill does: very fluffy, but rather dry and scorched. (My way: moist but not runny, with no patches of brown on the bright yellow exterior.) I would not swear that the biscuit was made in house. The coffee was ordinary. The server was cheerful and prompt. I think this may be one of those restaurants whose regulars have learned to love it by becoming used to it. Doesn't make my grade.
It was a sunny day now, perfect for my daughter to fly in. I went home and got to work on today's newsletter. I set aside my plan to make heavy use of reruns and wrote all new stuff. I had the time, and then some. It felt good to finally catch up on things that fell behind on that abortive Texas trip of two weeks ago.
Dinner at Bear's Grill in Mandeville. Its roast beef poor boy has been on my mind for weeks. I asked for a small one, hold the fries, easy on the gravy. The local glorification of sloppiness in this sandwich puts so much gravy on it in some places that the point that the bread disintegrates. Bear's, good as it is, is guilty of this.
But the Ask For A Little, Get A Lot Effect took over. I believe that when you make a special request in a restaurant on the lower end of the price spectrum, you often get the opposite of what you ask for. You're usually better off not asking at all. The sandwich came with a truly ridiculous amount of gravy, even more than the usual overload.
The most absurd example of this occurred in the very good Thai Gardens a couple of years ago. I ordered four courses. I told the server that I did not want any two courses on the table at one time.
Okay, she said. She brought the soup. I was three slurps into it when she came over and said, "You ready for the chicken wings now?" No, I said. Not until I finish with this.
"I'll bring it right out," she said. And she did. I was still working on the soup--hadn't touched the chicken wings yet--and saw her looking at me. We exchanged glances. I knew what she was thinking, but before I could swallow the food in my mouth to tell her to hold up the next course, she disappeared into the kitchen, and brought out the beef salad.
"Really, please--no more food until I'm finished with all this!" I implored. Okay, she said. I finally finished the soup, and was nibbling away on the stuffed chicken wings when I saw her walking out with the entree. Now all four courses were on the table. If I'd said nothing, this wouldn't have happened.
Mary Ann called while I was on my way back home. They're already having fun, with Jude blasting them around L.A. for In-And-Our Burgers and Pinkberry and all that West Coast stuff. She is trying to talk me into flying up there after my gig with the Today show this Thursday, and fly back Sunday. And we would all go up to San Francisco. Nothing easy, of course. It makes me tired just to listen to her overloaded plans.
Russell’s Marina Grill. West End: 8555 Pontchartrain Blvd. 504-282-9980. Diner. Breakfast.
Bear’s Grill & Spirits. Mandeville: 1809 N Causeway Blvd. 985-674-9090. Poor boys.
