Saturday, December 22, 2012.
The Eat Club Gala At Le Foret. The Cops Are Looking.
Yesterday, winter began at the earliest Earth-time since 1896. I like to think that I can somehow sense the very slight movement of the sun as it turns around and heads north, and I can--but not quite yet. The tall pine trees help, and act as my Stonehenge. The sun shines between them in a way that seems strange. Then I'll know summer's coming back.
Tonight is our Eat Club black-tie gala dinner. For over a decade it was at Brennan's. This will be the third year Le Foret has hosted us. Funny that they wanted to do it on a Saturday, but that was about the only day when they had space available. (They give us a great price, and that gives us third or fourth dibs on dates.)
As luck would have it, WWL asked me to host a show today at an odd time: three until six in the afternoon. I like to think (hmm. . . second thing I've liked to think in this entry) of myself as the kind of radio announcer who sounds as if he's wearing a tuxedo. I really was so attired during today's show.
After it was over, I walked the four blocks to Le Foret, through the chilly, windy streets. A few other Eat Clubbers were ahead of me, wielding flutes of Veuve Clicquot, ready to toast anyone who walked up.
When we arrived in the brick-walled second floor dining room, we learned that cocktails were not being provided, as they were in past years. Nor were there passed-around appetizers. I didn't say anything, because although I would have liked to indulge in both, we had plenty enough food and alcohol coming our way.
This dinner attracts more regulars than any other on the Eat Club schedule. I knew almost everyone there. A few had joined us for many past galas. The Kunderers, for example, who came in from retirement far out of town. No wonder I haven't seen them lately. Josie Hay--whose deceased husband's company printed the first ten years or so of the New Orleans Menu and, before that, the Figaro newspaper of which I was a part--was celebrating the last Eat Club dinner of the year here for the umpteenth time.
On the other hand, the kitchen at Le Foret has changed since last year. Carlos Briceno--who cheffed the first two Eat Club galas here--passed the baton to Brandon Felder a few months ago. Brandon's style is be much different from those of his predecessors, judging by our dinner tonight. The first course: chicken-andouille gumbo. That's one of my favorite dishes, and it was very good tonight (Mary Ann said it was the best she ever ate). But it's not the sort of original dish that made Le Foret a five-star restaurant.
The next course was more auspicious. Although it was the second of three appetizers, it was a one-pound lobster, poached in brown butter and served with house-made round ravioli stuffed with butternut squash. (Butternut squash is clearly the most popular vegetable this season. This was about the sixth time I've had it lately.)
Now came the best dish of the night. A pretty, skin-on (so there was no mistaking its identity) demi-fillet of red snapper was served in a bowl in which were scattered wild mushrooms and a bulb of bok choy. The magic came from seafood consomme, imbued with saffron and poured over the fish at the table. Spectacular, that. And the Pouilly Fuisse that came alongside did a good job, too.
The main was osso buco, the big bone sticking up with its marrow, waiting to be ravished. I like osso buco okay, but I'm not sure it was the right dish for a dressy dinner like this. A lot of brown gravy (veal demi-glace, actually) and the indelicacy that comes with the dish. I could have done something about that when they gave me the menu weeks ago, but I approved, so I can't complain.
I was the perfect thing for the wine, though. It was a Rhone Valley blend of Grenache and Syrah, but despite that French classicism it carried a kicky American name: Flying Solo.
The dessert was a dense chocolate cake of the kind the Marys accord far more lusciousness than I do. A ball of pink peppercorn ice cream accompanied it. That offbeat flavor didn't manifest itself much. I turned my attention to the Eberle port-style Zinfandel, sweet and rich.
Our three dozen guests left a gap for me to fill at all of the tables. If anyone were failing to have a lovely evening, he or she didn't mention it.
The gala went on until around eleven. Too late for MA ordinarily, this worked out perfectly for us tonight. Mary Leigh was working at her Christmas part-time job until midnight. I had come in with her earlier, and we now left her car at her place of employment. (I am not allowed to say what that is.) Then Mary Ann prepared to drive home as the designated non-drinking driver. (Well, she had half a glass of Champagne six hours earlier, but that hardly matters.)
The police stood between us and home. A checkpoint right before the northbound Causeway bridge had traffic snarled in every direction, and Mary Ann looked for ways around it. (There was none, of course.) We wound up back at ML's shop, from which we could escort her safely to her car. This was not necessary--lots of lights and guards were all around--but MA grabs any chance to be Mommy again.
We tried the bridge again, but the cops were still there. MA passed through without being questioned. Homeward bound, we listened to Christmas music and wondering why we still don't have our Christmas tree purchased, three days before the big day.
Bigger question: what will we serve the two dozen people coming over for a Yule feast?
And the most urgent issue of all: what would Jude's girlfriend--who has never seen our house--think about us once she did?
Le Foret. CBD: 129 Camp. 504-553-6738.
To browse through all of the Dining Diaries since 2008, go here.
