Saturday, December 4, 2010. Louie And The Red-Haired Lady Too. Ristorante Filippo. Wifey Flies Away. Last night at the Fat Hen, Mary Ann was as warm and vulnerable as she ever gets. She's always that way before she leaves town, especially if it's a trip she's not sure she should take. This one will be to Los Angeles, where she wants to celebrate her birthday with Jude in California weather. That plan has come up every year since Jude left town in 2005, but this is the first time she'll actually go ahead with it.
Now she's worried about being pat-searched by TSA agents who were touching who knows who right before her. Or going through the electronic screening, which she worries might cause all kinds of radiation damage to her cells. And there's always the concern about whether the plane will crash. But she must take this trip, and I'm encouraging her to go.
She says I should be glad she makes these journeys. Even she realizes how nice she is to me in the days before. Even though I know she will return with a very different mindset (along the lines of "What are we doing in crummy New Orleans when we could be living in glamourous L.A.?"), I am enjoying her conciliatory mood.
We started the day with a pleasant breakfast at the new Covington location of Louie and the Redhead Lady, the popular diner in Mandeville. The menu was short, but Mary Ann wasn't eating. Voodoo Benedict: poached eggs and hollandaise on top of hot sausage patties. Good enough. Louie's unrightly famous creamed spinach on the side. (Everybody raves about it, but as much as I love spinach I wish they wouldn't even bring it.) I also ordered a single pancake, to make it seem as if Mary Ann were eating something if Louie or his wife Ginger (the current Redhead Lady, the first one having been Louie's mother) should happen by. (They didn't.)
The new Louie's is in the former Boston Street Bistro, a nice building that has hosted a string of not-very-good cafes. Maybe this one will break the string.
I drove Mary Ann to the airport at six-thirty. None of her fears about the new security measures came to pass, but another disaster was barely avoided. She had the flight time wrong: it was to have left at 6:50, not 7:50 as she thought. But the plane was delayed, and it didn't leave until Mary Ann's imagined time. Sometimes I think the world adjusts to Mary Ann's needs. She thinks it does, too.
Since I was on the South Shore, Mary Leigh and I went to dinner at Ristorante Filippo. I didn't know she liked it, or we would have gone before. Owner-chef Phil Gagliano wasn't in the house. He'd gone home with what was at least a very bad, achy cold. Chefs who feel sick should go home. I know of one who works no matter how obviously ill he is, thereby infecting everyone in his place.
Chef Phil saw my name on the reservation book before he left, though. He missed me last time, too. He apologized with a couple of complimentary appetizers. (Another good reason to reserve, particularly if you're a regular.) One was his matchless oysters aregenata, aromatic with garlic and olive oil. Mary Leigh loved that sauce as much as I do. (She doesn't touch the oysters.) We also had a few barbecue shrimp, also with a buttery, herbal sauce she could mop up with the great Italian bread here.
My college coed daughter has retained a few little-girl tastes. Spaghetti with chicken parmigiana was on her mind, and that's what she got. The waiter responded with a glowing smile when I asked about the pork chop. "That's my favorite dish on the menu," he said. Sold. I could see what he likes about it. Thick, juicy, crusty, herbal, no small amount of garlic. Filippo challenges Mosca's as the city's official House Of Garlic. But I love unfettered garlic in guises that fit.
It was a delightful evening. ML went back to her dorm room, and I returned to an empty house. Even the cat Twinnery was AWOL.
Louie and the Red-Head Lady Too. Covington: 324 E Boston. 985-809-1850.
Ristorante Filippo. Metairie: 1917 Ridgelake. 504-835-4008.
