Saturday, September 10, 2011.
A House Of Deep-Frying Is Better Than It Seems.
Today I got a clue as to the cat Twinnery's mysterious disappearances during daylight hours. Typing away at my new stand-up desk, behind which a large window looks out into the open woods, I watched Twinnery's orange-and-white form picking its way across the high grass, then entering the underbrush. He went a long way through the live oaks, then across the gravel road that leads to our late neighbor Miss Betty's former house. Then he was gone. I was intrigued enough to follow his track. I found him the equivalent of a city block away, lying in a pile of leaves and pine straw, deep in the woods, sound asleep. Who says a cat's life is boring?
The Marys persuaded me to have an early supper with them at the Rusty Pelican. I'd been there twice. The first time, I was astonished by the goodness of their crab cake. Even though it was deep-fried, it was so perfect that I suspected that they'd bought it ready to go from a wholesaler. (They say they make them in house.) The second time, I got their roast beef poor boy for the first and last time.
The Marys say they love the Rusty Pelican. I take this with a grain of salt. They are emphatically mainstream eaters, not gourmets. But I opened my mind to see what the attraction was. What I learned is that the Rusty Pelican is a house of deep-frying. No problem, as long as it's done well--to order, sent out hot and crisp, with good things in the middle. I would say that they meet all those criteria.
We began with a pile of battered, fried artichoke hearts with ranch dressing as a dip. We scarfed them right on down. MA and I split a fried catfish platter. The fillets were on the thick side (but not grossly so, and coated with a light cornmeal-corn flour concoction. Hot, greaseless, crisp, well seasoned. The fries were the usual jejune frozen kind, but that's the only major complaint I had. Mary Leigh had her usual overcheeseburger and gave it an eight on a scale of ten.
Both the the Marys tried to get me to admit that all this food was great. No big argument there, but why does this place feel compelled a) to serve everything in wax-paper-lined plastic baskets; 2) supply only plastic utensils, and iii) provide a roll of paper towels in lieu of napkins?
Well, I'll tell you why. It's because there is no lower limit to the informality that people will accept. They may even like it. I hate it. But that, I guess, is my problem.
Rusty Pelican. Mandeville: 500 Girod. 985-778-0364.
It has been over three years since a day was missed in the Dining Diary. To browse through all of the entries since 2008, go here.
