Sunday, December 11, 2011.
Stanley For Brunch. A Tisket, A Tasket.
I almost never cross the lake on both days of a weekend, but the book signings just don't stop. I had my doubts about the one today: in a small gift shop in the French Market. How many tourists would find Lost Restaurant interesting?
I took advantage of the inconvenience by having Sunday brunch, a meal I sample far too rarely. Specifically, I wanted one more meal at Stanley, so I could finally write my first full review of the place. It's been open since 2007, so it's about time.
This corner café of the Lower Pontalba wasn't very busy when I arrived at a little after two. But it looked as if the joint was jumping earlier, because the floors were in powerful need of a sweeping. Come to think of it, every time I've ever been here the dining room has registered to me as unkempt, as if in harmony with the ever-disheveled Café Du Monde a block away.
I started with a well-made cup of café au lait (yes, it compared favorably with what I could have had at the Café du Monde). Then right into the Breaux Bridge Benedict. This was a pair of poached eggs set on two agreeably peppery boudin patties, and mounted atop three-inch towers of French bread. This was pure visual, with no practical way of actually eating the thing until the towers were knocked over and the eggs rearranged between the fried oysters and slices of ham. Delicious anyway.
I didn't need anything else, but I got an order of onion rings. I remember the fries as being fresh-cut and a little oily. These were too.
I was up for dessert with my third cup if café au lait, but all the desserts here are based on ice cream. Too cold outside for that.
And it was cold indeed on the sidewalk in front of A Tisket, A Tasket, where Peggy and I met for the third time in two days for our happy mutual task of signing books. Frankly, I was astonished by the number we sold, and by how many local people came by. Evelyn Preuss--the ever-well-groomed doyenne of Broussard's--visited with two equally elegant friends. The three of them bought eight books. One of them insisted I try a family recipe: a quiche with a crust made out of thickened grits sizzled to a light crusty brown in a pan under the broiler with butter. This does sound good, but will require testing.
Toward the end of our stay, a young couple saw our book and decided I might know something about restaurants. They complained of having repeatedly spent as much as fifty dollars in restaurants for the two of them, and could not get enough to satisfy them. What's more, all the food they did get was terrible. Where had they been? Drago's. The Gumbo Shop. Mr. B's, which they called the greatest ripoff they'd ever encountered. A question or two more, and I realized I was talking with people whose idea of a good meal was a limitless buffet in a small town somewhere where people weren't so hoity-toity. Talking to me was like asking a doctor what brand of cigarette they should smoke.
Stanley. French Quarter: 547 St Ann St. 504-587-0093.
It's over three years since a day was missed in the Dining Diary. To browse through all of the entries since 2008, go here.
