Tea And Benedict. Five-Star Italian Restaurant?

[title type="h6"]Saturday, September 28, 2013.[/title] No radio show today, and the weather was a little cooler than usual. I swung unto an ambitious plan--for a Saturday morning, anyway. Dropped my car off for an oil change in Covington. I wondered about the state of the transmission oil, particularly. I walked the five blocks up Boston Street to the old-style barbershop I've patronized lately. I hope my friend Harold Klein isn't mad at me about my abandonment of his shop. It's purely about convenience. With the new radio hours, I probably will return to his Royal Orleans salon. But maybe not. The Marys have been telling me that they like the haircuts I'm getting for $13 from the Bayou Barbershop better than the $35 cut Harold gives me. Why should I wonder whether the girls are saying this just because of the money? Mary Ann said she'd have breakfast with me after my trim. She was delighted by my suggestion that we do this at the English Tea Room, which happens to be right on my way from the tonsorial parlor to the grease rack. We haven't indulged there since the royal wedding, over a year ago. Jan Lantrip, the owner, said that as a result of a comment I made in this space she improved her eggs Benedict. Indeed she has, although they could use a bit more hollandaise. (Which they brought as soon as I asked.) The scones were as perfect as ever. And the tea of choice was a unique blend of malted tea and a tinge of citrus. A little cup of fresh fruit completed the ensemble. Very pleasant. Back at the auto shop, the manager said he wasn't sure what kind of transmission oil my PT Cruiser uses. I guess they don't see a lot of standard-shift automobiles now. (They are not standard anymore.) He didn't want to take a chance of ordering the wrong one on a half-workday, when he wouldn't be able to remedy such a problem. Well, I can't expect perfection in everything. Mary Ann surprised me by offering her attendance for dinner a deux. Her niceness, however, was predictable. On Tuesday, she's leaving town for two weeks. She is always very sweet before she departs on such a trip. I'd go with her if a) so much weren't going on in the work front and 2) I could tolerate her preference for daily drives of 600-700 miles. Our dinner was at Del Porto, where we managed to get the last available table before the dreaded nine o'clock turn. We were in the middle of the room, where it was noisy but not intolerably so. Negroni in hand, I looked over the menu with unusual care, born of an extraordinarily appealing breadth of possibilities. MA had the same reaction. "Why don't we come here a lot more often?" she asked. Its mystery to me, too. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="480"] Goat cheese with fresh basil and peppers.[/caption]   [caption id="attachment_39660" align="alignnone" width="480"] Tagliatelle pasta with msuhrooms.[/caption] First course was a little ramekin of goat cheese stirred up with pecans and red peppers, sent out with irregular crackers that looked like fallen slate, with a seasoning that suggested roasted garlic. I always have a half-order of pasta here, the way they do in Italy. Tagliatelle with a brownish sauce and a few different, small, funny-looking mushrooms played the role brilliantly. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="480"] Roasted chicken at the peak of the genre.[/caption] But the next course inspired a radical thought. It was simple enough: a half chicken, roasted and tossed with rosemary and splashed with an aioli that functioned in the same way that bearnaise would have, but with more oomph in the garlic and pepper departments. This could hardly have been better. It brought to mind the great chicken dishes of my life, especially those in the style of Mosca's chicken grandee. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="480"] Italian sausage and peppers.[/caption]   Mary Ann was having her own foodgasm with some Italian sausage, run up on a skewer with roasted peppers and zucchini. (MA actually loves grilled zucchini.) It was all mellowed with pesto and sat atop a swell of beans. This is her favorite kind of dish, and it exceeded her fondest hopes. "Why don't we come here more often, again?" she asked, again. I still don't know. What else I was thinking is that Del Porto--which I have been calling the best Italian restaurant in the metropolitan area for quite a few years--is a clear candidate for five stars. We'll just have to come back and see if that holds true. Dessert didn't look like much, but was tasty anyway. An apple cake with cinnamon ice cream. I love that flavor, and usually order it by itself when it turns up. But it was hardly bad with the cake, too. We reviewed the meal as I semi-enjoyed the espresso. Here is a restaurant which, while quite contemporary in its style and techniques, is not playing any of the games that most chefs seem to feel compelled to play lately. All the enjoyment was at the reflexive, physical level. You didn't have to pick up the menu and think about the ingredients thereupon listed, to see if you could detect the claimed flavors and their utility in the dish. It was simply, immediately, and obviously very good to eat. My favorite kind of restaurant. Ristorante Del Porto. Covington: 501 E Boston St. 985-875-1006.