Thursday, March 8, 2012.
Lost In Search Of Dinner. Shortest Date Ever.
There's no question that the best approach to dining in a serious restaurant is to get a reservation. Not only does that lubricate the gears of restaurant operations--resulting in better food and service--but it adds anticipation to the pleasures received.
But nobody plans everything all the time. (At least nobody I'd want to hang around with.) Nothing wrong with making spur-of-the-moment plans, particularly when casual restaurants are involved.
And you would think that a guy like me, who at dinnertime has just been talking about the entire restaurant scene for three hours with other would-be diners, would never be caught without an idea.
But sometimes I am, and I was today. My plan was to eat somewhere uncomplicated, so I could get home and prepare for a trip to Thibodaux tomorrow. But, as always, the decision is complicated by my need to go to unexplored places.
My first thought was thinking Tony Mandina's on the West Bank. But I could see from the radio studio that the traffic going across the river was clogged up. So how about Mayas? No--I'll put that off until a Monday or Tuesday, when they have been running special tapas menus.
I started driving. I was on St. Charles Avenue. The Melting Pot? No, I need other people at the table to do that justice. Hey! It's been a long time since I was last at the Columns Hotel. I drove in increasing circles around it for some twenty blocks without finding a place to park. And the porch was full of people. Another time, with a reservation. Haven't tried the Camellia Grill in a long while, but there was a line outside.
I was now on River Road. How about Café B? We went there too soon after it opened (the Marys, as usual, pushed me to do that). It was busy but many tables were open. The hostess said it would be a thirty-minute wait, unless I wanted to sit at the bar. The bar was crowded and would be uncomfortable.
Now I was in my least-favorite situation. I want to have dinner, but I am on Causeway Boulevard, headed north. All the restaurants around there have been thoroughly checked out. If I go across, I will be on the overcovered North Shore.
Fortunately, this only happens to me about four times a year. One of those I go to Impastato's, but I was there two weeks ago. Another I wind up at Andrea's, but we were there last Friday. Then there's Drago's, which in Lent will be mobbed. (Besides, I don't want to have to tell Tommy how little I've done on his cookbook.)
This leaves the Peppermill. I like the Peppermill and the style of food it serves. And you can always get a table for dinner there. But it doesn't change much, and there's nothing I will add to my database by dining here. But what else could I do?
"Thanks for coming in!" said the manager lady, who recognized me. "I wish you have brought forty more people with you. It's kind of slow tonight." Most of the Peppermill's dinner business is the early-bird crowd. I keep telling them they ought to get rid of that and start a late-bird promotion.
Last few times I here I began with a Manhattan. I'm not ready to accept this as a permanent condition, but I find that the taste for cocktails I developed after Katrina has all but faded away. (There were days on the cruise a few weeks ago when I didn't have a drink before dinner, and that's a big change for me.) So it was a glass of Pinot Grigio.
Soup of the day: cream of corn. Fresh corn! Needed some Tabasco. Then the house salad with what they call the Italian vinaigrette. This is in reality the house dressing from the old Buck Forty-Nine Steak House, from which the Peppermill is descended.
Entree: panneed chicken with fettuccine Alfredo. The chicken was as good as such a thing gets. The pasta was thicker than optimal (Impastato's standard of paper-thin noodles is hard to beat), but the sauce was good, not too creamy or cheesy. Bread pudding for dessert: hot on the outside, cold on the inside, but not a big disaster. (Cold bread pudding is not all that bad. I grew up eating it for breakfast.)
Everyone turned when my cellphone rang with the signature tone announcing an incoming from Mary Ann. (It sounds as if it should be titled, "Overture To The End Of The World." Just a little joke.) She was surprised I was at the Peppermill. She wasn't far away, and stopped in to join me at my lonely table. I was basically finished, but could have had a cup of coffee. She didn't even want a glass of water. I think this was the shortest dinner date of my life.
Peppermill. Metairie: 3524 Severn Ave. 504-455-2266.
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.
