Thursday, October 27, 2011.
Cowbell Without A Clapper.
I may be home alone on Thanksgiving. A perfect storm of other plans has resulted in the defection of all but two of our usual guests to other venues. For seventeen years, we had between twenty and fifty people over here for Thanksgiving every year. How can we do it for just a total of six, counting us? Even Mary Leigh and Jude, who were aghast at this prospect when we floated it a few weeks ago, now think it may be better to go somewhere else.
Mary Ann, having given the situation fifteen seconds of consideration, has a fully formed plan. We will go to New York, there to see Macy's parade. Then we will check into a hotel and go out to Thanksgiving dinner. Neither location is determined, but she's sure we'll find something on moment's notice.
I am battling parts of this plan, which has us driving in a straight shot from Abita Springs to Washington, DC. There we will meet up with Jude, who has a party with his fellow Georgetown Prep alumni to attend on Thanksgiving Eve. After that, we will leave at three-thirty in the morning to drive up to Manhattan, find a parking space near the parade route (that should be a snap, right?), leave our luggage in the car (so what's the problem?), then find a hotel. Mary Ann is only worried about one thing: those anti-Wall Street demonstrators. She says that I am being an obstructionist.
Mary Leigh and I discussed this over dinner at Cowbell. She's been there a few times, but it was the first time for me. Cowbell is an extremely informal café specializing in hamburgers (although much else is on the menu). It occupies what was once a Gulf Coast gas station at the corner of Oak and Eagle. This is familiar ground to me. When I was thirteen, one of the older guys I worked with at the Time Saver said he'd pay me to come over and cut his grass. Which I did, several times, for a couple of bucks each. He lived in the house right in back of that gas station.
Even though it was rather cool outside, and she was dressed in the near-lingerie getup that women her age do, ML wanted to dine outside. I got a look inside while we were arranging that, and saw an array of long community tables. Outside was the same layout, using big old wooden doors as tables. Generally, the al fresco section had the look of a garage sale.
The menu contained a few alarming manifestos. The corkage fee, it said, was one million dollars per bottle. I would have taken that as a joke had I not seen statements along the same lines in other restaurants that were entirely serious. (This was a joke; the corkage is actually just five dollars.) I don't think they were joking about the no-separate-checks rule. The whole tone was like that sign at Crabby Jacks that says "Be Nice Or Leave." A reasonable request, as long as one gets to define "nice" in his own way.
Cowbell's chef-owner Brack May was on the radio show a few weeks ago. He was interesting and witty. He admitted that hamburgers and fries are his main stock in trade. My one hamburger per month allotment had not been used yet, so I asked for that. And a starter of the current soup--a clam chowder, of all things. (The weather was right for it.) I would never receive the soup. The burger was good enough, although the custom-made bun was too big for the well-made beef patty. Brack told me it was a blend of chuck and round--good idea. It was ground finely, was crusty at the outside and medium-well in the center. Not the medium-rare I wanted.
I know where that order went: into Mary Leigh's barbecued steak, which was quite rare, after her order or medium well. It was also nearly inedible even by me, and innocent of any aspect that I would define as barbecue. The onion rings piled up on a stick stuck into the steak and the macaroni and cheese were the best parts of the meal.
A lot of confusion here tonight. I looked into this and learned that Brack and his wife (who also works in the place) take a date night every Thursday. I would say to anyone who asks that he should not eat at Cowbell on Thursday nights.
Pie a la mode for my dessert. The crust was terrible. Mary Leigh's pie was something called Chocolate City, which she said had a funny taste she could neither identify or like. I couldn't pick out what she was talking about, but I can't say I enjoyed the thing, either. The menu goes on to include quite a few other dishes, which I guess I'll have to try next time I can talk Mary Leigh back here. She liked the place before tonight.
Cowbell was full, inside and outside, with people waiting. We shared our door with four guys and a girl. So the hip thing to do is eat hamburgers and bad steak with iced tea in a yard-sale environment? For $75 (inclusive)?
Would someone please explain this to me?
Cowbell. Riverbend: 1200 Eagle St. 504-866-4222.
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.
