Tuesday, August 25, 2009.
Italian Barrel.
We awoke to a very cool morning--in the low sixties. I learned that this was the lowest August 25 in over fifty years. Mary Ann grabbed this as proof that global warming is just a leftist plot, adding it to her predictions that the president will raise taxes to eighty percent, ban private enterprise, and send out goons to beat up those who object.
Today is Jude's first day of school. While this causes most students grief because their summer leisure has ended, Jude is vexed for another reason. Even though he has classes only two days a week (for what sounds like a sixteen-semester-hour schedule!), that will delimit his burgeoning career as a filmmaker. Mary Ann is leaning towards his dumping out of school completely and going out on his own. I object to this strongly, although the release from the massive tuition (USC is the third most expensive college in America, I learned last week). I can't imagine going out into the world without a college diploma. But then, I can't imagine going downtown without wearing a jacket and tie, either. I hope he stays with the program.
Dinner at The Italian Barrel, which has been touted highly by every person who's ever called about the place. As I understand it, the place opened as a wine shop and deli, and evolved during the past few years into a restaurant. Knowing that datum helps to understand the menu, which is heavy with prosciutto and other salumi (as Italian deli meats are called generically), cheeses, and salads. Some of these seem ambitiously priced. The prosciutto with melon, for example, goes for about the price of a complete dinner at Broussard's.
The pasta section is dominated by ravioli, which the waiter--who was inordinately full of praise for his establishment--says all come from Italy, along with nearly everything else in the place. If so, then strike another blow for pre-assembled ravioli over the homemade kind. An astonishing number of restaurants--including some major players--have quit stuffing their own pasta pillows in favor of the frozen ravioli from Italy and elsewhere.
The Italian Barrel's menu is short on non-pasta, non-salad, hot entrees. I counted only four of them, and two are not always available. The waiter recommended the chicken dish, and I went for it. He also told me that they do everything they way it's done in Northern Italy. I asked whether I could have a half-order of one of the pasta dishes as an appetizer. "Sadly, we cannot," he said. I didn't bother to note that a small serving of pasta as a preliminary course is all but universal throughout Italy, north and south. Instead, I asked him to bring a half-order of the truffle-oil-topped mushroom ravioli, and charge me whatever he wanted for it. This usually works in getting past silly house rules, and he agreed, along with the implication that he really ought to cut the price by a third, at least.
But then he came back to say that the chicken dish had just run out. All right, then. Let's start with the bresaola (that's the beef equivalent of prosciutto), topped with wild arugula. That really did seem like something you'd have in Florence, fresh and crisp. In place of both the half-order of ravioli and the chicken, how about a full order of the former. The ravioli were everything I was hoping for. The mushrooms were a puree inside the pasta, but the pasta was light and firm, and the truffle oil scattered about performed its sensory magic. (I now know with certainty that Zicam has not killed my sniffer.) If I had a complaint, is was a minor one: the cream sauce was too thick.
For dessert, there was a nicely-presented tiramiso, made with lady fingers--not too sweet, just about the right size. (I should have left some, in fact.) The whole meal was accompanied by a nice Chianti. The premises were cute enough to explain the way my callers have been charmed by the restaurant. It's in a very old brick building with rounded arches and a look across the street at the old U.S. Mint. It's part of what has become a nice little restaurant row in the vicinity of the French Market's old vegetable sheds, whose renovation has added a lot to the city.
I drove home by way of Esplanade Avenue. Why is it that the city's most scenic avenues have the worst road surfaces? Why is Poydras north of the Superdome being repaved down to the bedrock while St. Charles Avenue remains a washboard?
Italian Barrel. French Quarter: 430 Barracks 504-569-0198. Italian.
