Tuesday, January 15, 2013.
Vietnam Visitor. Wild Catfish Man. The Italian Barrel, In The Mist.
The fog over the lake hasn't dissipated completely for the past five days. Seeing how it reduced visibility in Covington on my way into New Orleans, I thought I'd have to turn back home when I found the Causeway on half-power. But the cloud was just high enough off the ground that there was no problem other than the mist that needed a swipe of the wipers every minute or two. Just enough for my wipers to make a horrible noise.
I had to go in anyway. It's Round Table Day on the radio, and three guests were coming. Good ones, too. Mary Ann ran into Frank Wong a few days ago, and he told her about his recent trip to Vietnam and the food he found there. Frank is the most outgoing of the five brothers that own Trey Yuen. Although he speaks with a fairly heavy Hong King accent, he's a great storyteller.
He said that eating in Ho Chi Minh City (the former Saigon) was all about street food. "I talked to one guy who said that he paid twenty thousand dollars a week for his space on the street," he said. He went on to tell me about eating live shrimp marinated in wine, and a few items that had been offered to him but that he hadn't eaten.
Harlon Pearce is a seafood processor and wholesaler. He supplies fish to a large number of restaurants. For the past ten years, he's also been politically active in the seafood industry, trying to raise the quality and image of Louisiana seafood. He's very hopeful about a new state program that certifies whether fish and shellfish are from Louisiana waters.
"There will be labels on packages in supermarkets and on menus saying that the seafood is not just from here but also processed in Louisiana," he says. I think this is a great idea. Not a new one: the French have had similar programs to protect the integrity of names like Roquefort and Champagne, and they've worked very well. Our seafood is at least as distinguished as any cheese I can think of.
Harlon's own outfit has another product that I hope gets around widely. He is selling wild-caught catfish to his restaurant customers. For the past twenty or thirty years, farm-raised catfish pushed the harder-to-get wild catfish off most menus. I wouldn't need all my fingers to count the restaurants serving the wild product. But I do know who they are, because wild catfish is much, much better. Harlon's effort is just beginning, but I asked him to let me know of any new outlets for the wild cat.
Jodie Smith, the sommelier at Cork & Bottle, dropped by with three wines for us to taste. (The Round Table Show always goes better with wine.) The most interesting was Vale do Bomfim, a single-vineyard wine produced by the port lodge Dow. It's a dry red wine made from the same grape varieties that go into genuine port from Portugal. The result is a big, dark, almost chewy wine--port without the sweetness or high alcohol. My brain fizzed with ideas of pairings for this purple-black wine. Venison and duck, for sure, or any meat with a goodly amount of fat. Harlon agreed, and he should know: he's an avid hunter.
It was still misty at show's end, and getting colder by the minute. Nasty enough that I thought I might be able to get to the Italian Barrel, which has been unapproachable in several recent attempts. What to my eyes did appear was a parking space right across Barracks Street.
The Italian Barrel's tiny dining room was full, but the bar was wide open and set for diners. I took the space at the far end. It was a drafty spot, but this is a very old building even by French Quarter standards, and the unreconstructed quality of the restaurant is one of the things its regular customers like.
Fans of the Italian Barrel love the place fervently. Maybe it's because its tables are hard to get. I also hear the word "authentic" a lot. I keep going back, trying to get my heart around it.
The server brought a glass of wine and news about the specials. I asked for suggestions, noting that I wanted a pasta course early on, like they do in Italy. The appetizer section is dominated by salumi--prosciutto, bresaola, and the like--and salads. But all that's cold, and I wanted warm on this nasty night in my chilly seat.
The best entree sounded like the veal chop, saltimbocca style. A sixteen-ouncer for $45. I wasn't quite hungry enough for that, but one I saw at a table looked very good. So did the veal, of which is at the heart of more dishes here than anything else.
It came down to the chef's fusilli (rotini, to you and me) pasta with peas and speck (the smoked version of prosciutto), all in a cream sauce. And veal piccata--running as a special, and recommended by the server--for the main.
Whenever I think I'm in a restaurant that should know better than to serve two or more hot dishes at the same time, one of two things happens. I ask them to serve each dish in a separate course, in which case they seem mildly offended that I would suggest that they would make such an obvious gaffe. Or I trust them, but keep my fingers crossed. Two or three times a month, my luck runs out, and the ordeal begins.
First I point out that it's impossible to eat one without the other getting cold. I could eat them together, I guess, allowing both to get cold, unless I scarf it all down as fast as I can. Then I have to wonder what will happen to the dish that will now go back to the kitchen to wait for me to be ready for it. After that's resolved, my mind stays on the mystery of it all. I'm not so obsessive that it ruins the meal, but it adds less than nothing.
The waitstaff at the Italian Barrel seemed competent and hospitable. I trusted them. But I guess I used up all my luck on the parking space. In the left hand, a big bowl of pasta. In the right hand, a big plate of veal piccata. There wasn't enough space on the bar to fit both of them.
"Both at the same time?" I asked, with incredulous eyebrows. "Please, not both at the same time!"
At least they didn't try to explain why they did this. They took the veal back right away. I started in on the pasta, which was very good. The cream sauce was on the light side, the way I like it. The amount of speck was just right for flavoring everything. Fully enjoyable. It could only have been better if I hadn't been fuming.
Then the veal. The plate looked different from the first one. Maybe they did cook a new serving--the only acceptable strategy for a restaurant with high standards. The temperature was just a little below piping hot, but that could have been caused by the air movements in my drafty corner. The veal was excellent: tender, white, cut against the grain, just right. The sauce was butter and tangy with capers and lemon. The sauce was a touch on the sweet side. Come to think of it, that had also been true of the pasta sauce. Maybe it's chef-owner Samantha Castagnetti's personal style. Different from what I'm used to, but legitimate.
What do I want for dessert? I asked. "The semifreddo," the server said, about the cross between ice cream and custard. It was a handsome plate and good, too. And I was pleased to find that they make espresso the right way here. Just a little, but intense enough to coat your taster and linger. They brought it out with a cocoa-dusted almond, which the server told me later was best soaked in the espresso.
This meal came in at $81 before tip. That's noticeably but not extravagantly higher than comparable meals in other Italian restaurants, even those in the French Quarter.
The dining room is cute, but its small size makes it uncomfortable. Particularly when it's full, which is almost all the time. The bar has only the smallest of overhangs in the diner's direction, so that you have to lean well forward in order to eat, your knees up against the front of the bar. During most of the year, the tables on the sidewalk surely are preferred, but this was not the night for that.
The Italian Barrel makes a strong, individualistic statement. When a restaurant does that, it polarizes it customers. Some will love it, some will be puzzled.
Italian Barrel. French Quarter: 430 Barracks. 504-569-0198.
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