Tuesday, January 18, 2011. Flaming Torch's Flaming Fireplace. Mary Leigh called the moment the radio show ended to tell me a) that she expected me to take her to dinner tonight, as per our weekly habit; 2) that she was up for a steak; and iii) that she was in jeans and didn't want to go to anyplace fancy.
This sounded like the Flaming Torch to me. We took an intimate table in the corner and a pleasant young woman came over to get us started. Our first request: turn the heat up a little. Sure, she said, I'll get them to light the fireplace. Fireplace? As many times as I've been here, I don't remember having seen a fireplace. But there it was. So now I know three restaurants with that rare but welcome accouterment. (La Provence and Jacmel Inn are the others.)
Mary Leigh seems to have inherited a gene that made its presence known in the behavior of both my father and me. We both had too much regard for established authority. My dad had a strong sense of where he belonged and where he didn't. Any person or institution that was prominent for a long period of time was not to be questioned too much. He made a great Catholic.
This erroneous notion shows up in my excessive taste for ancient restaurants like Antoine's. There's nothing wrong with that as far as I'm concerned; I genuinely enjoy such restaurants. But it skews my reportage to my readers and listeners, most of whom don't share this gene. There is also no question that I accord my longevity in my career more importance than it really deserves.
The gene fired off when the waitress said that in lieu of the roasted potatoes that ordinarily came with the filet mignon maitre d'hotel, the chef was making fried sweet potatoes. This was the dish Mary Leigh wanted, but she doesn't like sweet potatoes. Dilemma! I told her that she could certainly get the roasted potatoes, just by asking. "No," she said. "I can't do that." She may as well have said "The chef has spoken, and I must begrudgingly obey." I couldn't talk her out of this idea.
Fortunately, the waitress came right out and offered the roasted potatoes as an option, thereby solving the problem. The steak was delicious, Mary Leigh said, and went on to discuss the matter of this maitre d'hotel butter, an herb-riddled ball of which sat atop the steak, melting. It's like sizzling butter at Ruth's Chris, I told her, but much more restrained and calm.
I began with a new veal sweetbreads dish the chef had just rolled out. It was very good, with the sweetbreads panneed as usual, topped with a garlic flan, and placed atop a fine hash of potatoes, parsnips, carrots, onions, and apples. I say fine, because all of this was cut into tiny cubes. Tasty and eye-appealing.
My entree plate held a big fillet of puppy drum, awash in beurre nantaise. I haven't seen that expression on a menu in ages. It's like beurre blanc, but with cream and a bit of vinegar added to emulsify it. Well, it was fine over this fish.
Once past the potato issue, my daughter and I had a lovely time, joking around about all sorts of things. Her urgent cares remain about what seem to me (but I don't say so) trivial matters. Like having to change an English course because she couldn't get from one class to another without being late if she didn't. I love hearing all this. I'm happy someone is relatively carefree.
Flaming Torch. Uptown: 737 Octavia. 504-895-0900.
