Wednesday, April 21. Gone Again. Mr. John's Junior Serverette. The Marys flew out this morning on another trip. This one will take them to Savannah, Georgia. They will take a look at SCAD--the Savannah College of Art and Design. Now that Mary Leigh has decided not to go to the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising in Los Angeles as originally planned, she's hustling to find another place to go this September. This move has given her the curious distinction of having been the first person in her class to be accepted by a college (FIDM took her many months ago) but the last in her class to apply to a college (SCAD). If this doesn't work out, she's talking about Tulane. The latter idea distresses Mary Ann. She wants our kids out of New Orleans. I do too, but only because I think it's a good idea to leave town for the college years. Mary Ann wants them never to come back. And go to a place that she likes, so she can move there, too.
But what about me? "Well, okay, what about you?"
I circulated a note through the radio cluster's e-mail system to announce that today is the eighty-fifth birthday of WSMB, the historic name for the station that airs my show. Three of the 200 or so people who got it wrote me back about it. I guess eighty-five is no big deal, compared with the century mark that now looms, reachably near. I wonder if the station will still be around. Changes in the technology of radio have a chance of making AM obsolete--something that really should have happened in the 1950s. I've spent my entire career on AM, so that would make me sad. Come to think of it, I wonder if I'll still be around at WSMB's 100th. If so, I will be the longest-serving announcer in the station's history--although, incredibly, not by much. Roy Roberts ("Nut" of the station's legendary "Nut And Jeff" show) was on WSMB for thirty-five years. Unfortunately, I think I will be brought down in this race by other career goals.
Steak has been on my mind. I haven't had one since the end of Lent. I made up for that by having several during Lent. But the hunger is back, and since the girls are out of town, there's nobody to give me a hard time about going to Mr. John's Steakhouse. I haven't been there in many months--perhaps as long as a year.
The place was about half full when I arrived, but the other tables filled in later. Co-owner Desi Vega was there, and with him was his young daughter. She is fascinated by the restaurant business, and keeps asking her dad to let her come in and "work." She approached my table in full uniform--tie and all--and said, "Here is a little something from the chef to welcome you to Mr. John's. It's meatballs made with my grandmother's recipe!" She beamed with pride. The meatballs were delicious.
Then she returned with another amuse-bouche: some cheese tortellini in a cream sauce with a few chunks of tomato and a couple of shrimp. This was delicious too, and she grinned from ear to ear when I told her so, as if she'd cooked it herself. This girl is a natural!
I'd better start ordering or I'll amuse my bouche to the point of satiety. I went right to the house salad, not thinking I had room for the excellent blue cheese wedge. Turns out the salad was every bit as big as the wedge, made of baby greens with red onions, tomatoes, a balsamic vinaigrette, and many shavings of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese. (A little heavy on the cheese, but that's easy to fix.)
I was pleased to hear the waiter (there was one) say that the sirloin strip was the house specialty. In steakhouses of this caliber, they've got to start weaning people away from filets. The main reason most steakhouses don't do that is that the strip is a much more expensive cut, and in most places carries a higher food cost percentage. Restaurants downplay dishes with high food cost percentages, regardless of how good they are. (Someday I will make a list of dishes with high food cost percentages. The lamb chops at Galatoire's come to mind.)
The strip lived up to its past performances for me. Sizzling in butter, broiled accurately to medium rare, juicy, devoid of any junk. (In fact, I think they may trim these a little too much.) My feeling that this is the city's best steakhouse is confirmed.
As I always do, I started eating it on the wrong end. It's not that I don't know which is the better end (it's the one on the right in the picture), but that I forget to do it. I start eating almost everything on the left side. Hmm. I'm going to post this on the messageboard to see if there's any consistency here.
I didn't have a side dish (they're too big for one person anyway), and so I had room for dessert. The cute serverette came to the table again to tell me that if I ordered the creme brulee, that she would brulee it for me right there at the table. This I had to see. She set the custard at the edge of the table, fired up the torch, and deftly began browning the sugar on top with the blue flame. Not too much, not too little. She clearly understood the processes and the taste factors involved, and so did the job ideally. Best of all, she was having fun. (I liked playing with fire when I was her age, too.)
I thought about this all the way home. First Emeril's eleven-year-old son a couple of weeks ago ("You know, Dad, this restaurant is my life!"), and now this girl. Do we have a fantastic new generation of restaurateurs on the way up? Will this be the great legacy of the Food Network?
Mr. John’s Steakhouse. Garden District: 2111 St. Charles Ave. 504-679-7697. Steak. Italian.
