Wednesday, June 30. Domenica. Mary Ann's plan--which would change, as they usually do--is to leave town for Washington, D.C. tomorrow morning at four a.m. Jude and Mary Leigh both will be with her. It's a pleasure trip. I can't go; I have an Eat Club next week and a book signing this weekend.
Meanwhile, the vacation time I set aside has been nullified by MA, who says that all plans (whatever they were; I never knew) for the last two weeks of July have been canceled. Now she's talking about a trip to Los Angeles the second week of August--but the radio sales guys have already sold remotes for most of that month. It looks as of the only way I'll get a vacation is to just go somewhere by myself. But I've had quite enough of that in the past year, after two solo cruises. Is this the family values Mary Ann always shakes her fist about?
For a farewell dinner, Mary Ann and Jude met me for dinner at Domenica. (Mary Leigh was busy with her own social vortices.) We began with a pizza, of course. And a cocktail called a Spaghetti Western. This was made with bourbon, Campari, and some sort of extract of rosemary. I could imagine the Southwestern desert, the rosemary giving off an aroma reminiscent of greasewood. Greasewood, despite the unappealing name, has a beguiling, resin-like aroma, especially after a rainstorm.
When I wasn't looking, the server came by and whisked this drink away. I know it looked like an empty glass, but I wasn't finished with it. I was down to the point of rattling the ice around and getting the last few sips. This happens often enough that servers ought to be more aware of it. The management came up with a near-perfect remedy: they brought me another one. I didn't really want a second cocktail. It's never as good as the first one, and I only want the best. But I could hardly complain.
The pizza--four cheeses on this side, sausage and mushrooms on that--was close to perfect. The bottom of the crust was a little too humid. Mary Ann was the one who noticed that. (I had had one too many Spaghetti Westerns.) I blamed the dampness on the mushrooms, which throw off a lot of water as they cook. So does fresh mozzarella, come to think of it--and that was my idea.
Jude is still a chicken fiend, and here came a half chicken, roasted in the pan, surrounded by fresh peas and wild mushrooms. In other words, it was a renovated chicken Clemenceau, easy on the garlic. It was very good. Mary Ann indulged in a half-order of meatballs (which was three, but on the small side) in a red sauce, atop creamy polenta. She was happy with that (below).
In front of me was pesto gnocchi (below), pillowlike and tasty, surrounded by most of the ingredients of pesto (pine nuts, garlic) and a few chunks of tomato. The value in the dish came from the generous admixture of jumbo lump crabmeat. Good dish, mildly flavored--but that's what you want with crabmeat like this. The work filled one of those rectangular dishes they love to use here. They're deep enough to hold a fair portion of food, but they look ridiculously small just sitting there. Not for the first time here did I miss underliner plates.
In the middle of the dinner, I got up and went next door to the Sazerac Restaurant , to see what was going on there and inspect the menu. Closed! Dinner Thursday through Sunday only! Hmm.
The only dessert here I'd not yet had was the blueberry cheesecake. It looked and tasted beautiful, mainly because none of its elements had descended into goo. The berries were especially pretty and tasty.
Three cars brought the Fitzmorris family of four the fifty miles home. En route, Mary Ann decided that they would put off their departure for the Northeast until Friday, and make the entire 1,069-mile run in a single day. Well, with three drivers, I guess that's doable. But on Fourth of July weekend? Better them than me. But it gives us another day together.
Domenica. CBD: 123 Baronne (Roosevelt Hotel). 504-648-6020. Italian. Pizza.
