Dining in the Big Easy

We just got back today from 5 days in New Orleans.  We dined around and ate so much food I barely noticed Mardi Gras was in full swing all around us.  (That's a lie, beads were flung, much beer was downed,  disrobing occurred, boas were worn by partiers of both sexes, and spontaneous explosions of mirth expressed through dance were a dime a dozen.  But this is a (hopefully) humorous food blog so I shan't dwell any more upon abandoned revelry.)

A Sign of Good Taste

Our gastronomic safari led us from the ridiculous to the sublime.  One of our first stops was the Clover Grill, an institution on lower Bourbon Street known for its greasy hubcap burgers and bountiful, heart attack breakfast fare served all day.  Open 24 hours, the joint has not been cleaned since FDR was President.  All the employees call you Sugar (even the toothless dishwasher) and most of the patrons are drunk.  We never go to New Orleans without hitting it at least once.

Shrimp Crepes N'awlins style.

We went to a landmark restaurant called Muriel's Jackson Square.  Cozy and classic Creole, it had memorable food like Goat Cheese Crepes with Gulf Shrimp (not a trace of BP Oil Spill flavoring!) and a sublime Pecan Crusted Puppy Drum over Crabmeat Relish.  Our server was a friendly woman with one of those adorable New Orleans accents which only added to her gracious and expert table maintenance.  When I declined dessert she asked me if I had a headache. Bless her heart.

I am sorry to report another return trip to Emeril's NOLA was a big let down.  I still love your welcoming maitre D', pretty hostesses, and outstanding food but our waiter skipped class on the day they taught Personalities Can Really Boost Your Tip.  He actually yawned twice while taking our order and failed to check with us after the food runner plunked down each course.  When he finally brought the check after repeated, increasingly frantic gestures, police whistling, and tabletop gyrations, I (somewhat sarcastically) thanked him and he kind of smirked and frowned and crossed his eyes.  Weird.

Slurped and Burped.

Despite the ever-present block-long line at ACME Oysters, we always go to Felix's across the street.  It's a much shorter wait because they spend more money on groceries and less on advertising than their more famous neighbor.  The oysters were nice and briny and served very cold in a round metal pan filled with crushed ice.  The Bloody Marys provided a spicy and delicious counterpoint.


The highlight this year, though, was Domenica, John Besh's Italian love song of a restaurant on the ground floor of the Roosevelt Hotel (formerly a pretty dumpy Fairmont before the Waldorf Astoria people got a hold of it.)  Although there were at least 40 tables unseated on Tuesday night at 8 PM, the hostess told us there would be an hour wait due to reservations.  This was a flat out falsehood.  It would be better to just admit that half the staff had come down with a sudden case of Mardi Gras Flu and the restaurant was in full-on damage control.  Luckily for us we snagged two seats at the bar where the amazing young man behind it, Adam, served up an awesome Arugula, Beets, Gorgonzola, and Pecan Salad,  the best coal-fired Calabrese Pizza I've ever tasted, and true southern hospitality with a blindingly white smile.  The people on either side of us were super friendly and just eccentric enough to provide a running comic dialogue.  The place charmed us so much I didn't snarkily ask the hostess when we left where all the people with reservations had gone.


Laissez le bons temps rouler, indeed.