Sometimes you get a weekend in the New Orleans area that can make going back to work the next week a relief. This past weekend, May 24-25, was one of those.
Friday kicked off the madness with the Bayou Boogaloo in Mid-City along Bayou St. John and the first day of the Greek Festival held at Trinity Greek Orthodox Church. It was also the night of the Rehearsal Dinner for the wedding I was to perform on Saturday in the Hermann-Grima House courtyard in the French Quarter. With so much to get done in so little time, we settled on the dinner, held at the private swim club on the corner of Camp and Pleasant (and thus named "Camp Pleasant").
I had been told it would be a crawfish boil, and had worn clothing I thought appropriate for sucking heads and squeezing tails, but it turned out I was a bit under-dressed, considering the other guests (or maybe they just didn't care about getting crawfish juice on their clothes). The crawfish wasn't ready right away, so there were trays of hors d'oeuvres being passed, things like perfectly fried catfish, shrimp, and oysters, and little spicy spring rolls. It was hard not to fill up on those, they were scrumptious.
But then they came out with giant baskets of hot crawfish, fresh from the boiler, and poured 'em out into a metal pirougue. There were ears of corn and new potatoes too, but (to Big Man's disappointment) no hot sausages -- possibly a concession to the Yankee guests, for many of whom the crawfish were too spicy anyway, so they needn't have worried. The mudbugs were good size and well spiced, juicy and "fatty." Yum! Two trays were more than enough.
For dessert, Plum Street Sno-Balls had set up a table with a limited number of plain and cream flavors. I indulged myself with a Mounds-like mixture of both coconut and chocolate creams, and while I was thoroughly enjoying that, the servers came around with these perfect little sugar cookies, artistically iced to look like crawfish, shrimp, lemons, potatoes, bay leaves, and mushrooms -- they were crawfish boil cookies! I was completely charmed, and even though I shouldn't've, I took one.
Stuffed to the gills, I made my way home to rest up for the next day's multiple festivities.
Saturday was almost too full of a day. Big Man and I drove to Lakeview to drop something off at a local church, and then made our way down Robert E. Lee to the Greek Festival. The crowd was ENORMOUS, parking, even with the shuttle service, was crazy, and we decided to bag it til Sunday. (A miscalculation, as it happened that by the time we got there on Sunday, they had run out of roast lamb. See below.) We then drove down the bayou to the Boogaloo and managed to find free and legal parking a reasonable walking distance (Big Man has great park-ma).
What a pretty sight! Young parents with babies and toddlers in strollers, other little kids running around freely, teenagers, Baby Boomers like ourselves, older folks, under a bright blue sky and sunshine, the waters of the bayou sparkling, a few rental canoes dotting the surface. (A nice touch, that. Next year we'll have to rent one.) Two stages of music, a tent for kids, a book tent to benefit the Mid-City branch library (of course, Big Man had to buy some science fiction), and the obligatory row of food booths. We had alligator sausage on a stick with mustard sauce, squid salad, and Middle Eastern meatballs. Oh my God.
Checking our watches, we saw it was getting on to the time for the Farewell Party for two parishioners moving out of state. We drove back up the bayou and arrived in time to find out that THAT was a crawfish boil too! (Good grief!) We stayed for a while, chatting with guests and the dear folks who are leaving, then it was back to home for showers. (Festivals and parties are hot work.)
The wedding in the French Quarter courtyard was set for 6 pm, which unfortunately is still hot and sticky time in the Crescent City. I actually brought my little spray-fan thingy from Jazz Fest to the wedding, thinking I might look silly but at least I'd be cool. (Later, when other women spotted it at the reception, they all wanted to know where I got it.) It was a lovely ceremony, and the waiters from Broussard's (bless them!) started serving the hors d'oeuvres immediately afterwards. There was more fried shrimp and tasty little duck spring rolls with plum sauce. Yum! The buffet was terrific (crab cakes, roast beef, caesar salad, stuffed new potatoes, asparagus wrapped in prosciutto), but I managed to skip both the bananas foster and the wedding cake (like I hadn't already eaten enough calories for an ARMY).
I walked off some of it by going down the 2 blocks to Big Man's Bourbon Street club and catching a set before heading home to finish my sermon for the next day. (Hope it was none the worse for the big food hangover.)
After church duties were completed on Sunday, Big Man and I finally made it to the Greek Fest, where we were informed on entering that the roast lamb was completely sold out. Since that was, in fact, one of our major reasons for attending, I thought for a moment that Big Man would either cry or leave, but we made the best of it. After all, they still had TONS of great food. It was an overcast day, which lowered the temperature somewhat, a small blessing. They too had rental canoes in the bayou, a big kids area with all kinds of activities (including a giant sand box with hidden treasures in it, called "Archaeological Dig of Ancient Greece"), an agora/market with nicely priced Greek groceries, gifts, jewelry, clothing and art objects -- and 2 giant food areas, one inside and one outside.
Believe me, despite the lamb being sold out, there was PLENTY to eat, and we were more than satisfied with the Greek dinners, the souvlaki, the gyros, and of course the obligatory baklava (Big Man's favorite sweet in all the world). We not only got enough to eat, we bought stuff to take home. I resisted the baklava sundae, which, even to me, seemed like too much.
We enjoyed the music stage, where a young Greek band swung into their version of the famous theme from "Zorba the Greek" and a crowd of beautiful young Greek New Orleanians danced in a row, and then, faster, in increasingly tighter circles, their heads held high as their feet moved so fast in unison, smiling, proud of themselves and their heritage. It was a sight to see.
Later, we drove to the lake and watched the sun set with fishermen and other couples and families. Beautiful. On the way home, we made a few groceries at the renewed Robert's on Robert E. Lee (great store! go shop there!) to be ready for Memorial Day at home, because by that point we had had enough. Fest with no rest is great for the belly and the eyes and ears, but hell on middle-aged bodies. But still, it was a great weekend, even though we were relieved when it was over.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
An Open Love Letter to John Besh
Being a 5th-generation New Orleanian, my family always celebrated life's biggest occasions with meals on the town, and in the 40 years I lived in the city pre-Katrina I continued that tradition, believing that no life event had been truly marked until it was celebrated in a fine restaurant. In my younger, prettier years, I worked for a time at world-famous Brennan's Restaurant and at the Roosevelt Hotel. In both places, I learned a lot about fine service and fine food. (In both places, the employee meals were out of this world!) Later, as an adult, I did a lot of traveling, and enjoyed great meals in many different big cities and several countries.
All in all, I have to say that over the years I have eaten more than my share of fantastic meals in wonderful, elegant restaurants. Many of those meals have been truly memorable, the kind of thing that New Orleanians will sit around talking about for years (usually while eating another meal).
But earlier this month, when Big Man and I celebrated his 51st birthday and Mother's Day, we shared the best meal of my life. No kidding. I'm serious -- the best meal I've ever eaten. Ever. Anywhere. So this blogpost is an open love letter to New Orleans genius chef John Besh, and a brag on our wonderful meal at Restaurant August.
First of all, August is a lovely place, elegant and romantic. The building, a former tobacco warehouse, has had many reincarnations over the years, and Besh and his partners have done a marvelous job with the renovation. The bar is dark and stylish -- it's well worth coming early for your table to enjoy a short wait there. The front room sparkles with light, with huge windows overlooking the street. The second room has been converted into wine storage and is warmly paneled with wood, with a cunning little staircase going up to where the wine bottles are on display. It is darker, more intimate than the front room, and is where we've been seated both times we've eaten there.
The August menu can drive you crazy because it is so extensive and because you want to eat everything. But eventually, reluctantly, you make your choices, the waiter takes your order, and as you sip your drinks and talk, another waiter sweeps up to your table bearing a tray. "This is an amuse-bouche -- a little gift from the chef," he says, placing before you an egg cup with a brown egg shell with the top sliced cleanly away. "It's a seafood custard," says the waiter, "with caviar foam on top." You pick up the teensy little spoon, dip it carefully into the shell, and scoop up...WOW! It's a soft, creamy, rich, and smooth savory custard with hints of seafood flavor but no lumps or chunks of anything, and the delight of frothy caviar meringue on top. Big Man breathed out a hearty, "OH MY GOD" and he was speaking for both of us.
We could've left right then and there, and while we would still have been hungry, we would've been plenty impressed. But then our appetizers arrived, the 3-way pate de foie gras for Big Man and the oysters 3-ways for me. (Let me right here thank John Besh for doing things like this. It's so frustrating to go to a fine expensive restaurant and discover they're cooking your favorite things in 2 or 3 different recipes, but you can only have one. This 3-way deal is pure-D genius and a wonderful indulgence for the diner. Now you really can have it all!) Both appetizers were generously proportioned (don't you just hate dinky appetizers?), and both were stupendous. We talked about it and we couldn't pick a favorite out of the 6 total if our lives depended on it.
On the special tasting menu, we had spied a special local fresh vegetable spring salad with barely poached egg. We ordered it to split as our salad course, and it was lovely when it arrived. (Tiny quibble: even though we made it clear we would be splitting the salad, it arrived on one plate, with 2 plates for us to divvy it ourselves. I was a little surprised by that, as most fine restaurants will do the splitting for you in the kitchen. No big deal, however.) The thing that most impressed us about that wonderful salad was that it had chunks of "Romanesque" broccoli -- a form of broccoli we had grown to love in New Jersey but had never seen before locally. (We asked and were told it was from a local farmer's market, so we'll be on the look-out.)
Then it was time for the entrees. Big Man had the lamb 3-ways (thanks again, John Besh!) and I had the sweetbreads. The food was exquisite, melt in your mouth, a total treat for the senses, each bite better than the last, everything perfect. We so completely cleaned our plates, it was a little embarrassing, as it looked like we might have actually licked them!
When it came time for dessert, Big Man asked if there was anything available for a diabetic, and the waiter said, surprisingly, "No, sir, we don't -- but they do across the street. They always have several kinds of sugar-free pie -- would that be all right?" And he named chocolate, lemon, and coconut cream as possibilities. Big Man took a pass on the lemon (he hates lemon desserts, for some reason) and said either of the others would do just fine. I ordered the chocolate candy-bar torte with dulce de leche sauce (in for a penny, in for a pound, I always say). We sat speculating about what it could mean about going "across the street" -- to the Windsor Court Hotel, presumably -- to get the sugar-free pie, and the waiter was back with my torte, and a plate with 4 tiny slices of pie, 2 each of chocolate and coconut for Big Man! Was he happy! Did we tip big or what?
All the way home, we relived the meal, exclaiming over this special touch, and that wonderful surprise. And we found ourselves talking about it, as New Orleanians will, in the days afterwards, with each other, to friends and family members, to just about anybody who would listen. The food was perfect, the service almost perfect, and the setting gorgeous. It was a meal to remember and cherish.
Thanks, John Besh. If we were more well-off than a musician and a minister can be in these trying times, we'd eat there more often (probably to the detriment of our waistlines -- it's probably just as well we can't afford to eat there more often). But we're happy to tell the whole cock-eyed world:
Go eat at Restaurant August -- it'll be the best meal of your life.
All in all, I have to say that over the years I have eaten more than my share of fantastic meals in wonderful, elegant restaurants. Many of those meals have been truly memorable, the kind of thing that New Orleanians will sit around talking about for years (usually while eating another meal).
But earlier this month, when Big Man and I celebrated his 51st birthday and Mother's Day, we shared the best meal of my life. No kidding. I'm serious -- the best meal I've ever eaten. Ever. Anywhere. So this blogpost is an open love letter to New Orleans genius chef John Besh, and a brag on our wonderful meal at Restaurant August.
First of all, August is a lovely place, elegant and romantic. The building, a former tobacco warehouse, has had many reincarnations over the years, and Besh and his partners have done a marvelous job with the renovation. The bar is dark and stylish -- it's well worth coming early for your table to enjoy a short wait there. The front room sparkles with light, with huge windows overlooking the street. The second room has been converted into wine storage and is warmly paneled with wood, with a cunning little staircase going up to where the wine bottles are on display. It is darker, more intimate than the front room, and is where we've been seated both times we've eaten there.
The August menu can drive you crazy because it is so extensive and because you want to eat everything. But eventually, reluctantly, you make your choices, the waiter takes your order, and as you sip your drinks and talk, another waiter sweeps up to your table bearing a tray. "This is an amuse-bouche -- a little gift from the chef," he says, placing before you an egg cup with a brown egg shell with the top sliced cleanly away. "It's a seafood custard," says the waiter, "with caviar foam on top." You pick up the teensy little spoon, dip it carefully into the shell, and scoop up...WOW! It's a soft, creamy, rich, and smooth savory custard with hints of seafood flavor but no lumps or chunks of anything, and the delight of frothy caviar meringue on top. Big Man breathed out a hearty, "OH MY GOD" and he was speaking for both of us.
We could've left right then and there, and while we would still have been hungry, we would've been plenty impressed. But then our appetizers arrived, the 3-way pate de foie gras for Big Man and the oysters 3-ways for me. (Let me right here thank John Besh for doing things like this. It's so frustrating to go to a fine expensive restaurant and discover they're cooking your favorite things in 2 or 3 different recipes, but you can only have one. This 3-way deal is pure-D genius and a wonderful indulgence for the diner. Now you really can have it all!) Both appetizers were generously proportioned (don't you just hate dinky appetizers?), and both were stupendous. We talked about it and we couldn't pick a favorite out of the 6 total if our lives depended on it.
On the special tasting menu, we had spied a special local fresh vegetable spring salad with barely poached egg. We ordered it to split as our salad course, and it was lovely when it arrived. (Tiny quibble: even though we made it clear we would be splitting the salad, it arrived on one plate, with 2 plates for us to divvy it ourselves. I was a little surprised by that, as most fine restaurants will do the splitting for you in the kitchen. No big deal, however.) The thing that most impressed us about that wonderful salad was that it had chunks of "Romanesque" broccoli -- a form of broccoli we had grown to love in New Jersey but had never seen before locally. (We asked and were told it was from a local farmer's market, so we'll be on the look-out.)
Then it was time for the entrees. Big Man had the lamb 3-ways (thanks again, John Besh!) and I had the sweetbreads. The food was exquisite, melt in your mouth, a total treat for the senses, each bite better than the last, everything perfect. We so completely cleaned our plates, it was a little embarrassing, as it looked like we might have actually licked them!
When it came time for dessert, Big Man asked if there was anything available for a diabetic, and the waiter said, surprisingly, "No, sir, we don't -- but they do across the street. They always have several kinds of sugar-free pie -- would that be all right?" And he named chocolate, lemon, and coconut cream as possibilities. Big Man took a pass on the lemon (he hates lemon desserts, for some reason) and said either of the others would do just fine. I ordered the chocolate candy-bar torte with dulce de leche sauce (in for a penny, in for a pound, I always say). We sat speculating about what it could mean about going "across the street" -- to the Windsor Court Hotel, presumably -- to get the sugar-free pie, and the waiter was back with my torte, and a plate with 4 tiny slices of pie, 2 each of chocolate and coconut for Big Man! Was he happy! Did we tip big or what?
All the way home, we relived the meal, exclaiming over this special touch, and that wonderful surprise. And we found ourselves talking about it, as New Orleanians will, in the days afterwards, with each other, to friends and family members, to just about anybody who would listen. The food was perfect, the service almost perfect, and the setting gorgeous. It was a meal to remember and cherish.
Thanks, John Besh. If we were more well-off than a musician and a minister can be in these trying times, we'd eat there more often (probably to the detriment of our waistlines -- it's probably just as well we can't afford to eat there more often). But we're happy to tell the whole cock-eyed world:
Go eat at Restaurant August -- it'll be the best meal of your life.
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