[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: August 31, 2007]
Yes, I was in the Big Easy when Diana Spencer died in that car accident back in 1997. I was in a blues club, when the singer paused between songs and announced the news. I had no idea if he was serious, or indeed reliable, until I got back to my hotel (a refurbished French Quarter brothel) and switched on the news.
I was going to say something like water under the bridge since then, but that would be inappropriate here. I just consider myself lucky to have visited New Orleans - more than once - in the years before the Federal government coldly concluded that the city and its population were expendable.
Oh, let's have some happy menus. First up, Bayona, that smart little bistro still alive and kicking under chef Susan Spicer:
Crayfish "croque monsieur"; pecan-crusted rabbit, pickled greens, sweet potato pureé, grits, tasso sauce; sorbet with mango and lychees. To drink, a Chorey Côte-de-Beaune, with a drop of Pineau des Charentes to finish.
Southern and local concepts, neatly gussied up. I recall the meal as well-executed. This was also the occasion when I first tried to order a German dessert wine with an ineffably long and silly name, fell into giggles, and settled for the Pineau instead.
I lunched the next morning on endless thirty cent oysters, standing at the marble bar of Felix's, having worked up an appetite around the Cabildo and Presbytery museums. Dinner was something of a gamble (these were the days, remember, before food forums existed to guide your every move). I decided to try Paul Prudhomme's much-puffed Cajun cooking at K-Paul's Louisiana Cooking (also still rocking, almost thirty years after he started blackening catfish). Simple, quite plain dining rooms on various floors, and very busy.
Seafood gumbo with andouille; blackened beef tenders with "debris", potato pureé, fried parsley; sweet potato pecan pie. Wine selections, Californian and in retrospect boring.
I did make a note of a fun bread basket: jalapeño cheesebread, cornbread, a dark loaf with walnuts. Pleasant, and the gumbo was good, but not a life-changing meal.
A historical pilgrimage the next evening, to the oldest restaurant in the United States, Antoine's. I still have a copy of the menu, an incredible list of ghostly dishes of the posh Créole past (you can check it online today, of course). I also have a copy of Francis Parkinson Keyes' mystery novel, Dinner at Antoine's, which opens with the service of a pressed duck. The duck was long gone, but the series of creakingly pretty dining rooms and the quaint service were worth experiencing.
Huitres à la Foch; pompano en papillotte; Roquefort. Champagne; a bottle of 1995 Puligny-Montrachet; a glass of oloroso with the cheese.
The oyster dish, named for the French Maréchal, featured fried oysters heaped on toast spread with paté de foie gras, all bathed in Madeira sauce. I have made this myself, and it's hard to get wrong once the ingredients are assembled. I've also made a variation, replacing the oysters with sliced, sauteéd kidneys. Together with the pleasantly fragrant pompano, the meal was better than it might have been.
I am going to save the grande bouffe at Emeril's for next week. That was a long dinner. Meantime, how about a side-trip to the bayou outside Lafayette, and two recommendable restaurants in Cajun country?
Randol's is not merely a restaurant. It is also a salle de danse, a spacious hall packed with happily two-stepping Zydeco fans of all ages. Many came to dance, not to dine, not even to drink (they would sip water at the bar for refreshment). I ate at one of the tables surrounding the dance floor.
Crab "fluff" (deep fried crab fritters); seafood platter (catfish, crayfish, shrimp étouffeé, stuffed crab, jambalaya rice, plain rice, fries). More Abita to help it down.
Well, not a wise order. Too much deep-fried seafood, and what with two rices and French fries, an entreé which four people could have happily picked at. From a subsequent visit, get the boiled crab, with wooden mallets and plastic bibs.
The better food was served at Prejéan's, a bustling joint with a hunting cabin look, crammed with stuffed alligators. It has a terrific menu: game, seafood, fruits of the bayou. This was a delightful evening altogether, in fact, as I'd fallen in with a producer and reporter from The Daily Show (before it was trendy). I met them out on the swamp that afternoon, and since we all agreed that we were mutually hilarious, we had dinner together.
Deep fried, breaded alligator "croq de Jacques", with alligator boulettes; wild mountain platter (elk, venison, buffalo), baked potato, salad and a loaf of bread; refreshment was Abita Amber.
I went back a couple of years later and ate that platter again. My note says "perfectly cooked game - rare as asked". From memory, the meats were chops, the buffalo with a peppercorn crust. And it was nice to chat with smart people from New York and at last be able to make disrespectful comments about the deaths of Royals.
Like I said, next week, why I still take Emeril Lugasse seriously. Only at the Sign of the Pink Pig.
Please discuss this article in the Mouthfulsfood southern states forum.
