First: no green-pepper showdowns on the mean streets of the Crescent City. In fact, the only time I got even a hint of the stuff was in some alleged lobster oil floated on some cucumber soup, but by then my taste buds were so fried by, well, fried food that I could no longer judge. (More on that later.)
The second most important thing: New Orleans is a fabulous place to ride a bike. The fact that I’m mentioning this before the food is saying a lot. It has been a long winter, and I’m a little bike-deprived, so that may account for some of my enthusiasm. Another big asset: We had excellent guides in the form of Dan Baum and Meg Knox, who advised us on everything from where to rent the two-wheelers to which streets had the worst potholes. (Yes, the very same Dan Baum whose New Yorker blog I was admiring just a week ago. Lordy, I love the Internet.)
But in addition to all that, New Orleans is mostly level ground, completely anarchic without being crowded (read: I don’t have to follow traffic rules), and every person you pass has a little something to say, often about your hat. I’m sure in some neighborhoods, at some times of the night, the commentary from the sidewalk might not be so heartwarming, but this trip really reminded me why a bicycle seat is the best space to inhabit as a tourist. And certainly a bike is ideal for 2007 New Orleans, where you have this prurient interest in seeing just what the place looks like post-horror, but don’t want to seem like you’re staring. A bike goes a polite speed, a tactful speed.
(For the record: it is still a disaster, even though/because it’s not in the news much anymore. The trauma is palpable. Everyone wants to talk about it, but no one has anything else to say. It’s a strange place to be a tourist. Compare with Cancun, where everyone sports “I survived Wilma” T-shirts and laughs a lot; only the stubby palm trees are a clue that the biggest hurricane ever in the Caribbean landed here, not long after Katrina hit New Orleans.)
OK, OK: the food. Knox-n-Baum were also fine tour guides in this department, but we also got pointed to a sweet shrimp po’boy by a random dude on the street, which is proof that New Orleans really is an eatin’ town. If I asked a New Yorker for a restaurant recommendation, he would never give up his favorite place, and the place he pointed you to just at the end of the block would be some pretty crappy diner.
First night out, we gorged at Cochon, due to its proximity to where we were staying and its featuring calas on the menu. Not that I could actually remember what a cala was, but I did remember having clipped a recipe from a Slow Food magazine many years ago. (Oh, guess what? It’s something fried.) Cochon struck me as doing just the right amount of fancy-ifying of the Cajun and Creole oeuvre, but I’m not some kind of expert with standards of authenticity to offend. I pretty much bet there was no cream-of-mushroom soup at work back in the open kitchen, but there was of course a lot of bacon, and some succulent little ribs, and some sweet-and-smoky collards. Also some really buttery oysters. It was a bit of a blur due to travel daze and chatting with KnB and loads of small plates.
Next day…also a bit of a blur. Fried shrimp. Fried oysters. Root beer on tap at the Rock ‘n’ Bowl. Some soft-shell crab. Some eggplant and crab in a spicy cream sauce in capers, which made me realize what’s so genius about food in Louisiana: It’s all the completely unapologetic richness of French food, with the kick in the ass of spicy heat. It’s probably the only place at that near-tropical latitude that consumes so much butter and cream. Sounds like a recipe for disease of some kind, but damn, it tastes good.
Saturday: more fried oysters. Some fried catfish. A cherry Danish. Zapp’s potato chips in limited-edition Tabasco flavor and “craw-tator.”
And then: The Wedding! The whole reason we were there, and the reason Peter (aka Recently Made Reverend) was wearing such a snazzy hat. Jim and Daphne tied the knot, to tearful toasts, terrible limericks and Led Zeppelin. I haven’t been to such a solid costume party in years, aside from that thing in the desert outside Reno. And I don’t think I’ve ever had such good food at a wedding. I rounded out my day with some fried chicken, plus a solid helping of collard greens. And the cake was scrumptious–by the pastry chef at Lillette, where I was sorry we didn’t get to eat. Oh, then a late-night bite of a grilled pork chop from an especially crazy grill contraption.
Sunday. I was so beat by biking against the wind (sing it, Mr. Seger) to get to the Single Ladies Pleasure Club’s second line that not even fried oysters and shrimp on the same bun could get me back in the game. A few bites of a smoked sausage bought from a grill mounted in the back of some guy’s truck helped a little. But even a couple of Pimm’s cups didn’t provide the refreshment I needed. Nor did a glass of red wine with ice in Tamara and Karl’s hotel room. (Yes, we take them everywhere we go!)
So by the time I tottered into Restaurant August, nearly the poshest spot in town and probably the only reason a random Google-r will land on this post, I could barely face a single plate of food.
Yes, I had a Campari. And fizzy water. But I really needed some Roman-era purging treatment. Peter had a five-course tasting menu, and I picked at my beet salad. Even asparagus soup seemed too rich, and a nibble of lamb nearly killed me. That’s when I thought I tasted green pepper in the lobster oil. So really, who knows?
Oh, but it’s good to be human–for what did I have the very next afternoon, as our plane took off from Louis Armstrong International?
A shrimp po’boy, of course.
