A visit to La Mosca

A Visit to La Mosca

By

Phil LaMancusa

A trip to Mosca’s Restaurant in Waggaman across the Huey P. Long Bridge is like a trip, as old timers would say, to Plum Nelly; that is, ‘plum out the city and nearly out the country’. It is, in short, a destination location; not one person in a thousand ‘just happens to come across’ Mosca’s. It’s been called a great neighborhood restaurant without a neighborhood; I call it a hidden gem, and like all great gems, hidden in plain sight. It’s also a trip back in time; a trip back in time when things were simpler, easier, dependable. Mosca’s is dependable because nothing has changed since their opening almost three quarters of a century ago; nothing has changed except the Mosca who is now responsible for making sure that everything remains the same. Quality, consistency, integrity, heart.

Three generations (going on four perhaps) are there to meet, greet, cook and serve you, all welcoming you like family; indeed, the entire staff is or is considered family, so it’s like family welcoming family. All food is served ‘family style’, there are no daily specials, the menu is small and it states that everything is cooked to order and will take up to a while (and patience) to reach your table; dinner will take you two hours plus to complete. Cash only. In other words, it’s good food (not fast food), you’re with friends, relax and suspend your time constraints, talk amongst yourselves, have some wine; there’s a juke box, Frank, Dino and Louis will help pass time, sing along if you want. Welcome to Mosca’s.

            I met with Mary Jo Mosca and her daughter Lisa one Thursday afternoon before service and talked with them about what it is like to have a place so well established and so concrete in its identity while being so remote from the urban hub of what we call our New Orleans restaurant scene that not one of us here can consider ourselves a true New Orleanian unless we know, love and have eaten there. “Do what you do well, and keep on doing it” is the philosophy here. Mosca’s menu has basically not changed since 1946 when Provino Mosca with his wife Lisa Mosca opened the doors and grew a dream with blood, sweat and, I’m sure, a few tears. Traditionally, a successful business is a family affair, so wives and sisters and in-laws and children all have been a part of keeping the dream alive and well. Reservations are suggested.

            We arrive, Debbie and myself, and are let in through the kitchen door, the area is super clean, well organized and seems to hum in anticipation, like an orchestra tuning up; indeed, dinner service is mere hours away. The second thing we notice is a flat screen across from the cook’s line that is showing episodes of Golden Girls and I feel right at home. We go into a small dining room, the kind that reminds me of a family table (which indeed it is), Ms Lisa offers drinks and tells us her mother, Mary Jo Mosca will be right in, and she is.

            You can tell right away that Mary Jo and Lisa are cut from the same cloth, dark hair and eyes, easy smiles, expressive hands and tuned to their surroundings; a little while later Lisa’s husband Thomas walks through and Lisa’s son John (age 3) on a red trike rides by with a wave and a grin (definitely front of the house material). Having been in business since 1946 you might surmise that there’s been a bit of writing about Mosca’s (pronounced Moh-ska’s) food and history, and there has been, almost to exhaustion; however, I’m here to talk about the family, what it’s like to run this icon and get a glimpse into the personalities it takes to keep doing what they’re doing, not just day after day, but year after year, decade after decade. Mary Jo says: “I have good days--- but sometimes---I wonder what I’m doing here and why I’m still doing what I’m doing; then a customer will tell me what a great meal and a great time they had or how they ate here, ten, twenty years ago and everything was exactly the same… and I’m all smiles again”. Devotion and exhaustion, work as its own reward.

            A quick trip around the dining area shows it to be simplistic to the point of innocence; wood floors, white table clothes, a small bar and photos, paintings and prints feel like your aunt’s house getting ready for a big gathering; I can picture Thanksgiving dinner and/or family reunion. It’s relaxing; you can feel that people will come here to eat and enjoy each other’s company. The writer Calvin Trillan “tried to get the Nobel Peace prize for the late Lisa ‘Mama’ Mosca (Ms Lisa’s grandmother) for the perfection of her baked oysters” They mistakenly gave the prize to Henry Kissinger that year.

            Staff tenures are counted in decades; no one raises their voice in the kitchen. Everyone is smiling and efficient; no one makes the sauce but Mary Jo: “I like it done my way, so I’m the only one that does it” When one person cannot make it in to work, the others cover for them: “sometimes I’m cooking and washing dishes at the same time, you do what you have to do”.

            The kitchen is small and tight and the chef is actually the one in the kitchen doing the cooking not even taking a break to go accept their James Beard award in 1999 because they would have had to close the restaurant. Mary Jo Mosca has been in the kitchen for decades, taking over from her sister in law Mary Mosca Marconi (aided by her husband Vincent) who took over from Lisa ‘Mama’ Mosca, who took over from Provino Mosca who opened the place with his wife, son John and daughter Mary (older brother Nick went on to run the Elmwood Plantation). Now Lisa Mosca, named after her grandmother, Provino’s wife, runs the front of the house, following in her father’s footsteps. See how that works? It took me a while, but I think I got it straight.

            What do they do on their time off? They eat out: “it’s nice to have someone cook for you.”  Lisa usually is the scout and Mary Jo has a list of her favorites: Saba (“he’s a great chef and such a nice man”), Galatoire’s (“of course”), Crescent City Steak House (“we always ask for Nancy!”), Bayona, Commander’s Palace, Brennan’s. Clancy’s. Gabrielle.

            How do you gauge success? Success is not bought; success is earned. Success is not a flash in the pan; success has a face that shows up for work regardless of an aching back or tired feet. Hereabouts, success has a name; names that we grow up with: Hansen, Brennan, Haydel, Matassa, Chase, Mandina, Mosca, Brocato; from Antoine’s to Zuppardo, your name’s on the door: you own it.  Large or small, the philosophy is the same: wake up, get up, suit up, show up and never give up (“even when you’re FED up!”). Amen.