Restaurant 2026

 

  Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Dixie Chicken

Or

Tennessee Lamb

“I was always, eh, kinda want to like consider myself kind of a pioneer of the palette; a restaurateur if you will. I’ve wined, dined, sipped and supped in some of the most demonstrably beamer epitomable bistros… ” Tom Waits: Eggs and Sausage

        I’ve opened/owned two restaurants in New Orleans; and, I’ve been in the restaurant business a long time; I have one word for anyone that has taken a shine to opening a palace of gustatory delights… “don’t”.  My excursions in the Big Easy restaurant scene taught me how Not Easy it is to make a living in the biz; some people can, most people cannot. It’s work, luck, money, work, chutzpah, business acumen and more work. And the aim is the same: give you food and take your money. Having you hand over your hard earned willingly and continually is what makes a place a success.

        And, not to brag; but, my forays in the world of restaurant eating, is a sauce of another color. I’ve had what’s considered the best croissant in the world with a cup of hot chocolate, thick as tar sludge, in a little pastry shop in Paris (France) with my nineteen-year-old daughter who claimed that she had not had all the croissants in the world so she couldn’t agree with that assessment.

        I had the most delicious combination of a cheeseburger with a bowl of chili seated at a counter of a small joint in Saint Louis Mo; you know, where they give you those little packets of saltine crackers that you crush up for your chili topping. The kind of chili that is the perfect balance of tomatoes, onions, vinegar and chili powder. Yum

        The soba soup at Mifune in San Francisco’s Japantown is not to be missed; it’s a broth redolent with dashi, noodles cooked to perfection and you eat with chopstick slurping loudly with noodles, broth streaming from your mouth as you suck in as much as you can. The booths are a tight fit and you have to pass the other (sushi) spots to go there on purpose.

        Speaking of sushi, I was part of a foursome in the early nineties at Nobu Matsuhisa’s first restaurant in Beverly Hills where the person that brought me there told the master to send out whatever he wanted to and not to stop until we told him to. Three hours later the bill came to fifteen hundred dollars and not a penny was wasted. I still remember the beautiful quivering sea scallop in its own shell with a fragile broth covered with a sheet of edible gold and topped with caviar.

        I’ve never had a better slice of pizza than the one(s) I had at walking to the beach in Far Rockaway from a guy who sold out of an open front window that he made right in front of everybody who passed; you had two choices: one with pepperoni or one without. You would be served (upon payment) a slice, fresh from the oven, on a piece of waxed paper that you would then fold in half and try to get to your mouth before the tip drooped onto your tee shirt.

        In Ensenada Mexico at a stand in a line of stands that sold the same thing: Fish Tacos, I was served by a ‘woman most gypsy-like’, the perfect fresh dorado taco that was so good that I spent the afternoon drinking Pacifico beer and eating one after another until I thought that I could duplicate them. No, I never could.

        When the Dungeness crabs run up (or down) the coast of California and you sit at a deuce and order them with garlic bread and cheap red wine and get butter all down your chin, wrists, forearms, shirtfront. Erotic.

        My first Cobb Salad at the Ivy in Santa Monica, Ca. blew my mind to find that array of wonderful tastes laid before me like a gustatory harem.

Lemme tell you: I’ve had menudo on Christmas Eve in Puerta Villarta; eggplant at Daino in San Piero Patti, Sicily; Barbecue at The Rendezvous in Memphis, Tenn.; lobster ceviche and pollo al carbon in the Yucatan; beans, tomatoes and eggs for breakfast in London; and, bratwurst and pomme frites in Hamburg, Germany; Oeufs a la Niege in Angers, France and more. Now let’s talk about New Orleans.  

I’ve had red beans and rice at Buster Holmes for less than a dollar; I’ve eaten Ya Ka Mein at a dozen different places; I’ve spent a week’s wages at a fancy restaurant and can’t remember what I ate and I’ve had the boiled turkey necks and pig’s feet at John & Mary’s that I still dream about. I’ve tried every vegan eatery in the city and I’ve leaned against my car in a Dollar General lot and consumed a can of Vienna Sausages.

I’ll eat anywhere that Susan Spicer is involve with; I had Christmas dinner at The Golden Wall Chinese take-out; I’ve had Pho at Eat Well and Bahn Mi at Dom Phong; I love the rib eye (Pittsburg style) at Crescent City and the gumbo at Dooky Chase’s. I’ve had ten cent oysters at some hole in the wall saloon; sipped $500.00 champagne at Muriel’s; love the hot dog and soft drink (free refills) at Costco; Betsy’s for brekkie; the food line at Ideal Market: salivatious!; I’m still eating Tres Leches wherever I find it; Borek at Fatma’s Cozy Corner (a must); I’ve stood in line for free lunch with homeless people (tried to pay but they wouldn’t accept); Ian McNulty’s recommendation for fried chicken at a gas station turned out to be gospel as is the shrimp po’boy at the Orange House. And, oh yeah, this is the Where Y’at Restaurant Issue.