Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
La Phire Restaurant
Or
Here We Go Again
My childhood began in the late 1960’s in New Orleans in my late 20’s. At that time there was an epidemic of young people, I don’t know what happened to most of them since then; but, in those days the inmates ran the asylum. The New Orleans young folks dressed strange, thought differently from their elders and were not afraid to speak their mind. The city was one big tribe. For the most part we had all decided to stop working for ‘the Man’ and had told Kemo Sabe to kiss our asses.
The tribe was broken up into smaller groups; singles and couples, twos and threes and twelve and up. These of the latter (12+) were called communes. Communes were loosely based around an ideal, philosophy, art or business venture. There were groups of people concentrating on free clinics, newspapers (called ‘Underground Newspapers’) food distribution, publishing houses, religion and of course those brave souls that kept body and soul together by keeping us supplied with hallucinogens (bless their hearts). I was part of a commune; we had a restaurant.
Sundays were particularly pleasant because the tribe would get together in the park for what we called The Celebration of Life. Naturally the ‘establishment ‘ hated us. Imagine a thousand young people on public land, setting up one geeenormuss picnic on a Sunday afternoon. Bands would perform for no cost, children would run and play, love would be in the air and many of us would be exploring astral planes. Our tribes would meet with other tribes at venues called Rainbow Gatherings---- you had to be there.
For a time, our group lived in a crumbling plantation house on Chippewa Street. Our restaurant, after humble beginnings on Conti Street moved (with us) to a four-story warehouse on Barracks Street. The conditions were more than primitive.
We carved out a theater on the first floor, restaurant on the second and living spaces on the third and fourth. The rent was $500.00 a month, and we were rarely on time in paying it. It was a simpler time; computers were but a rumor, dress codes were non issue and hand held communication devices were the stuff of science fiction. We drank water from the tap, ‘there was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air’.
We took in any visitors for three days at a time, after that (with approval) they were welcomed to move in or out. One of our better additions happened when we took in four refugees from a situation up north at Kent State University who decided to stick around. You have to realize that we were living a Never-never land existence, we had a hierarchy, we a cohesion, we had 12-20 of us to keep fed and a business to run. It appears to me now that it is more than a possibility that not one of us knew what we were doing. Sonya was a mother to us all; luckily for us she had a young child and had some practice. There are too many names to mention and each with a story.
If you were lucky enough to come and dine, you would sit at a homemade table in found chairs, the settings were mismatched and the food was simple, nutritious and very inexpensive. We served food that we had learned to cook without the advantage of modern equipment and everything we cooked was in season. We were a block away from, what was then, a fully functional produce market that stretched for blocks and blocks. We lived above the restaurant and we cooked all the time, we baked our own bread and what was good for one of us was good for all of us or it wasn’t good at all. Our lawyer rode his bicycle to cut down on air pollution. We did a lot of shopping at Schwegmann’s; we called ourselves a family.
There was (and still is) a big parking lot next to us that generally had the comings and goings of young nomads and one semi permanent fixture was a mini school bus that had the emblazoned placard reading “Why Not?” And that was just the way it was.
Many times one or more of us would take an outside job to help out financially. One job that I had taken was with the French Market Corporation as a street sweeper. I swept from Jackson Square to Barracks Street from eleven at night until seven in the morning. We worked in teams. I worked with a man named Ely.
At times, produce vendors would put out fruits and vegetables that had become too ripe to sell: tomatoes, squashes, citrus and I would bring them home to be prepped. There was a big shrimp warehouse that trucks of shrimp would come in to, to be unloaded by men with snow shovels. What spilled was mine, usually between five and eight pounds at a time. I once saw a man skin a possum on the dock to take home for dinner.
I’ve seen a dozen sweating blacks offload an open-bed semi of watermelons, tossing them with silent rhythm, glistening like ebony gods of the underworld under an indigo sky. I’ve seen country folk sleeping in beds of corn or onions waiting for the market to open. Feral cats keeping the rodent population down and mating among the smells of the roasting coffee and Old Man River. On the right breeze you could smell the potatoes frying at the chip factory on Elysian Fields.
We would catch breaks at Morning Call, the stand that was in competition with Café Du Monde that still had a ‘Colored’ serving room and what a juke box! After, we would turn on the hydrants just to watch the street flood in the moonlight. We would tell inquirers that we were lowering the level of the river.
I’ve been with members of the tribe as we watched the sun rise in the East over the West Bank and trundled home to the smell of Ray, our baker, getting out the first loaves. To a four story warehouse on Barracks Street that was a restaurant named La Phire.
And you need an article for a Restaurant Issue?
Showing posts with label Eating in New Orleans. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Eating in New Orleans. Show all posts
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Ya Ka Mein in New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Live Nude Girls!
Or
Further Signs of Life in the Gumbo Republic
Notes on possible topics for this month:
1.Tenants rights in New Orleans: Forget it, there are none.
2. Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters: Patronizing the local economy
3. Lucky Dogs and Englishmen: Wagon the Dog
4. The four families that own the French Quarter: Better not.
5. Concierges and kickbacks: Whoops, did I say that?
6. Controversial stoop sitting: The last Black family in the Quarter.
7. Holding up the cab drivers: Who owns all the Taxi licenses?
8. Big Business Behemoths: The death of the small shops.
9. Trading paradise for a prophylactic: Trashing our treasures.
10. Would you buy a used car from this man? Big Brother is Alive and Well:
Forget it! Let’s discuss something serious, this is, after all, the Restaurant Guide. Let’s talk about Ya-Ka Mein.
Ya-ka Mein is not a restaurant, at least, not that I’m aware of. Ya-ka Mein is a something to eat that very well may be of local origin. I’ve never seen it anywhere else, so, who knows?
It’s not a snobs dish, it’s not for the ‘Upper Crust’ or the Hoy Polloy. It’s a working person’s affair, a culinary adventurer’s adventure, a true foodie’s food. Tom Fitzmorris disses it. Sara Roahen adores it. Mathew at the N.O. J&H Foundation calls it a ‘heritage thing’. Dudley at Zatarain’s described working on the river at Elysian Fields and ‘going in to the neighborhood’ for it at lunchtime. Brett Anderson was unavailable for comment at this time. Linda Green demonstrated it at Jazz Fest last year, bless her heart. Ya-ka Mein.
There are probably hundreds of places in New Orleans to get Ya-ka Mein, (spelled Yet-ka mein, Jakemein, Yakamay, Yatka-mein, Yet Gaw Mein, yakameat, Ya-ka Mein, Yakama or ‘Old Sober’) and, I haven’t been to them all…yet.
Legend has it that a hundred years ago New Orleans had a viable Chinatown around South Rampart St. near Tulane Ave. It butted up against a thriving African American living, shopping and entertainment district. Allegedly this is where a street kid, later known as Sachmo, cut his chops running errands for prostitutes, crossing the borders of these ‘hoods for little packages of…………. could it have been………….opium?
I like to think not. I like to think, though I’ve been wrong before, that he was getting take out, possibly Yakamay. {and to think, that nowadays, all that the musically gifted children have to look forward to is NOCCA— how the mighty have fallen} J
With the disolution of our neighborhoods (we also had Jewish, Irish, German, Italian and Greek ones that likewise evaporated) the dish was dispursed like the lost tribes, and only kept alive by the poor, the hung over, the corner markets run by Asians serving Blacks.
When I have guests in from out of town, you know, my peeps, I take them on eating tours (what else?) of our city. No, not to places that the average bo-hunk gets ripped at. I take them on street level tours. Items like Muffalettas at Louigi’s, meatloaf at the Café Reconcile, pickled pig lip ogling at Robert’s ($12.71 a gallon!), alligator sandwiches at Royal Street Gro, gumbo at the corner of Broad and Banks, Lucky Dogs, and Busch in a brown bag with a pack of Zapp’s. They’re all here for the taking, but not the breaking (of your pocketbook).
Ya-ka Mein is different. I kinda keep it to myself. Why? Because if word gets out, those hot shot Chefs with their high falutin’ ways are gonna ruin a good thing. I just know it. And to my way of thinking, we have enough variations as it is. Do I want to see “Duck confit and lobster Ya-Ka Mein with poached quail egg, foix gras and beluga caviar pasta….$24.95 I certainly do not!
But wait! What’s that you say? What is Ya-ka Mein? Listen Woddie, if you don’t know, you better ass somebody!
Oh, you’re assin’ me. Okay, here goes: Ya-ka Mein, whatever way you spell it is a noodle soup of oriental extraction containing a variety of dead animals (pork, chicken, beef , shrimp, etc.) seasoned according to the deviation tendencies of the perpetrator behind the stove, and invariably compoundly fractured (garnished) with a whole hard boiled egg. Y’erd me?
Sometimes it’s reeeeal garlicy, sometimes it’s reeeeal vegetably, the noodle may vary, the animals may change with the season. The prices are generally between three and four bucks for a one quart cup. Most times you get it at a place that caters to low income folks. You may come across it in a joint with a few, or many, tables; invariably you will be served a very hot broth with noodles, a hard cooked egg, spring onions and packets of soy sauce. Variations beyond these point are infinite.
Where do you get it? Usually the sign outside will say something like ‘Plate Lunches-Po Boys-Chinese Food-Fried Seafood Platters’ etc. That’s the call to go ‘check out’ a new source. Don’t worry, it’s cool, you’re on a mission from….. me.
As I sit here, I’m having a quart from Manchu.
Not a place for the faint of heart, Manchu is located at the corner of Claiborne and Esplanade, their Yakamein is first rate, with a great kick of cayenne. While there, check out the wine selection to see what the other half drinks.
If you’re a stranger to danger, hop on up to Broadview, a smooth Yakama is made with asian pork and is redolent with green onions. While there check out other menu items: gumbo, boiled crabs, crawfish, shrimp, turkey necks, corn,and pigs feet (eat in or take out).
Uptown try Mama’s Famous Foods, truly a garlic lovers version
John’s Grocery on Touro and N. Rampart has it in two sizes as does Danny’s on Valence at Magazine (although theirs is alittle salty for my taste).
D&D between Desire and Piety & St. Claude has a kick of black pepper. Monica’s on Milan is sold by a man named ‘Pops’, who keeps a bottle of Sriracha handy.
Chinatown on Canal and Kimmy’s in the CBD both have plethoras of fresh veggies but no egg (go figure) I just saw that the the Moon Wok in the Quarter has it, expensive ($5.95) but I gotta try it. Someone recently mentioned that there was one place in Chicago…………that one may take me awhile to check out.
What I’m saying is that Ya-ka Mein is like a cullinary mugging, waiting around the corner, not frequent in better parts of town, almost brutal in its honesty and straightforwardness. You may get it at a secondline from the back of a pick up, or whipped up at a poker game by a recent Angola graduate, it’s a little thing, a small pleasure.
But, hey, when this Clark Kent gets home (provided there’s no eviction notice on the door) after working (provided the friggin’ Daily Planet doesn’t lay anyone else off) plus fighting for truth and justice (compared to what?) and looks in the mirror (as long as I remembered to pay my light bill) a lot of times all I see on my chest is a capital A (for Adequate-man) or an E (for Every-man); I long for a little thing, a small pleasure. Yat-ka Mein is that.
The Prophet once wrote: “Now go.”
By
Phil LaMancusa
Live Nude Girls!
Or
Further Signs of Life in the Gumbo Republic
Notes on possible topics for this month:
1.Tenants rights in New Orleans: Forget it, there are none.
2. Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters: Patronizing the local economy
3. Lucky Dogs and Englishmen: Wagon the Dog
4. The four families that own the French Quarter: Better not.
5. Concierges and kickbacks: Whoops, did I say that?
6. Controversial stoop sitting: The last Black family in the Quarter.
7. Holding up the cab drivers: Who owns all the Taxi licenses?
8. Big Business Behemoths: The death of the small shops.
9. Trading paradise for a prophylactic: Trashing our treasures.
10. Would you buy a used car from this man? Big Brother is Alive and Well:
Forget it! Let’s discuss something serious, this is, after all, the Restaurant Guide. Let’s talk about Ya-Ka Mein.
Ya-ka Mein is not a restaurant, at least, not that I’m aware of. Ya-ka Mein is a something to eat that very well may be of local origin. I’ve never seen it anywhere else, so, who knows?
It’s not a snobs dish, it’s not for the ‘Upper Crust’ or the Hoy Polloy. It’s a working person’s affair, a culinary adventurer’s adventure, a true foodie’s food. Tom Fitzmorris disses it. Sara Roahen adores it. Mathew at the N.O. J&H Foundation calls it a ‘heritage thing’. Dudley at Zatarain’s described working on the river at Elysian Fields and ‘going in to the neighborhood’ for it at lunchtime. Brett Anderson was unavailable for comment at this time. Linda Green demonstrated it at Jazz Fest last year, bless her heart. Ya-ka Mein.
There are probably hundreds of places in New Orleans to get Ya-ka Mein, (spelled Yet-ka mein, Jakemein, Yakamay, Yatka-mein, Yet Gaw Mein, yakameat, Ya-ka Mein, Yakama or ‘Old Sober’) and, I haven’t been to them all…yet.
Legend has it that a hundred years ago New Orleans had a viable Chinatown around South Rampart St. near Tulane Ave. It butted up against a thriving African American living, shopping and entertainment district. Allegedly this is where a street kid, later known as Sachmo, cut his chops running errands for prostitutes, crossing the borders of these ‘hoods for little packages of…………. could it have been………….opium?
I like to think not. I like to think, though I’ve been wrong before, that he was getting take out, possibly Yakamay. {and to think, that nowadays, all that the musically gifted children have to look forward to is NOCCA— how the mighty have fallen} J
With the disolution of our neighborhoods (we also had Jewish, Irish, German, Italian and Greek ones that likewise evaporated) the dish was dispursed like the lost tribes, and only kept alive by the poor, the hung over, the corner markets run by Asians serving Blacks.
When I have guests in from out of town, you know, my peeps, I take them on eating tours (what else?) of our city. No, not to places that the average bo-hunk gets ripped at. I take them on street level tours. Items like Muffalettas at Louigi’s, meatloaf at the Café Reconcile, pickled pig lip ogling at Robert’s ($12.71 a gallon!), alligator sandwiches at Royal Street Gro, gumbo at the corner of Broad and Banks, Lucky Dogs, and Busch in a brown bag with a pack of Zapp’s. They’re all here for the taking, but not the breaking (of your pocketbook).
Ya-ka Mein is different. I kinda keep it to myself. Why? Because if word gets out, those hot shot Chefs with their high falutin’ ways are gonna ruin a good thing. I just know it. And to my way of thinking, we have enough variations as it is. Do I want to see “Duck confit and lobster Ya-Ka Mein with poached quail egg, foix gras and beluga caviar pasta….$24.95 I certainly do not!
But wait! What’s that you say? What is Ya-ka Mein? Listen Woddie, if you don’t know, you better ass somebody!
Oh, you’re assin’ me. Okay, here goes: Ya-ka Mein, whatever way you spell it is a noodle soup of oriental extraction containing a variety of dead animals (pork, chicken, beef , shrimp, etc.) seasoned according to the deviation tendencies of the perpetrator behind the stove, and invariably compoundly fractured (garnished) with a whole hard boiled egg. Y’erd me?
Sometimes it’s reeeeal garlicy, sometimes it’s reeeeal vegetably, the noodle may vary, the animals may change with the season. The prices are generally between three and four bucks for a one quart cup. Most times you get it at a place that caters to low income folks. You may come across it in a joint with a few, or many, tables; invariably you will be served a very hot broth with noodles, a hard cooked egg, spring onions and packets of soy sauce. Variations beyond these point are infinite.
Where do you get it? Usually the sign outside will say something like ‘Plate Lunches-Po Boys-Chinese Food-Fried Seafood Platters’ etc. That’s the call to go ‘check out’ a new source. Don’t worry, it’s cool, you’re on a mission from….. me.
As I sit here, I’m having a quart from Manchu.
Not a place for the faint of heart, Manchu is located at the corner of Claiborne and Esplanade, their Yakamein is first rate, with a great kick of cayenne. While there, check out the wine selection to see what the other half drinks.
If you’re a stranger to danger, hop on up to Broadview, a smooth Yakama is made with asian pork and is redolent with green onions. While there check out other menu items: gumbo, boiled crabs, crawfish, shrimp, turkey necks, corn,and pigs feet (eat in or take out).
Uptown try Mama’s Famous Foods, truly a garlic lovers version
John’s Grocery on Touro and N. Rampart has it in two sizes as does Danny’s on Valence at Magazine (although theirs is alittle salty for my taste).
D&D between Desire and Piety & St. Claude has a kick of black pepper. Monica’s on Milan is sold by a man named ‘Pops’, who keeps a bottle of Sriracha handy.
Chinatown on Canal and Kimmy’s in the CBD both have plethoras of fresh veggies but no egg (go figure) I just saw that the the Moon Wok in the Quarter has it, expensive ($5.95) but I gotta try it. Someone recently mentioned that there was one place in Chicago…………that one may take me awhile to check out.
What I’m saying is that Ya-ka Mein is like a cullinary mugging, waiting around the corner, not frequent in better parts of town, almost brutal in its honesty and straightforwardness. You may get it at a secondline from the back of a pick up, or whipped up at a poker game by a recent Angola graduate, it’s a little thing, a small pleasure.
But, hey, when this Clark Kent gets home (provided there’s no eviction notice on the door) after working (provided the friggin’ Daily Planet doesn’t lay anyone else off) plus fighting for truth and justice (compared to what?) and looks in the mirror (as long as I remembered to pay my light bill) a lot of times all I see on my chest is a capital A (for Adequate-man) or an E (for Every-man); I long for a little thing, a small pleasure. Yat-ka Mein is that.
The Prophet once wrote: “Now go.”
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Waiter's Dreams In New Orleans
Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Turpentine and Dandelion Wine
I had another restaurant dream last night, I usually get one when pulling double shifts or training new recruits, which I did last week. For those out there that have never had a waiter’s job, it goes like this: it’s a super un-naturally busy restaurant night, the place is packed, the kitchen is three miles away, your station is full and everybody wants something. You’re racing full tilt to get things done and nothing is what it should be, food is coming out wrong, customers are asking for strange things, have strange questions and identical faces. You can’t tell where you are except that you’re balls to the wall busy and running your ass off and nothing is getting done.
It’s really loud, by the time you make the distance to the kitchen, other waiters are rushing everywhere, you’ve forgotten what you came for and the cooks are screaming in a language unintelligible to you.
I imagine if someone was to look at me in the midst of this nightmare, I would appear like my dog Ginger does when she has her dreams: whimpering and jerking like she’s hooked up to an electrode. Perhaps dogs are reincarnated waiters. Things that make you go hmmmm.
I did not waken refreshed. Pensive and not refreshed. I went on a wonder and this I wondered:
What is this thing about waiter’s nametags or introductions? The “Hello, my name is Jeremy and I’ll be your waiter tonight” type of action. Personally, I go with the guy who doesn’t want to know a waiter’s name unless the waiter is going out with his daughter and maybe not even then. Specifically, I don’t go out to eat to make friends; that’s what I go to bars for. I go out to eat to be with good company, have someone cook me something yummy to eat and then have somebody else do the dishes. That’s what I’m in a restaurant to do, and unless the waiter (male or female) treats me like either one of us has the intelligence of a box of rocks, that’s what I’m here to tip well for. Customers should be like me.
Let’s start with this, what’s with these parties of eight, ten or more that think they can get a table with no reservation on a busy night and who are the boneheads that move heaven and earth, and the chair that my date has her purse on, to seat them? Those people are gonna get loud, they’re gonna throw the kitchen out of synch, with my food, and, they’ll never get the good service smaller parties do. AND, a word to parents; your two, four, six, eight, ten or twelve-year-old does NOT want to come fine dining on a Saturday night. They want to go to Burger King, Don’t get me started on split checks, cell phones or hot tea.
How about those people that drink bottled water? Don’t they know that every food they eat and every cocktail they drink is made with our local sludge? I want to say: “would you like local water, bottled water or a margarita? because you’re gonna pay as much for foreign water, with or without carbonation, as for some first rate tequila: get a clue .
And while we’re at it, what is it with the lemon with water? to me, it’s like kissing your sister, and what waiter has not spied a customer slipping some Sweet and Lo into it (or into their pocket, I might add).
Allergies? I don’t understand them. I once avoided going out with a stunning woman after she volunteered the fact that she was allergic to garlic! What kind of future could you have with someone like that? Diets? Listen, if you want to lose weight, eat less and exercise or be comfortable with who you are. Period. Especially when you go out to eat: Going out is either a sensual experience or a forage, and hopefully you know the difference. In either case, and above all, you should know why you’re there. Attention shoppers: it’s only dinner! Rule number one: the Chef knows what they’re doing. Chef know that smoked pork chops go with greens and mashed potatoes, and that Adkins was a culinary misanthropic sexually repressed pervert and the Pastry Chef considers Sugar Busters an abomination to nature. Deal with it, like I said: it’s only dinner!
You’ll be hard pressed to find a waiter that will sing the praises of most of their client’s cognizant reality concepts in and of real time. Mostly, it’s like they’ve been dropped from outer space into an eating establishment with no clue as to how they got there. Example: “Hello, (with a flourish of napkin) welcome to Chez Nez, I’m your waiter Anthony and I’ll be serving you tonight (and kissing your ass for money); can I get you a wine list or a cocktail before dinner?” Blank stare. You’re who? I’m what? We’re what? And do I want a huh? How do I work this?… You get this very very very often.
I’m of the school of “I don’t care who you are, I’m here with someone and I want strong drink right now!”
And here’s the big one: tipping. They (whoever they are) should pass out this information at our borders: waiters are paid less than half our minimum living wage by owners who insinuate that gratuities will make up for that inequity and are taxed by a government on that assumption. Simply put, I, as a server, depend on you, as a customer, to supplement my meager wage with money based on my knowledge and expertise of service. Tips (To Insure Promptness) is how I make my living. It’s a sick concept; but, it’s in place and a reality to me and the people that I am financially responsible to. To stay afloat, unless I’m a complete bonehead, you need to consider, as a client, that my service is worth a reasonable compensation, at least fifteen to twenty percent above your tab. That’s the reality of it. If you think that this is easy you’re welcome to try it. Me? I’m gonna go soak my feet and wonder why, if that overweight turkey with the cigar minded me looking down his trophy wife’s cleavage, he didn’t think to dress her better.
plamancusa@aol.com
By
Phil LaMancusa
Turpentine and Dandelion Wine
I had another restaurant dream last night, I usually get one when pulling double shifts or training new recruits, which I did last week. For those out there that have never had a waiter’s job, it goes like this: it’s a super un-naturally busy restaurant night, the place is packed, the kitchen is three miles away, your station is full and everybody wants something. You’re racing full tilt to get things done and nothing is what it should be, food is coming out wrong, customers are asking for strange things, have strange questions and identical faces. You can’t tell where you are except that you’re balls to the wall busy and running your ass off and nothing is getting done.
It’s really loud, by the time you make the distance to the kitchen, other waiters are rushing everywhere, you’ve forgotten what you came for and the cooks are screaming in a language unintelligible to you.
I imagine if someone was to look at me in the midst of this nightmare, I would appear like my dog Ginger does when she has her dreams: whimpering and jerking like she’s hooked up to an electrode. Perhaps dogs are reincarnated waiters. Things that make you go hmmmm.
I did not waken refreshed. Pensive and not refreshed. I went on a wonder and this I wondered:
What is this thing about waiter’s nametags or introductions? The “Hello, my name is Jeremy and I’ll be your waiter tonight” type of action. Personally, I go with the guy who doesn’t want to know a waiter’s name unless the waiter is going out with his daughter and maybe not even then. Specifically, I don’t go out to eat to make friends; that’s what I go to bars for. I go out to eat to be with good company, have someone cook me something yummy to eat and then have somebody else do the dishes. That’s what I’m in a restaurant to do, and unless the waiter (male or female) treats me like either one of us has the intelligence of a box of rocks, that’s what I’m here to tip well for. Customers should be like me.
Let’s start with this, what’s with these parties of eight, ten or more that think they can get a table with no reservation on a busy night and who are the boneheads that move heaven and earth, and the chair that my date has her purse on, to seat them? Those people are gonna get loud, they’re gonna throw the kitchen out of synch, with my food, and, they’ll never get the good service smaller parties do. AND, a word to parents; your two, four, six, eight, ten or twelve-year-old does NOT want to come fine dining on a Saturday night. They want to go to Burger King, Don’t get me started on split checks, cell phones or hot tea.
How about those people that drink bottled water? Don’t they know that every food they eat and every cocktail they drink is made with our local sludge? I want to say: “would you like local water, bottled water or a margarita? because you’re gonna pay as much for foreign water, with or without carbonation, as for some first rate tequila: get a clue .
And while we’re at it, what is it with the lemon with water? to me, it’s like kissing your sister, and what waiter has not spied a customer slipping some Sweet and Lo into it (or into their pocket, I might add).
Allergies? I don’t understand them. I once avoided going out with a stunning woman after she volunteered the fact that she was allergic to garlic! What kind of future could you have with someone like that? Diets? Listen, if you want to lose weight, eat less and exercise or be comfortable with who you are. Period. Especially when you go out to eat: Going out is either a sensual experience or a forage, and hopefully you know the difference. In either case, and above all, you should know why you’re there. Attention shoppers: it’s only dinner! Rule number one: the Chef knows what they’re doing. Chef know that smoked pork chops go with greens and mashed potatoes, and that Adkins was a culinary misanthropic sexually repressed pervert and the Pastry Chef considers Sugar Busters an abomination to nature. Deal with it, like I said: it’s only dinner!
You’ll be hard pressed to find a waiter that will sing the praises of most of their client’s cognizant reality concepts in and of real time. Mostly, it’s like they’ve been dropped from outer space into an eating establishment with no clue as to how they got there. Example: “Hello, (with a flourish of napkin) welcome to Chez Nez, I’m your waiter Anthony and I’ll be serving you tonight (and kissing your ass for money); can I get you a wine list or a cocktail before dinner?” Blank stare. You’re who? I’m what? We’re what? And do I want a huh? How do I work this?… You get this very very very often.
I’m of the school of “I don’t care who you are, I’m here with someone and I want strong drink right now!”
And here’s the big one: tipping. They (whoever they are) should pass out this information at our borders: waiters are paid less than half our minimum living wage by owners who insinuate that gratuities will make up for that inequity and are taxed by a government on that assumption. Simply put, I, as a server, depend on you, as a customer, to supplement my meager wage with money based on my knowledge and expertise of service. Tips (To Insure Promptness) is how I make my living. It’s a sick concept; but, it’s in place and a reality to me and the people that I am financially responsible to. To stay afloat, unless I’m a complete bonehead, you need to consider, as a client, that my service is worth a reasonable compensation, at least fifteen to twenty percent above your tab. That’s the reality of it. If you think that this is easy you’re welcome to try it. Me? I’m gonna go soak my feet and wonder why, if that overweight turkey with the cigar minded me looking down his trophy wife’s cleavage, he didn’t think to dress her better.
plamancusa@aol.com
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Lunch and The French Quarter
Po-boy Views
By Phil LaMancusa
Let’s get serious here for a minute. The ozone layer, homeless and jobless rates, the stock market, the energy crisis, pattern baldness and who the heck should honestly be our president (can you use those two words in the same sentence?) doesn’t amount to a hill of beans when mid morning comes, now does it?
The question really, as Douglas Adams put it in his sequel to Restaurant At The End Of The Universe, is, basically, “where shall we have lunch?”
I think of that, as the weather turns warmer and I wander from room to room, considering that empty feeling, that ‘hunger not of the soul’, picking up stray socks and blaming the mess around here alternately on the dog and/or the cat. Pondering, playing and toying with and on the eternal predicament: ‘where shall I eat? What do I feel like having? And, how far am I willing to go to get it?’
Running down the mid day meal is an experience and an adventure; I know, I do it an average of eight times a week. The criteria being that I should be able to begin my quest with an eleven-dollar bill and finish with a full belly and a fresh pack of squares (make mine Luckys, please).
Sanely enough, in the French Quarter, you can walk toward your destination, change your mind half a dozen times about where to stop, and wind up eating somewhere completely different than all of them.
********************************************
All places, from Annie’s Chicken Shack to Vat O’ Gumbo have things that I consider great and only with trepidation, and a great deal of faith, do I stray from requesting (I never ’order”) any other offerings. For example: Fiorella’s, on Thursdays, has a butterbean special that can’t be beat; but if you want their ‘famous’ fried chicken, you’ll have cramps (and maybe die) from hunger by the time it gets to you. Ergo: I go there on Thursdays AND I have butterbeans. In the same vein; if I recommend to someone the fried oyster po-boy at Mr. Johnny’s, I don’t want them to come cryote-ing to me because they didn’t like their red beans!
Go where you will for red beans, I say; those of us that ate Buster Holmes’ beans can’t eat them anywhere else, and he’s long gone just like a turkey through the corn. Opinionated? Me? You bet your blue plate!
Also, lunch requires some ‘splaining. For example, if I tell you that the most beautiful cook works at The Royal Street Gro. and the best sandwich maker works the counter at the Quarter Gro. That doesn’t mean to say that she doesn’t make a dynamite six-inch alligator (she sure does!) or that he’s anything that you’d kick to the curb (his club sandwich! Yes, yes!), it’s just my view; and if you don’t like the news (or views), as they say, feel free to make some of your own.
Speaking of Grocery stores. They are where most of us Quarter Rats excel in culinary savvy. They are where the true heartbeat of local cuisine (we like to call it ‘cookin’, thank you) is found. Ask anyone that’s had the crawfish pasta that is the Friday special at C&C, or the well thought out specials at Matassa’s, the roast beef po-boy at Peoples, the mac and cheese at Verde Mart, the chili cheese fries at the Nellie Deli, the alligator po-boy at The Royal Street (did I mention that cook, or their gumbo?), or the ‘pot cookin’ at J.C.’s
Is the muffelatta better at Progress or Central? Do you opt for the service (?) at Napoleon House? Who’s been to Frank’s lately and why? Ever wonder what natives discuss over coffee? Guess no more, we talk food and the discussions are as passionate as great foreplay, and it’s even sanctioned in groups (God, you give great menu!!!).
Speaking of menus. Have you tried Jaeger’s Back Kitchen? It is probably the best new place to open in a long while, maybe years. The ‘pot cookin’ is second to none, the prices are good and the service friendly. It’ll make you want to throw rocks at the Old Dog, just up the alley, but that’s another story.
If you’ve guessed by now that I have a lot to say on this subject, probably so much to say that I just will not have room for little things like addresses, phone numbers, business hours or the names behind the faces, BINGO! You win the Cuisinart! You’d be amazed how fast a thousand words go by. I’ll just leave it up to you to find out where these gems are; hint: they’re all in the Quarter.
Speaking of the Quarter; this is not to say that I don’t enjoy lunch beyond it’s boundaries. Like the Pho at Nine Happiness, the Pad Thai at Singha, a Menage a Trois at the whorehouse (The Sporting House), or the gumbo at Dubon’s. That’s just not so. Like I said, I just don’t have room to write it ALL.
Mena’s, Oh My Lord, Mena’s; have you ever had a better ham hock with cabbage, boiled potato and cornbread? And it’s just across the alley from Country Flame. What to choose? What to choose? And where to go to go to choose it. How do you choose it? I stand outside 1212 Royal St. for half an hour, rubbernecking the menus of Midnight Express and Mona Lisa’s, like a sailor in a red light district, trying to decide where I’ll get my kicks. They both get my vote for great food and they treat you like family.
The Gumbo Shop, twenty five years ago , had a banner inside the dining room that proclaimed in big letters: “Ici On Mange Bien” that is, “Here One Eats Well”. That’s still true of the Gumbo Shop and, for that matter, my French Quarter. If I had room for another thousand words… I would go on and on and on. But, I don’t.
Next Month: How the President saved the day by moving the French Quarter over there to solve The Mid East Crisis. (“betcha I can tell ya where you got that towel… on yo head! hahahahahahahaha
By Phil LaMancusa
Let’s get serious here for a minute. The ozone layer, homeless and jobless rates, the stock market, the energy crisis, pattern baldness and who the heck should honestly be our president (can you use those two words in the same sentence?) doesn’t amount to a hill of beans when mid morning comes, now does it?
The question really, as Douglas Adams put it in his sequel to Restaurant At The End Of The Universe, is, basically, “where shall we have lunch?”
I think of that, as the weather turns warmer and I wander from room to room, considering that empty feeling, that ‘hunger not of the soul’, picking up stray socks and blaming the mess around here alternately on the dog and/or the cat. Pondering, playing and toying with and on the eternal predicament: ‘where shall I eat? What do I feel like having? And, how far am I willing to go to get it?’
Running down the mid day meal is an experience and an adventure; I know, I do it an average of eight times a week. The criteria being that I should be able to begin my quest with an eleven-dollar bill and finish with a full belly and a fresh pack of squares (make mine Luckys, please).
Sanely enough, in the French Quarter, you can walk toward your destination, change your mind half a dozen times about where to stop, and wind up eating somewhere completely different than all of them.
********************************************
All places, from Annie’s Chicken Shack to Vat O’ Gumbo have things that I consider great and only with trepidation, and a great deal of faith, do I stray from requesting (I never ’order”) any other offerings. For example: Fiorella’s, on Thursdays, has a butterbean special that can’t be beat; but if you want their ‘famous’ fried chicken, you’ll have cramps (and maybe die) from hunger by the time it gets to you. Ergo: I go there on Thursdays AND I have butterbeans. In the same vein; if I recommend to someone the fried oyster po-boy at Mr. Johnny’s, I don’t want them to come cryote-ing to me because they didn’t like their red beans!
Go where you will for red beans, I say; those of us that ate Buster Holmes’ beans can’t eat them anywhere else, and he’s long gone just like a turkey through the corn. Opinionated? Me? You bet your blue plate!
Also, lunch requires some ‘splaining. For example, if I tell you that the most beautiful cook works at The Royal Street Gro. and the best sandwich maker works the counter at the Quarter Gro. That doesn’t mean to say that she doesn’t make a dynamite six-inch alligator (she sure does!) or that he’s anything that you’d kick to the curb (his club sandwich! Yes, yes!), it’s just my view; and if you don’t like the news (or views), as they say, feel free to make some of your own.
Speaking of Grocery stores. They are where most of us Quarter Rats excel in culinary savvy. They are where the true heartbeat of local cuisine (we like to call it ‘cookin’, thank you) is found. Ask anyone that’s had the crawfish pasta that is the Friday special at C&C, or the well thought out specials at Matassa’s, the roast beef po-boy at Peoples, the mac and cheese at Verde Mart, the chili cheese fries at the Nellie Deli, the alligator po-boy at The Royal Street (did I mention that cook, or their gumbo?), or the ‘pot cookin’ at J.C.’s
Is the muffelatta better at Progress or Central? Do you opt for the service (?) at Napoleon House? Who’s been to Frank’s lately and why? Ever wonder what natives discuss over coffee? Guess no more, we talk food and the discussions are as passionate as great foreplay, and it’s even sanctioned in groups (God, you give great menu!!!).
Speaking of menus. Have you tried Jaeger’s Back Kitchen? It is probably the best new place to open in a long while, maybe years. The ‘pot cookin’ is second to none, the prices are good and the service friendly. It’ll make you want to throw rocks at the Old Dog, just up the alley, but that’s another story.
If you’ve guessed by now that I have a lot to say on this subject, probably so much to say that I just will not have room for little things like addresses, phone numbers, business hours or the names behind the faces, BINGO! You win the Cuisinart! You’d be amazed how fast a thousand words go by. I’ll just leave it up to you to find out where these gems are; hint: they’re all in the Quarter.
Speaking of the Quarter; this is not to say that I don’t enjoy lunch beyond it’s boundaries. Like the Pho at Nine Happiness, the Pad Thai at Singha, a Menage a Trois at the whorehouse (The Sporting House), or the gumbo at Dubon’s. That’s just not so. Like I said, I just don’t have room to write it ALL.
Mena’s, Oh My Lord, Mena’s; have you ever had a better ham hock with cabbage, boiled potato and cornbread? And it’s just across the alley from Country Flame. What to choose? What to choose? And where to go to go to choose it. How do you choose it? I stand outside 1212 Royal St. for half an hour, rubbernecking the menus of Midnight Express and Mona Lisa’s, like a sailor in a red light district, trying to decide where I’ll get my kicks. They both get my vote for great food and they treat you like family.
The Gumbo Shop, twenty five years ago , had a banner inside the dining room that proclaimed in big letters: “Ici On Mange Bien” that is, “Here One Eats Well”. That’s still true of the Gumbo Shop and, for that matter, my French Quarter. If I had room for another thousand words… I would go on and on and on. But, I don’t.
Next Month: How the President saved the day by moving the French Quarter over there to solve The Mid East Crisis. (“betcha I can tell ya where you got that towel… on yo head! hahahahahahahaha
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Thanksgiving 1 in New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Thanksgiving Deja-Food
Or
Haven’t I Eaten This Before?
The handlettered sign on the door of the small café on Conti Street read “Closed for Thanksgiving”; and a dozen of us piled into various forms of vehicular transportation and sped to Shweggman’s and spent all of our hard earned in a frenzy of ‘day before The Day’ shopping. It was 1968. Giggling like preschoolers, we made our way uptown to our rented ‘demolition by neglect’ mansion on Chippewa Street and prepared a beggars banquet with all the love, sex, drugs and Rock and Roll in our counter culture hearts. We didn’t get back down to reopen the café until Monday. That was okay by us; after all, didn’t we own the damn place?
As a boy, Thanksgiving was celebrated by the seven members of our family on the tenth floor of a New York City Housing Project and it started at dawn’s crack and didn’t end until the kids were ready to drag themselves, half comatose from triptophane, to bed; while the grownups, with the last of the available welfare cash, headed to the bar across the street for highballs and shuffleboard and congratulations all around for getting through another Thanksgiving. No one would have even dreamed about going to a restaurant to eat on Thanksgiving; it was a family thing, and we did it BIG!
Years later, I would be Executive Chef of a hotel in downtown San Francisco serving a one hundred and twenty foot buffet to twelve hundred strangers that all had one thing in mind: eat as much as you can possibly hold. I watched while hordes of, I think, pleasant people on probably any other day, zeroed in on caviar pie, smoked salmon, carved roasts, pate, plethoras of freshly baked breads and zip codes of desserts with the instincts of wolf packs and the manners of Mongols. The results of my month long planning and work would clog the drains of the ‘City by the Bay’ hours later. What a life.
Last year as a ‘Line Cookin’ Dog’ on Bourbon Street, another cook and myself fed seven hundred people who seemed to come out of the woodwork, and who, looking for…you guessed it; turkey, stuffing, ham, lamb, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, candied yams, bread pudding… found it and put it into their faces as fast as humanly possible, giving not the slightest clue of thankfulness. That weekend, I put in one hundred and forty hours.
I’ve had Thanksgiving dinner in ‘lost and found’ bars across the country, where the good folks in charge couldn’t bear the thought of a stranger having no place to go on that holiest of holidays: the ‘Feast of the Full Belly’. Say Grace, Amen and dig in.
I’ve served the upscale neauveau riche in Mill Valley “Thanksgiving with seventeen sides” and they came at me like starving Armenians for second and third helpings; howling if one of the serving dishes were not replenished fast enough with oyster cornbread dressing or sage and giblet stuffing or parsnips, turnips, greens, peas and carrots, string beans, sweet potatoes, creamed spinach, broccoli, cauliflower in cheese sauce, pearl onions in cream sauce, corn pudding and baked squash. There was never enough pumpkin pie but there was always left over mincemeat. Pecan pie was for the ‘country connoisseur’ but, after dinner drinks were de rigoure for all. Big freakin’ deal!
“May I have more whipped cream?”
“Is there any more dark meat?”
“Hey, what happened to the wishbones?”
“Is there any meat in that?”
Gimme a break!
To mark this auspicious occasion, in my time, I’ve had my bird in jail, free kitchens, from a can and even from a pint bottle of it called ‘Wild’. I’ve done the ritual in bus stations, stranger’s houses, and with temporary lovers; and guess what? I’m just about over this killing of a ritual bird in honor of the things that I’m supposed to be grateful for that I ain’t got the rest of the year.
No offense intended; I know that we all have a lot of things to be grateful for on a regular basis, but hey, lets be real here, we work our butts off to make that happen. The rent, the utilities, the phone; yeah, that’s worth killing that imbecile of a bird for. But what about our medical, our kid’s schooling, and our daily struggle to make ends meet? Don’t they deserve a day of their own? How about a ‘Patsy Cline Day’? Where we sit around and pop some cool PBRs and smoke some Luckys and consider ‘What a HELL of a situation we’ve gotten ourselves into Day’? How about a day when we go ‘ Bowling for God’ and thank our lucky stars that we’re not like Franky ‘the moron;’ that still drools and has the I. Q. of a fence post? We need more real holidays, is what I’m saying!
How about a monthly fifth to be cracked and a celebration of ‘We paid the landlord again on time day’!? Or a ‘Freedom Day’ where the rent, phone, electricity and hot water are on someone else for a change?
Don’t get me wrong, none, and I repeat none of my Thanksgiving Days have been inconsequential. At least that I remember; they have all been like a collection of photos in a dusty, forgotten album. That one with my visiting nine year old daughter when the closest we got was turkey sandwiches at a Greek diner or the one with the one hundred and eighty pound clubfoot in Portsmouth, England (that’s another story)……..but, hey how much more of this can a poor boy take? I mean, what else can happen?
How about the sky opening and someone from the Heavenly Host asking “white meat or dark” or somehow you wake up on that sacred Thursday and somebody notices that there are no more turkeys? Short of being served by topless shoeshine girls or stripping Chippendales, I don’t think much would impress me anymore. Nope, this day has become redundant, repetitive and transparently dull.
“Oh let’s have Thanksgiving Dinner! Yeah, right! I’d rather have spleen surgery without anesthesia.
Instead let’s get knee walking drunk on Wednesday and stay in bed all of Thursday with TV dinners and make up stories of guilt, shame, triumph, love and betrayal; singing ribald songs and telling dirty jokes ‘til our sides split and order our food delivered from the Nelly Deli.
Okay, okay. I was only kidding. Actually, I got a call from an old friend in Abita Springs, we (and about ten others) used to own a small café on Conti Street. She said a bunch of the gang were coming over for a “Bird Day” celebration--vegetarian, of course. She wanted to make sure that I could take the whole weekend off, had my old corn pudding recipe and if I still had a copy of King Crimson on vinyl. She said that a few of them would come get me in the VW. She told me to remember that there’s water at the bottom of the ocean; whatever that’s supposed to mean. Oh well, here we go again. Happy Thanksgiving!
By
Phil LaMancusa
Thanksgiving Deja-Food
Or
Haven’t I Eaten This Before?
The handlettered sign on the door of the small café on Conti Street read “Closed for Thanksgiving”; and a dozen of us piled into various forms of vehicular transportation and sped to Shweggman’s and spent all of our hard earned in a frenzy of ‘day before The Day’ shopping. It was 1968. Giggling like preschoolers, we made our way uptown to our rented ‘demolition by neglect’ mansion on Chippewa Street and prepared a beggars banquet with all the love, sex, drugs and Rock and Roll in our counter culture hearts. We didn’t get back down to reopen the café until Monday. That was okay by us; after all, didn’t we own the damn place?
As a boy, Thanksgiving was celebrated by the seven members of our family on the tenth floor of a New York City Housing Project and it started at dawn’s crack and didn’t end until the kids were ready to drag themselves, half comatose from triptophane, to bed; while the grownups, with the last of the available welfare cash, headed to the bar across the street for highballs and shuffleboard and congratulations all around for getting through another Thanksgiving. No one would have even dreamed about going to a restaurant to eat on Thanksgiving; it was a family thing, and we did it BIG!
Years later, I would be Executive Chef of a hotel in downtown San Francisco serving a one hundred and twenty foot buffet to twelve hundred strangers that all had one thing in mind: eat as much as you can possibly hold. I watched while hordes of, I think, pleasant people on probably any other day, zeroed in on caviar pie, smoked salmon, carved roasts, pate, plethoras of freshly baked breads and zip codes of desserts with the instincts of wolf packs and the manners of Mongols. The results of my month long planning and work would clog the drains of the ‘City by the Bay’ hours later. What a life.
Last year as a ‘Line Cookin’ Dog’ on Bourbon Street, another cook and myself fed seven hundred people who seemed to come out of the woodwork, and who, looking for…you guessed it; turkey, stuffing, ham, lamb, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, candied yams, bread pudding… found it and put it into their faces as fast as humanly possible, giving not the slightest clue of thankfulness. That weekend, I put in one hundred and forty hours.
I’ve had Thanksgiving dinner in ‘lost and found’ bars across the country, where the good folks in charge couldn’t bear the thought of a stranger having no place to go on that holiest of holidays: the ‘Feast of the Full Belly’. Say Grace, Amen and dig in.
I’ve served the upscale neauveau riche in Mill Valley “Thanksgiving with seventeen sides” and they came at me like starving Armenians for second and third helpings; howling if one of the serving dishes were not replenished fast enough with oyster cornbread dressing or sage and giblet stuffing or parsnips, turnips, greens, peas and carrots, string beans, sweet potatoes, creamed spinach, broccoli, cauliflower in cheese sauce, pearl onions in cream sauce, corn pudding and baked squash. There was never enough pumpkin pie but there was always left over mincemeat. Pecan pie was for the ‘country connoisseur’ but, after dinner drinks were de rigoure for all. Big freakin’ deal!
“May I have more whipped cream?”
“Is there any more dark meat?”
“Hey, what happened to the wishbones?”
“Is there any meat in that?”
Gimme a break!
To mark this auspicious occasion, in my time, I’ve had my bird in jail, free kitchens, from a can and even from a pint bottle of it called ‘Wild’. I’ve done the ritual in bus stations, stranger’s houses, and with temporary lovers; and guess what? I’m just about over this killing of a ritual bird in honor of the things that I’m supposed to be grateful for that I ain’t got the rest of the year.
No offense intended; I know that we all have a lot of things to be grateful for on a regular basis, but hey, lets be real here, we work our butts off to make that happen. The rent, the utilities, the phone; yeah, that’s worth killing that imbecile of a bird for. But what about our medical, our kid’s schooling, and our daily struggle to make ends meet? Don’t they deserve a day of their own? How about a ‘Patsy Cline Day’? Where we sit around and pop some cool PBRs and smoke some Luckys and consider ‘What a HELL of a situation we’ve gotten ourselves into Day’? How about a day when we go ‘ Bowling for God’ and thank our lucky stars that we’re not like Franky ‘the moron;’ that still drools and has the I. Q. of a fence post? We need more real holidays, is what I’m saying!
How about a monthly fifth to be cracked and a celebration of ‘We paid the landlord again on time day’!? Or a ‘Freedom Day’ where the rent, phone, electricity and hot water are on someone else for a change?
Don’t get me wrong, none, and I repeat none of my Thanksgiving Days have been inconsequential. At least that I remember; they have all been like a collection of photos in a dusty, forgotten album. That one with my visiting nine year old daughter when the closest we got was turkey sandwiches at a Greek diner or the one with the one hundred and eighty pound clubfoot in Portsmouth, England (that’s another story)……..but, hey how much more of this can a poor boy take? I mean, what else can happen?
How about the sky opening and someone from the Heavenly Host asking “white meat or dark” or somehow you wake up on that sacred Thursday and somebody notices that there are no more turkeys? Short of being served by topless shoeshine girls or stripping Chippendales, I don’t think much would impress me anymore. Nope, this day has become redundant, repetitive and transparently dull.
“Oh let’s have Thanksgiving Dinner! Yeah, right! I’d rather have spleen surgery without anesthesia.
Instead let’s get knee walking drunk on Wednesday and stay in bed all of Thursday with TV dinners and make up stories of guilt, shame, triumph, love and betrayal; singing ribald songs and telling dirty jokes ‘til our sides split and order our food delivered from the Nelly Deli.
Okay, okay. I was only kidding. Actually, I got a call from an old friend in Abita Springs, we (and about ten others) used to own a small café on Conti Street. She said a bunch of the gang were coming over for a “Bird Day” celebration--vegetarian, of course. She wanted to make sure that I could take the whole weekend off, had my old corn pudding recipe and if I still had a copy of King Crimson on vinyl. She said that a few of them would come get me in the VW. She told me to remember that there’s water at the bottom of the ocean; whatever that’s supposed to mean. Oh well, here we go again. Happy Thanksgiving!
Food service in New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
There’s a fly in your soup?
Or
Will there be anything else, Sir?
I’m embarking up a new tree. That is to say, that I’ve taken another job outside the realm of hithertofore, common to myself, acceptable employment behavorable pattern structured lunacy. I am applying for, and will get, a full time, permanent, lucrative job as a………waiter!!
Hey, I’ve got experience! And what’s more, I’m already doin’ it part time! AND, I’m pretty darn good at it!
So, question: why do I want to do it full time? Answer: the ‘Get A Clue Phone’.
Sometimes it doesn’t take an epiphany to change your life. Sometimes all it takes is: “Ring, ring! It’s the Get A Clue Phone! Wanna take this call?”
‘Hello, yes. Uh huh. Yeah, good point. Okay, sure…………..’
(rough translation: I’m makin’ more money workin’ two shifts at my ‘part time job’ than I am in the five day a week ‘day job’ I have).
As I said: “Ring, Ring!”
Besides; the work is relatively fun, positively challenging, monetarily rewarding, mentally aerobic and calls for a dexterity of wit (which I only have half of).
Here I am in the dining room:
“Well Sir, the building was built in 1840, we’re on a foundation of cypress logs and cotton bales. We’re called ‘a floater’. A common misconception is that the Mississippi River has always just stopped at those hills that we call levees. Not so, where you are sitting was probably marsh or bogs, or just plain…swamp!”
“Yes Ma’am, most restaurants serve ‘Pasta Prima Vera’ as their vegetarian offering. Why? Oh, it’s our State Vegetarian Dish. Are y’all from California?”
“We have three specials today; well actually, two specials and one not so special. Here they are……”
“We were, by legend, first a slave exchange and then a brothel. Yes Sir, I understand that you’ve been told that about every restaurant that you’ve been to here. Actually, before restaurants were invented, all of New Orleans was first a slave exchange and then a brothel.”
“Foie Gras? That’s the Friday before Mardi Gras.”
“Bourbon Street? Two blocks that way, No Sir, you are in The French Quarter.”
“No Sir, the chef does not mind suggestions. You think that we should not use iceberg lettuce in our salads? Sir, iceberg lettuce is our State Flower! Are you, by any chance, from California?”
“No Ma’am, Gumbo is not a soup. No, not a stew. Gumbo is Gumbo; it comes from the Swahili word for okra. No Ma’am, our Gumbo doesn’t have okra in it. Yes Ma’am, our ‘Seafood Gumbo’ has sausage in it. That’s a crab claw, Ma’am. Ma’am? May I recommend the Onion Soup? Yes Ma’am, it has onions in it………”
“Sweet tea?”
“Non-smoking section? It’s right here, let me just get that ashtray out of your way. You’re from California, right?”
Here I am in the kitchen:
“Comin’ through! Right behind you! On your back!
Leroy, that’s four salads: one house, two blue cheese and one just olive oil and lemon. Olive oil? It’s that green stuff in a bottle, put it on the side, yeah.
“Who cut lemons today and where the hell are they?”
“Chef, I need table six. That’s no garlic, light spice and steamed veggies. I think they’re from California.”
“Table four thinks that their steak is over cooked. Yes Sir, that looks ‘medium” to me, lets just cook it a little more. Yes Sir, they’re idiots.”
“Is it hot in here or is it just me?”
“Who stocked wines, and where the hell is the ‘House White’?”
Here’s me with the busboy:
“ Yo bro, I need more water to eight, coffee at four, reset table twelve for a deuce, and that kid on sixteen just spilled his coke. Oh, and more bread to seven. Got it? Good.”
Me at the waiter station:
“Comin’ in!”
“Would you believe sixteen bucks on a hundred and fifty? Where are these people from?”
“What the hell is ‘sweet tea’?”.
“Yeah, I told him that the Merlot was a brutish wine with overtones of black cherry, chocolate, licorice, cinnamon, needed to come to terms with its tannins but wouldn’t screw up the taste of his cheeseburger. What did he do? What else, white Zin!”
“Who cut lemons today?”
“Where did you get those ear rings? They’re so damn cute!”
Petit Moi at the bar:
“I need a Fog Cutter, a Leg Spreader. Two Chocolate Margaritas, a Sloe Gin Fizz, a Fast Gin Fizz, a pair of Heinies, a Dancing Pony, a Dead Dog, Cherry Coke, Obituary Cocktail, two shots of Marti’s Crotch and Wet Sex On The Beach.
Just joking, make that two rum and cokes and a Bud Lite. Oh, you’re no fun.”
Back at the tables:
“What an engaging child. Is it yours? Yes Sir, of course it’s a boy. Cute as the dickens, too. May I clean up that spill? My pleasure.”
“ Sorry to interrupt you love birds, you do look, er, ‘comfortable’. Honeymooners, eh? May I suggest wet sex on the beach? No Sir, that’s one of our drink specialties.”
“Well Sir, Jambalaya is ‘jumbled’, Gumbo is ‘gumbled’: same thing, only gumbling requires more liquid. They’re local culinary terms, I think the words originally come from the Swahili language.”
“Yes Ma’am, Creole and Cajun are words from the Choctaw Indians. Creoles were here first, hence, the word ‘Cree-Old’, The Cajuns are the younger immigrants, that’s right Ma’am, ‘Cay-youngs’! Glad to help.”
“No Sir, that only appears to be trash on our streets; actually, it’s land fill on its way to expanding our landmass, also, it’s a gauge to show how much fun we’re having. No problem.”
“Hey guys, can I get you something from the bar? What are Hurricanes? Well, besides being a force of nature, they are a local drink with twelve kinds of alcohol, four natural fruit juices and a Voodoo spell by the bartender. They’re sole intention is to f--- you up. Two each? Comin’ right up!”
Back at the waiter station:
“Eight separate checks! All at one table! This is gonna be a ‘check out’ from HELL!”
“Did you see what she was wearing at table six? What is she thinking, Moulon Rouge? And the beads! Do they want to get mugged?”
“My dogs are barkin’! There must be a better way……”
At the end of the shift:
“Man, am I ready for a cocktail! Okay, but if you see me headed for the video poker machine, slap me; I need to make rent this week!”
Author’s Note: See? I fit right in! Wish me luck
By
Phil LaMancusa
There’s a fly in your soup?
Or
Will there be anything else, Sir?
I’m embarking up a new tree. That is to say, that I’ve taken another job outside the realm of hithertofore, common to myself, acceptable employment behavorable pattern structured lunacy. I am applying for, and will get, a full time, permanent, lucrative job as a………waiter!!
Hey, I’ve got experience! And what’s more, I’m already doin’ it part time! AND, I’m pretty darn good at it!
So, question: why do I want to do it full time? Answer: the ‘Get A Clue Phone’.
Sometimes it doesn’t take an epiphany to change your life. Sometimes all it takes is: “Ring, ring! It’s the Get A Clue Phone! Wanna take this call?”
‘Hello, yes. Uh huh. Yeah, good point. Okay, sure…………..’
(rough translation: I’m makin’ more money workin’ two shifts at my ‘part time job’ than I am in the five day a week ‘day job’ I have).
As I said: “Ring, Ring!”
Besides; the work is relatively fun, positively challenging, monetarily rewarding, mentally aerobic and calls for a dexterity of wit (which I only have half of).
Here I am in the dining room:
“Well Sir, the building was built in 1840, we’re on a foundation of cypress logs and cotton bales. We’re called ‘a floater’. A common misconception is that the Mississippi River has always just stopped at those hills that we call levees. Not so, where you are sitting was probably marsh or bogs, or just plain…swamp!”
“Yes Ma’am, most restaurants serve ‘Pasta Prima Vera’ as their vegetarian offering. Why? Oh, it’s our State Vegetarian Dish. Are y’all from California?”
“We have three specials today; well actually, two specials and one not so special. Here they are……”
“We were, by legend, first a slave exchange and then a brothel. Yes Sir, I understand that you’ve been told that about every restaurant that you’ve been to here. Actually, before restaurants were invented, all of New Orleans was first a slave exchange and then a brothel.”
“Foie Gras? That’s the Friday before Mardi Gras.”
“Bourbon Street? Two blocks that way, No Sir, you are in The French Quarter.”
“No Sir, the chef does not mind suggestions. You think that we should not use iceberg lettuce in our salads? Sir, iceberg lettuce is our State Flower! Are you, by any chance, from California?”
“No Ma’am, Gumbo is not a soup. No, not a stew. Gumbo is Gumbo; it comes from the Swahili word for okra. No Ma’am, our Gumbo doesn’t have okra in it. Yes Ma’am, our ‘Seafood Gumbo’ has sausage in it. That’s a crab claw, Ma’am. Ma’am? May I recommend the Onion Soup? Yes Ma’am, it has onions in it………”
“Sweet tea?”
“Non-smoking section? It’s right here, let me just get that ashtray out of your way. You’re from California, right?”
Here I am in the kitchen:
“Comin’ through! Right behind you! On your back!
Leroy, that’s four salads: one house, two blue cheese and one just olive oil and lemon. Olive oil? It’s that green stuff in a bottle, put it on the side, yeah.
“Who cut lemons today and where the hell are they?”
“Chef, I need table six. That’s no garlic, light spice and steamed veggies. I think they’re from California.”
“Table four thinks that their steak is over cooked. Yes Sir, that looks ‘medium” to me, lets just cook it a little more. Yes Sir, they’re idiots.”
“Is it hot in here or is it just me?”
“Who stocked wines, and where the hell is the ‘House White’?”
Here’s me with the busboy:
“ Yo bro, I need more water to eight, coffee at four, reset table twelve for a deuce, and that kid on sixteen just spilled his coke. Oh, and more bread to seven. Got it? Good.”
Me at the waiter station:
“Comin’ in!”
“Would you believe sixteen bucks on a hundred and fifty? Where are these people from?”
“What the hell is ‘sweet tea’?”.
“Yeah, I told him that the Merlot was a brutish wine with overtones of black cherry, chocolate, licorice, cinnamon, needed to come to terms with its tannins but wouldn’t screw up the taste of his cheeseburger. What did he do? What else, white Zin!”
“Who cut lemons today?”
“Where did you get those ear rings? They’re so damn cute!”
Petit Moi at the bar:
“I need a Fog Cutter, a Leg Spreader. Two Chocolate Margaritas, a Sloe Gin Fizz, a Fast Gin Fizz, a pair of Heinies, a Dancing Pony, a Dead Dog, Cherry Coke, Obituary Cocktail, two shots of Marti’s Crotch and Wet Sex On The Beach.
Just joking, make that two rum and cokes and a Bud Lite. Oh, you’re no fun.”
Back at the tables:
“What an engaging child. Is it yours? Yes Sir, of course it’s a boy. Cute as the dickens, too. May I clean up that spill? My pleasure.”
“ Sorry to interrupt you love birds, you do look, er, ‘comfortable’. Honeymooners, eh? May I suggest wet sex on the beach? No Sir, that’s one of our drink specialties.”
“Well Sir, Jambalaya is ‘jumbled’, Gumbo is ‘gumbled’: same thing, only gumbling requires more liquid. They’re local culinary terms, I think the words originally come from the Swahili language.”
“Yes Ma’am, Creole and Cajun are words from the Choctaw Indians. Creoles were here first, hence, the word ‘Cree-Old’, The Cajuns are the younger immigrants, that’s right Ma’am, ‘Cay-youngs’! Glad to help.”
“No Sir, that only appears to be trash on our streets; actually, it’s land fill on its way to expanding our landmass, also, it’s a gauge to show how much fun we’re having. No problem.”
“Hey guys, can I get you something from the bar? What are Hurricanes? Well, besides being a force of nature, they are a local drink with twelve kinds of alcohol, four natural fruit juices and a Voodoo spell by the bartender. They’re sole intention is to f--- you up. Two each? Comin’ right up!”
Back at the waiter station:
“Eight separate checks! All at one table! This is gonna be a ‘check out’ from HELL!”
“Did you see what she was wearing at table six? What is she thinking, Moulon Rouge? And the beads! Do they want to get mugged?”
“My dogs are barkin’! There must be a better way……”
At the end of the shift:
“Man, am I ready for a cocktail! Okay, but if you see me headed for the video poker machine, slap me; I need to make rent this week!”
Author’s Note: See? I fit right in! Wish me luck
Friday, August 1, 2008
About hot sauces in New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
If You Can’t Stand The Heat
Or
Scoville’s Horse
Okay, Tabasco sauce is hot, and when it comes to food, the word means hot. In fact since the first two ounce bottle was sold by Edmund McIlhenny in 1869, Tabasco brand pepper sauce has been the benchmark in hot sauces and is exported to over 110 countries. Talk about a success story. It is rated at about 3-5,000 SU (Scoville Units). Consider it a classic.
Recently though, hot sauces have taken a different turn with a ‘burn K-Doe burn’ emphasis, with criterias of higher Scovilles and catchier labels. The labels that have flooded the market are the likes of ‘Pleasure and Pain, Plastering Phiery Pneumatic Perambulators On Unsophisticated Pharynxes ’, ‘Ass On Fire In A Bucket Of Blazing Briquettes’ and ‘Bubba’s Butt Rectal Revenge/Satan Sphincter Shrinker Venom Masochistic Napalm’.
Scoville ratings have now gone out of the roof and into outer space. And next you’re gonna ask, “Phil, what the deuce is a Scoville?”
Ahem…in 1912 a man named Scoville heard his horse ask: “Wilburrrrr, how hot is hot?” And, viola, he set about investigating, formulating and recording the different heat levels of different peppers. Assembling a posse of gangster tasters and using a normal bell pepper as a zero Scoville Unit, he set about seeing exactly how much sugar water it would take to neutralize the heat of any given pepper. For example, he found that it would take 2,500-5,000 ounces of sugar water to neutralize one ounce of a Jalapeño pepper’s heat, so he gave it a rating of 2,500-5,000 Scoville Units, based on the Scoville Organdeptic Test. What he was measuring was the levels of capsiacinoids, the element that we call heat. Incidentally, nowadays the test is done using a microscope. By the way, that little orange pepper called a Habanera that you see in stores and in hot sauces? It’s 200,00-300,00 SU. There are sauces available that go up to 1,000,000 SU if you’d care to blow your brains and your bottom out. Compare classic Tabasco sauce at 3-5,000 SU to pure capaicin at 16,000,000 SU.
Where are we going with this? Just a little background information while we whet your appetite for real hot sauces with simple names from the New Orleans area that are used in our homes and restaurants to flavor our local foods with a minimum of fooling around.
But first, did you know that until very recently, most New Orleans restaurants made their own hot pepper sauce? It was usually kept in a big glass bottle in the dining room and vinegar and peppers were added as necessary to keep it going. Many residents still make their own (myself included). I recently met a man that is keeping up and using his grandfather’s sauce. His grandfather died over thirty years ago!
I contacted some local companies and did taste tests and here’s what I found. Hot sauces are either water distilled or vinegar distilled, naturally the type of pepper used and it’s proportion to the liquid effects the strength of the brew. Vinegar is added to most pepper sauces for bite, sugar or fruits will be added to tone the mixture down. Water distilled sauces will be milder, with less bite and more emphasis on flavor. Aging is also a factor, and like fine wine, aging develops complexity of taste, a balance of acidity and the heat and smoothness of flavor profile. But you already knew that.
Okay, this is the part where I ‘Goggled’ local hot sauces and only one answered out of a half a dozen. If I had been writing this about Tabasco, I’m so damn sure that they would have jumped on this wagon and sent me samples, some Tabasco bling, banners and maybe even a brass band, that I could spit. But nooooo… I’ve got to write about the little guys.
Anyway, rule numero uno: read the ingredients and if there is something other than stuff found in nature and your kitchen, put that puppy back on the shelf! I’m thinking “peppers, vinegar, salt”. You with me?
Here’s some local names: Cajun Chef, Panola, Crystal, Louisiana, Chachere’s, Ashanti and Bayou Red.
Rule two: choose your camp. Are you gonna be a Louisiana fan, a world fan or are you, like some hard core Pepperheads, gonna swear allegiance to one brand and go so far as to even carry a bottle with you? Or do you give a rat’s whisker at all? Personally I love Sriracha and will use it on everything wherever I find it served, but I don’t tote it with me. It’s got a lot of stuff in it and is contradictory to any Pepperhead rules; but, like love, I am blind to it’s faults and prey to it’s flavors. Other sauces I can take or leave; however, some of the chipotle (smoked jalapeño) sauces are rather appealing.
Rule three: snub your nose at gimmicky pepper sauce. If you’re going to be a serious Pepperhead use them for flavor and heat, not just for heat and a cartoon of a woman dressed in low cut leather, sporting a whip and black thigh-high boots.
Number four: check out Latin American, Caribbean, Asian, Indonesian and American regional sauces. Go to tastings (Austin has a great one) and talk it up with fellow Pepperheads.
Five: as the man said, “If you don’t like the news, make some of your own!” The same goes for hot sauces. You can and should make your own hot sauce. There are books out there like ‘Hot Licks’ by Jennifer Trainer Thompson and more; check ‘em out! To further exploit quotations, as an ex-con acquaintance once said to me “read a book, get a clue.
And Six: Use your computer to Further educate yourself. When last I checked there were 1629 books answering the key words ‘recipe hot sauces’. Rounding third and heading for home, heeeeeere’s Seven: go down to the Decatur Street Newsstand, 1133 Decatur, and pick up a chili lover’s magazine, or two. Call Bruce, 566-3000, to see which ones are in.
Until next month, here's this: In India they grow a pepper, Bhut Joloka or Ghost Pepper, 1,001,304 SU. It is said to be the equivalent of a sensory mugging or as one quote assured "like swigging a cocktail of battery acid and glass shards." Woof! Let me in on your thoughts, phil@whereyat.net.
By
Phil LaMancusa
If You Can’t Stand The Heat
Or
Scoville’s Horse
Okay, Tabasco sauce is hot, and when it comes to food, the word means hot. In fact since the first two ounce bottle was sold by Edmund McIlhenny in 1869, Tabasco brand pepper sauce has been the benchmark in hot sauces and is exported to over 110 countries. Talk about a success story. It is rated at about 3-5,000 SU (Scoville Units). Consider it a classic.
Recently though, hot sauces have taken a different turn with a ‘burn K-Doe burn’ emphasis, with criterias of higher Scovilles and catchier labels. The labels that have flooded the market are the likes of ‘Pleasure and Pain, Plastering Phiery Pneumatic Perambulators On Unsophisticated Pharynxes ’, ‘Ass On Fire In A Bucket Of Blazing Briquettes’ and ‘Bubba’s Butt Rectal Revenge/Satan Sphincter Shrinker Venom Masochistic Napalm’.
Scoville ratings have now gone out of the roof and into outer space. And next you’re gonna ask, “Phil, what the deuce is a Scoville?”
Ahem…in 1912 a man named Scoville heard his horse ask: “Wilburrrrr, how hot is hot?” And, viola, he set about investigating, formulating and recording the different heat levels of different peppers. Assembling a posse of gangster tasters and using a normal bell pepper as a zero Scoville Unit, he set about seeing exactly how much sugar water it would take to neutralize the heat of any given pepper. For example, he found that it would take 2,500-5,000 ounces of sugar water to neutralize one ounce of a Jalapeño pepper’s heat, so he gave it a rating of 2,500-5,000 Scoville Units, based on the Scoville Organdeptic Test. What he was measuring was the levels of capsiacinoids, the element that we call heat. Incidentally, nowadays the test is done using a microscope. By the way, that little orange pepper called a Habanera that you see in stores and in hot sauces? It’s 200,00-300,00 SU. There are sauces available that go up to 1,000,000 SU if you’d care to blow your brains and your bottom out. Compare classic Tabasco sauce at 3-5,000 SU to pure capaicin at 16,000,000 SU.
Where are we going with this? Just a little background information while we whet your appetite for real hot sauces with simple names from the New Orleans area that are used in our homes and restaurants to flavor our local foods with a minimum of fooling around.
But first, did you know that until very recently, most New Orleans restaurants made their own hot pepper sauce? It was usually kept in a big glass bottle in the dining room and vinegar and peppers were added as necessary to keep it going. Many residents still make their own (myself included). I recently met a man that is keeping up and using his grandfather’s sauce. His grandfather died over thirty years ago!
I contacted some local companies and did taste tests and here’s what I found. Hot sauces are either water distilled or vinegar distilled, naturally the type of pepper used and it’s proportion to the liquid effects the strength of the brew. Vinegar is added to most pepper sauces for bite, sugar or fruits will be added to tone the mixture down. Water distilled sauces will be milder, with less bite and more emphasis on flavor. Aging is also a factor, and like fine wine, aging develops complexity of taste, a balance of acidity and the heat and smoothness of flavor profile. But you already knew that.
Okay, this is the part where I ‘Goggled’ local hot sauces and only one answered out of a half a dozen. If I had been writing this about Tabasco, I’m so damn sure that they would have jumped on this wagon and sent me samples, some Tabasco bling, banners and maybe even a brass band, that I could spit. But nooooo… I’ve got to write about the little guys.
Anyway, rule numero uno: read the ingredients and if there is something other than stuff found in nature and your kitchen, put that puppy back on the shelf! I’m thinking “peppers, vinegar, salt”. You with me?
Here’s some local names: Cajun Chef, Panola, Crystal, Louisiana, Chachere’s, Ashanti and Bayou Red.
Rule two: choose your camp. Are you gonna be a Louisiana fan, a world fan or are you, like some hard core Pepperheads, gonna swear allegiance to one brand and go so far as to even carry a bottle with you? Or do you give a rat’s whisker at all? Personally I love Sriracha and will use it on everything wherever I find it served, but I don’t tote it with me. It’s got a lot of stuff in it and is contradictory to any Pepperhead rules; but, like love, I am blind to it’s faults and prey to it’s flavors. Other sauces I can take or leave; however, some of the chipotle (smoked jalapeño) sauces are rather appealing.
Rule three: snub your nose at gimmicky pepper sauce. If you’re going to be a serious Pepperhead use them for flavor and heat, not just for heat and a cartoon of a woman dressed in low cut leather, sporting a whip and black thigh-high boots.
Number four: check out Latin American, Caribbean, Asian, Indonesian and American regional sauces. Go to tastings (Austin has a great one) and talk it up with fellow Pepperheads.
Five: as the man said, “If you don’t like the news, make some of your own!” The same goes for hot sauces. You can and should make your own hot sauce. There are books out there like ‘Hot Licks’ by Jennifer Trainer Thompson and more; check ‘em out! To further exploit quotations, as an ex-con acquaintance once said to me “read a book, get a clue.
And Six: Use your computer to Further educate yourself. When last I checked there were 1629 books answering the key words ‘recipe hot sauces’. Rounding third and heading for home, heeeeeere’s Seven: go down to the Decatur Street Newsstand, 1133 Decatur, and pick up a chili lover’s magazine, or two. Call Bruce, 566-3000, to see which ones are in.
Until next month, here's this: In India they grow a pepper, Bhut Joloka or Ghost Pepper, 1,001,304 SU. It is said to be the equivalent of a sensory mugging or as one quote assured "like swigging a cocktail of battery acid and glass shards." Woof! Let me in on your thoughts, phil@whereyat.net.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Lunch in New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By Phil LaMancusa
Let’s get serious here for a minute. The ozone layer, homeless and jobless rates, the stock market, the energy crisis, pattern baldness and who the heck should honestly be our president (can you use those two words in the same sentence?) doesn’t amount to a hill of beans when mid morning comes, now does it?
The question really, as Douglas Adams put it in his sequel to Restaurant At The End Of The Universe, is, basically, “where shall we have lunch?”
I think of that, as the weather turns warmer and I wander from room to room, considering that empty feeling, that ‘hunger not of the soul’, picking up stray socks and blaming the mess around here alternately on the dog and/or the cat. Pondering, playing and toying with and on the eternal predicament: ‘where shall I eat? What do I feel like having? And, how far am I willing to go to get it?’
Running down the mid day meal is an experience and an adventure; I know, I do it an average of eight times a week. The criteria being that I should be able to begin my quest with an eleven-dollar bill and finish with a full belly and a fresh pack of squares (make mine Luckys, please).
Sanely enough, in the French Quarter, you can walk toward your destination, change your mind half a dozen times about where to stop, and wind up eating somewhere completely different than all of them.
********************************************
All places, from Annie’s Chicken Shack to Vat O’ Gumbo have things that I consider great and only with trepidation, and a great deal of faith, do I stray from requesting (I never ’order”) any other offerings. For example: Fiorella’s, on Thursdays, has a butterbean special that can’t be beat; but if you want their ‘famous’ fried chicken, you’ll have cramps (and maybe die) from hunger by the time it gets to you. Ergo: I go there on Thursdays AND I have butterbeans. In the same vein; if I recommend to someone the fried oyster po-boy at Mr. Johnny’s, I don’t want them to come cryote-ing to me because they didn’t like their red beans!
Go where you will for red beans, I say; those of us that ate Buster Holmes’ beans can’t eat them anywhere else, and he’s long gone just like a turkey through the corn. Opinionated? Me? You bet your blue plate!
Also, lunch requires some ‘splaining. For example, if I tell you that the most beautiful cook works at The Royal Street Gro. and the best sandwich maker works the counter at the Quarter Gro. That doesn’t mean to say that she doesn’t make a dynamite six-inch alligator (she sure does!) or that he’s anything that you’d kick to the curb (his club sandwich! Yes, yes!), it’s just my view; and if you don’t like the news (or views), as they say, feel free to make some of your own.
Speaking of Grocery stores. They are where most of us Quarter Rats excel in culinary savvy. They are where the true heartbeat of local cuisine (we like to call it ‘cookin’, thank you) is found. Ask anyone that’s had the crawfish pasta that is the Friday special at C&C, or the well thought out specials at Matassa’s, the roast beef po-boy at Peoples, the mac and cheese at Verde Mart, the chili cheese fries at the Nellie Deli, the alligator po-boy at The Royal Street (did I mention that cook, or their gumbo?), or the ‘pot cookin’ at J.C.’s
Is the muffelatta better at Progress or Central? Do you opt for the service (?) at Napoleon House? Who’s been to Frank’s lately and why? Ever wonder what natives discuss over coffee? Guess no more, we talk food and the discussions are as passionate as great foreplay, and it’s even sanctioned in groups (God, you give great menu!!!).
Speaking of menus. Have you tried Jaeger’s Back Kitchen? It is probably the best new place to open in a long while, maybe years. The ‘pot cookin’ is second to none, the prices are good and the service friendly. It’ll make you want to throw rocks at the Old Dog, just up the alley, but that’s another story.
If you’ve guessed by now that I have a lot to say on this subject, probably so much to say that I just will not have room for little things like addresses, phone numbers, business hours or the names behind the faces, BINGO! You win the Cuisinart! You’d be amazed how fast a thousand words go by. I’ll just leave it up to you to find out where these gems are; hint: they’re all in the Quarter.
Speaking of the Quarter; this is not to say that I don’t enjoy lunch beyond it’s boundaries. Like the Pho at Nine Happiness, the Pad Thai at Singha, a Menage a Trois at the whorehouse (The Sporting House), or the gumbo at Dubon’s. That’s just not so. Like I said, I just don’t have room to write it ALL.
Mena’s, Oh My Lord, Mena’s; have you ever had a better ham hock with cabbage, boiled potato and cornbread? And it’s just across the alley from Country Flame. What to choose? What to choose? And where to go to go to choose it. How do you choose it? I stand outside 1212 Royal St. for half an hour, rubbernecking the menus of Midnight Express and Mona Lisa’s, like a sailor in a red light district, trying to decide where I’ll get my kicks. They both get my vote for great food and they treat you like family.
The Gumbo Shop, twenty five years ago , had a banner inside the dining room that proclaimed in big letters: “Ici On Mange Bien” that is, “Here One Eats Well”. That’s still true of the Gumbo Shop and, for that matter, my French Quarter. If I had room for another thousand words… I would go on and on and on. But, I don’t.
Next Month: How the President saved the day by moving the French Quarter over there to solve The Mid East Crisis. (“betcha I can tell ya where you got that towel… on yo head! hahahahahahahaha
By Phil LaMancusa
Let’s get serious here for a minute. The ozone layer, homeless and jobless rates, the stock market, the energy crisis, pattern baldness and who the heck should honestly be our president (can you use those two words in the same sentence?) doesn’t amount to a hill of beans when mid morning comes, now does it?
The question really, as Douglas Adams put it in his sequel to Restaurant At The End Of The Universe, is, basically, “where shall we have lunch?”
I think of that, as the weather turns warmer and I wander from room to room, considering that empty feeling, that ‘hunger not of the soul’, picking up stray socks and blaming the mess around here alternately on the dog and/or the cat. Pondering, playing and toying with and on the eternal predicament: ‘where shall I eat? What do I feel like having? And, how far am I willing to go to get it?’
Running down the mid day meal is an experience and an adventure; I know, I do it an average of eight times a week. The criteria being that I should be able to begin my quest with an eleven-dollar bill and finish with a full belly and a fresh pack of squares (make mine Luckys, please).
Sanely enough, in the French Quarter, you can walk toward your destination, change your mind half a dozen times about where to stop, and wind up eating somewhere completely different than all of them.
********************************************
All places, from Annie’s Chicken Shack to Vat O’ Gumbo have things that I consider great and only with trepidation, and a great deal of faith, do I stray from requesting (I never ’order”) any other offerings. For example: Fiorella’s, on Thursdays, has a butterbean special that can’t be beat; but if you want their ‘famous’ fried chicken, you’ll have cramps (and maybe die) from hunger by the time it gets to you. Ergo: I go there on Thursdays AND I have butterbeans. In the same vein; if I recommend to someone the fried oyster po-boy at Mr. Johnny’s, I don’t want them to come cryote-ing to me because they didn’t like their red beans!
Go where you will for red beans, I say; those of us that ate Buster Holmes’ beans can’t eat them anywhere else, and he’s long gone just like a turkey through the corn. Opinionated? Me? You bet your blue plate!
Also, lunch requires some ‘splaining. For example, if I tell you that the most beautiful cook works at The Royal Street Gro. and the best sandwich maker works the counter at the Quarter Gro. That doesn’t mean to say that she doesn’t make a dynamite six-inch alligator (she sure does!) or that he’s anything that you’d kick to the curb (his club sandwich! Yes, yes!), it’s just my view; and if you don’t like the news (or views), as they say, feel free to make some of your own.
Speaking of Grocery stores. They are where most of us Quarter Rats excel in culinary savvy. They are where the true heartbeat of local cuisine (we like to call it ‘cookin’, thank you) is found. Ask anyone that’s had the crawfish pasta that is the Friday special at C&C, or the well thought out specials at Matassa’s, the roast beef po-boy at Peoples, the mac and cheese at Verde Mart, the chili cheese fries at the Nellie Deli, the alligator po-boy at The Royal Street (did I mention that cook, or their gumbo?), or the ‘pot cookin’ at J.C.’s
Is the muffelatta better at Progress or Central? Do you opt for the service (?) at Napoleon House? Who’s been to Frank’s lately and why? Ever wonder what natives discuss over coffee? Guess no more, we talk food and the discussions are as passionate as great foreplay, and it’s even sanctioned in groups (God, you give great menu!!!).
Speaking of menus. Have you tried Jaeger’s Back Kitchen? It is probably the best new place to open in a long while, maybe years. The ‘pot cookin’ is second to none, the prices are good and the service friendly. It’ll make you want to throw rocks at the Old Dog, just up the alley, but that’s another story.
If you’ve guessed by now that I have a lot to say on this subject, probably so much to say that I just will not have room for little things like addresses, phone numbers, business hours or the names behind the faces, BINGO! You win the Cuisinart! You’d be amazed how fast a thousand words go by. I’ll just leave it up to you to find out where these gems are; hint: they’re all in the Quarter.
Speaking of the Quarter; this is not to say that I don’t enjoy lunch beyond it’s boundaries. Like the Pho at Nine Happiness, the Pad Thai at Singha, a Menage a Trois at the whorehouse (The Sporting House), or the gumbo at Dubon’s. That’s just not so. Like I said, I just don’t have room to write it ALL.
Mena’s, Oh My Lord, Mena’s; have you ever had a better ham hock with cabbage, boiled potato and cornbread? And it’s just across the alley from Country Flame. What to choose? What to choose? And where to go to go to choose it. How do you choose it? I stand outside 1212 Royal St. for half an hour, rubbernecking the menus of Midnight Express and Mona Lisa’s, like a sailor in a red light district, trying to decide where I’ll get my kicks. They both get my vote for great food and they treat you like family.
The Gumbo Shop, twenty five years ago , had a banner inside the dining room that proclaimed in big letters: “Ici On Mange Bien” that is, “Here One Eats Well”. That’s still true of the Gumbo Shop and, for that matter, my French Quarter. If I had room for another thousand words… I would go on and on and on. But, I don’t.
Next Month: How the President saved the day by moving the French Quarter over there to solve The Mid East Crisis. (“betcha I can tell ya where you got that towel… on yo head! hahahahahahahaha
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