Chapter One: Gallopin’ to Galatoire’s
Besides their yummy beignets, with their crispy, snow-covered outside and yet soft, chewy center, Café Du Monde’s saving grace might be their shelter from the ever-present storm. Five days were spent recently in the Crescent City, each wetter than the one before, where the plans made by my wife and I were coordinated with the Weather Channel app. Twice we narrowly missed being drenched by ducking under the green and white striped awning. Outside our hotel window it would be nothing but blue skies. Whenever our cab pulled up to our destination, then came the rain. Almost felt personal.
New Orleans is still the top culinary city in America. Sure, Pittsburgh has some nice innovations happening; Los Angeles (for which I wrote a best-selling guide) is still shaking off the mashed yeast stigma with a band of rebel chefs like Wes Avila and two stoners named Jon & Vinny; New York is still… New York; and Charleston comes off as some raving restaurateur’s version of Sim City (seriously, does anybody outside the service industry even live there?). As great as each of these metropolises may be, they still can’t touch the Crescent City.
Most of the go-to spots in New Orleans have been around longer than the concept of the “foodie”. Galatoire’s, for example, opened their doors in 1905! I suck at math, but I can spot a different century like the back of my powdered sugar hand. Speaking of Galatoire’s, let’s start there, shall we? We shall, since you have absolutely no say in the structure of this post. This isn’t a democracy, quite the opposite, it’s Equestrianism! Or some such shit.
Honoring the traditions started by Jean Galatoire, who came to New Orleans from the small village of Pardies, France, this Bourbon Street institution is the embodiment of class. Don’t even think of showing up in your flip-flops and a “Single and Ready to Mingle” shirt. Trust me. You will be sent straight to D.H. Holmes for more up-to-snuff duds.
Wearing my best suit and Jerry Garcia tie, I made a reservation for noon on Friday. That’s right, lunch time! Friday lunch is the place to hobnob with a cluster of the city’s upper crusters: This is high society all gussied up in pastels, ascots, and straw hats. It’s a scene, man. Waiters in their starched uniforms circling multiple tables, slowing getting around to those drink orders. Oh, yeah…clear your day calendar. You aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. Friday’s lunch at Galatoire’s is a marathon of fizzy drinks and classic dishes often found in dusty cookbooks. The neighborhood eatery that doubles as a time machine. Tell ‘em Teddy Rosevelt sent ya.
One customary fare that Galatoire’s does better than just about anybody is their Turtle Soup au Sherry. Plucked straight from the swamps, these snapping turtles go into a pot with beef stock, sherry, parsley, and lemon zest. Served with a customary glass of sherry, which you can slowly pour into your soup for extra zing or…drink. No judgements. With a velvety texture similar to gumbo, this dish is the perfect marriage between hoity-toity French technique and Cajun ingenuity. Elegant, yet impecunious. Imagine Godard directing an episode of Duck Dynasty. Wow, A&E should totally make that happen.
Speaking of ducks, our second course was the roasted duck crepe with homemade Boursin cheese, dried cranberries and pistachios. A most perfect appetizer. At this point in the meal the place was alive with conversation and laughter. Pictures were taken between old acquaintances. Feeling the invite to coalesce with the locals, I chortled at inside jokes, guffawed at salacious gossip and hee-hawed when a chair gave way to gravity underneath a corpulent debutante. She was quickly swooped up by her bemused beau, her chair replaced by a nimble porter and she continued on as if the whole thing never happened. Like I said earlier, it’s a scene.
The entree came swimming towards the table in the form of a slightly overcooked black drum. Don’t fret, as the disappointment was washed away by glass after glass of Galatoire’s Rose Cocktail, a bubbly concoction for a bubbly wife. As for I, well, my spirits were lifted once it was time for dessert. Flipping a coin between the Key Lime Tart and the Black Bottom Pecan Pie - in the biz this is considered a win-win - with tails showing itself the victor, I firmly dug into the cookie-crusted pie, with its glaze of whiskey caramel sauce, twirling my fork into the accompanying whipped cream. A perfect end to a near-perfect midday feast. The fish was forgiven. The rest was not to be forgotten. We paid our bill, tipped generously and complimented a few old ladies on their Crayola-colored frocks on our way out the door.
And it was there, between the entrance and the curb, where we were met by yet another torrential downpour.
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