Wow. We no longer have to picture Hal Holbrook. Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein confirms that former FBI deputy director W. Mark Felt was "Deep Throat". Who will be this administration's Deep Throat? Who would put his duty to the United States and to the American people above his loyalty to BushCo? Does this administration contain anyone with that much fortitude and courage? (The 8 Ball says, "Signs point to no." Sigh.) Quotes of the day. You can say that again.
[ Link to today's entries ]
A thought for the holiday. An editorial from the Minneapolis Star Tribune, which is, as was pointed out at dKos, right in the middle of Norm Coleman country:
More in the comments. [ Link to today's entries ]
Lilette. It's become somewhat of a tradition on our Jazzfest visits to have one big blowout dinner with my siblings and siblings-in-law, which has on occasion gotten a big raucous. (We're still quoting the incredibly rude woman from New York in the incredibly crowded bar at the Pelican Club several years back. It was impossible to wait in there without brushing up against people. My sister Marie brushed by someone, who whirled on her with a look of intense hatred. Marie said "Excuse me," but she responded to that by bellowing, "Would you mind not ramming into me?" I replied, "Hey, it's very crowded in here, let's all just relax, okay" She responded, "Fuck you," and the rest that went on from there was, shall we say, history.) This year we managed to avoid verbal (and nearly physical) fisticuffs, and had a really fun dinner at a place my sister Melissa had been raving about for ages -- Lilette, on Magazine Street between Louisiana and Napoleon. "I'll go there with you anytime, she'd say. Okay kiddo, you're on. Lilette is one of the prime examples of my annoyance at not being able to get home as often as I'd like; I should've eaten here ages ago, as it's been open for nearly five years now. One day, perhaps, finances will allow, but at this point it is better late than never. Chef John Harris' cuisine is primarily French with some Italian influences, and only a hint of the Creole dishes of New Orleans. This is good; as much as I love Creole food, if every restaurant in the city cooked Creole (as some people seem to want), it'd get pretty boring pretty quickly. Lilette features very creative, high-level bistro cooking and flavors that tend to elicit my favorite reaction -- the old moaning-and-pounding-on-the-table. We couldn't have had a better start. Lilette prides itself on its superb cocktail menu, including several house originals -- y'all know we're all over that. We began with their house special, The Lilette Cocktail: Lillet Blanc, soda, a dash or two of Madagascar vanilla extract and a few snips of fresh vanilla bean, served tall with ice. It's light, refreshing and absolutely lovely. I went on with another house original, the Linstead: Bourbon, Ricard, lemon, lime and pineapple juices and a touch of sugar. Pretty good, although I'd have to try one more and decide whether I'd order that one again. Now, for dinner: 
For my appetizer, I listened to Melissa, who kept repeating, almost as if chanting a sacred mantra, "Get the toast, get the toast, get the toast ..." Who am I to argue? White Truffle Parmesan Toast, with wild mushrooms, marrow and veal glace. Holy bejeebies, this was good. I was so stoned just from the aroma coming off the plate that I neglected to focus the camera properly, as you can see. The toast was drizzled with white truffle oil and Parmigiano-Reggiano, under the broiler, then draped with the intensely flavored demiglace and mushrooms. As if this wasn't rich enough, chunks of veal marrow mingle with the mushrooms for a blast of fatty goodness every few bites. Oh my. 
Wes and Jeff got the Boudin Noir Lilette with housemade spicy mustard and cornichons. This wasn't Cajun-style boudin, this was French blood sausage, no rice, a very earthy flavor (in case you're wondering, "earthy" is a compliment, not a euphemism for "nasty") and rich rich rich. The "spicy mustard" is a bit of a misnomer. It isn't "spicy" the way you might expect; it's more "thermonuclear" (this is also a compliment). That mustard went straight up my noise and out the top of my head, leaving an approximately three-inch hole in the top of my skull. (This is a good thing, believe me.) This isn't a dish for everybody, but if you like intense, rich flavors, don't miss it. In fact, you should get each of the two above starters and split them ... oh hell, just get them both for yourself. They're not all that big. On the second visit, begin exploring the other starters. I was trying, oh so feebly, to "behave" myself on this visit, attempting to opt for dishes that were either smaller or less heavy. I had a grilled seafood entrée coming, and I felt a bit of a hole in the meal approaching. I scanned the menu to see what else I could add, and something wonderful caught my eye. I asked the waiter that given the dishes I had already ordered, would splitting this one extra dish make me into a big ol' pig? He politely assured me that it would not, so ... 
Braised veal cheeks on baby greens with horseradish vinaigrette. One of the finest expressions of meat, in three little bits, that I've tasted in a long time. Impossibly tender, so much so that I almost expected the morsels of veal cheek to start oozing into a puddle, but with a good, meaty texture. Marvelous flavor, and just a hint of horseradish in the vinaigrette; you don't want to overpower meat that tastes like this. 
I was actually quite well-behaved for my main, and had an entirely new experience. Grilled Kaijiki with fava beans, grape tomatoes, grilled ramps and lemon vinaigrette. Kaijiki is Hawaiian marlin, and as I don't know any deep sea fishermen this was the first time I'd ever tasted it. It reminded me of swordfish, very tasty, but with a meatier texture. Chef recommended it medium-rare, which was perfect, and that light lemon sauce was a perfect foil for the flavor. I love fava beans, and was happy to have the ramps (sort of a wild spring onion), which were just in season. Look ma! No cream sauce, and not battered-and-deep-fried! Along with that I sipped a lovely Zardetto Prosecco Brut N.V., which was the perfect accompaniment. 
Wes and Jeff opted for the same entré -- Seared Kobe Beef New York Strip Steak with roasted potatoes, mixed mushrooms and gremolata. "Wow, I've never had Kobe beef before," Wes said, after having heard of it many times, and watched various Iron Chefs prepare it on TV. He's a beef lover and was intensely curious, but then there was the price ... $38 for a six-ounce portion, and $70 for a 12-ouncer. Six ounces of beef is quite enough, actually, so that's what they went for. The verdict? Very, very good ... and yet, they still weren't sure it was worth the money. Wes said he was glad he'd ordered it and tried it, but he's had less expensive steaks he's enjoyed just as well, and Jeff said, "Y'all might call me a heretic, but I enjoyed this less than the last New York strip I had at Outback Steakhouse, which was a lot cheaper." I had a taste, and it was very, very good. Would I order it myself sometime? Maybe. (Wine was a Bordeaux, Château Greysac Medoc '00.) 
All the fat and calorie points I saved during my marlin entrée went out the window during dessert, which was another one of those "ya gotta" dishes. "Ya gotta get the pear and goat cheese," said Melissa. Okay, I'm easy. Quenelles of Goat Cheese with Poached Pears, pistachios and lavender honey. Wow. Um, wow. The tangy goat cheese was lightly sweetened and mixed with crème fraîche, and the lavender honey was the crowning touch, so sweet and aromatic, and it reminded me of a painting of a lavender field in Provence we had seen at a gallery on Julia Street earlier that day. So simple -- maybe six ingredients, not counting the poaching liquid -- and absolutely gorgeous. I'm ready for my next visit already. August is shaping up to be a good visit ... Dad's 70th birthday, Café Adelaide, Marisol and Lilette? Just over two months to go. Anatomy of a cocktail (or two). In a recent issue of Cheers Magazine Gary Regan, who missed being behind the stick, begins tending bar at his local, Painter's Tavern in Cornwall-on-Hudson, New York, and concocts two new Scotch-based cocktails for his customers, both of which look very much worth a try. UPDATE: Bad link to the article now fixed. Hypocrisy. Via Wes, who asks, "If we style ourselves as defenders and promoters of democracy, why are we selling weapons to countries that are, at best, undemocratic?" Or worse; Uzbekistan is ruled by a despot, who mows down opposition protests and has been known to boil political prisoners alive? Yep, we love to be allied to them, don't we, George? [ Link to today's entries ]
Troublesome? Um, worth the trouble, bra. I subscribe to New Orleans food writer Tom Fitzmorris' New Orleans Menu Daily and read every issue. I generally enjoy it, but man ... sometimes I wonder what planet he's on. For instance, today's list -- I agree that many foods are troublesome to eat, but some of his comments about them are jaw-dropping. (My comments are in italics after each entry.)
Okay, I will say something. Have you actually heard of the revolutionary technique of spearing tubular pasta with one's fork? Try it sometime. I've been doing it since I was three, and lemme tell ya, it works. Also, do not ever eat barbecue shrimp without peeling them. The ultimate trip... through the films of one of the world's great filmmakers, that is. Taschen has just released The Stanley Kubrick Archives, a spectacularly beautiful, comprehensive and altoghether huge (11" x 16" and well over 10 pounds) book that'll take up half your coffee table, and which I was recently astonished to receive as a gift (thanks, hon!) It's the last book a Kubrick fan will ever need, with the first section feature full-page stills from all of his films, plus interviews, essays and analysis and, best of all, innumerable items from Kubrick's meticulously thorough archive. Apparently he kept everything, on practically every movie.
It's one of the most amazing books I own, and I'll have months, if not years of enjoyment from it. There's also an article from the Guardian on the book, the archive plus an interview with Kubrick's widow Christiane that's worth reading. Quatres étoiles! Chef Eric Ripert of Le Bernadin in New York talks to Newsweek about his restaurant having received its fourth consecutive four-star rating from the New York Times, and more. This one's on my list with Babbo and several others, if we can afford it, when we finally make it to New York. (I can't believe I've never been there.) Moan and pound on the table. That's one of my reactions to culinary ecstasy, and ... well, if anyone develops cheap or free teleportation between now and mid-June, please let me know, as I'll have to resist the temptation to otherwise spend too much money flying home on June 12 for one single meal. From Poppy's journal I snagged the dégustation menu that Chef Pete Vasquez is preparing at Marisol in honor of her new novel Prime. It's apparenltly similar to the dinner he did in honor of the publication of Liquor last year, in that then all the dishes were based on the title ingredient; this time, it's all beef, baby. Oh Gawd, does this sound great ...
Le *faint*. The only thing I'm a little iffy about is the brains. I've had 'em before and I'm not that big a fan. It's probably the creamy texture that gets me, although if Chef Pete can get 'em crispy, that'd probably be a help. (They've also got about 10 times the amount of cholesterol you should have in a single day in a single serving). However, from everything I've been reading and hearing, I'll eat anything Chef Pete puts in front of me. It's all just wishful thinking, though, 'cause I won't be able to go, unless we can ... Beam me over! Or I'll buy a gris-gris bag that'll win me just enough of a lil' lottery prize to get me there and back in a weekend. Mmmm, speaking of lengua ... That's Spanish for "tongue", by the way. Yeah yeah, I can hear you now. Ewwwww, tongue! It was in a cow's mouth! (Big deal! It was washed off. Ham was next to a pig's ass!) Tongue is actually quite delicious, and isn't tough like you might expect. Properly cooked with a long braise it's very tender, richly flavored and insensely beefy. Most often in Los Angeles you see it in tacos de lengua, as mentioned above, although I have no idea what Chef Pete's will be like. One of my favorite tongue dishes locally is the thinly sliced tongue in a spicy red sauce at La Luna Negra, the excellent (although frequently too crowded to get into) Spanish tapas restaurant in Pasadena. That plus the tacos was the bulk of my lengua experience, until last weekend ... Our friends Moisés and John invited us over for mole de lengua, and at the very mention of that my eyes lit up. I'm a mole fanatic, and I'll eat just about anything as long as it's swimming in a mole sauce. I've had at last a half-dozen or more different kinds -- red, black, green, from Oaxaca or from other parts of Mexico. A thick, rich, extremely complex sauce which might just put many French sauciers to shame, can contain upwards of 30 ingredients (including chiles, nuts, seeds and frequently chocolate) and usually takes all day to make, mole is one of the many aspects of traditional Mexican cuisine that elevates it to the same level of any of the finest cuisines in the world. 
I'm still trying to take off the weight I put on in New Orleans (5 pounds to go), so I toyed with the idea of being good and asking for a small serving, maybe only one slice of tongue. One whiff of this stuff and I knew that'd be amusing foolishness. This was reinforced when he put my plate in front of me. 
Moisés' mole was thick, rich, nutty, hot, deeply flavored and with a touch of bitterness from the charred dried chiles and God knows what else. The lengua was as tender as meat can get before it starts falling apart into "debris". It might just amaze how you good this is, how good beef can be. It ain't all just steaks, baby. 
My only concession to being "good" was only eating about half the rice, which was plenty. (Rice is about 2 WW points per half-cup.) I didn't need any dessert. Even though I've still got some mole Teloloapan in my fridge, and some black Oaxacan mole on the from Mary (who picked it up for me at Grand Central Market when she was looking for my carnitas tacos from the other day), and I can always pick up mole paste at Guelaguetza on the way home ... I'm feeling a compulsion to spend a day making this at home sometime. I'd love something that tastes this great to come from my own hands. [ Link to today's entries ]
Cocktail of the day. (Congratulations, you nutty kids!) Felicitations, much happiness and biddings of long life go out to our good friends Chris and Mary Jane, who got married last Saturday on a perfect, beautiful day. We were honored that they asked us to come up with a new cocktail for the occasion, which would be served to the wedding guests. Mixological duties fell to Wes this time, who had been knocking around some ideas in his head for a while and eventually came up with this gem, which is a relative of the Footloose Cocktail and was a big hit at the reception. Even people who don't normally quaff cocktails loved this one.
Not to be outdone, the groom had a drink named after him as well. "The Christopher Michael", however, was a bit simpler, and was described thusly on the menu: "A bottle of beer." Natch. Congrats, youse two! 'Cue! Via Wes, who sends along Slate's David Plotz's tale of barbecue mania and pilgrimage. He's a man after my own heart, a man who once licked his own wrist days after spending time in a smoke-filled Estonian sauna, because he could still smell it on him; "I'd been barbecued." Wes noted one interesting political idea about 8 grafs into the story:
You paying attention, Howard? Then there's this bit of moan-inducing description: Stehney invited me and Stephanie back to the kitchen. He grabbed a "burnt end" that had just exited the smoker and asked one of the cooks to chop it up for us. The "burnt end" is, after jazz, Kansas City's most important gift to civilization. Some great Kansas Citian of the past realized that the ends of a barbecued brisket were the fattiest, saltiest, smokiest chunks of meat on God's own Earth. Every barbecue joint in KC -- and practically nowhere else -- sets aside its burnt ends, chops them up, and serves them with a little sauce. It is a profound experience to eat them. Stehney, Stephanie, and I stood around this particular burnt end and snacked it into oblivion. Stehney talked obsessively and eagerly about the precise way to cut a rib, and the exact temperature at which a burnt end reaches perfection. [...] Oh my Gawd. Wes says, "I want me some burnt ends more than I want world peace, almost. It's close. (One quibble here, though -- Kansas City has a great jazz heritage, but this guy makes it sound like civilization wouldn't have jazz if it weren't for Kansas City. Actually, as we all know, civilization wouldn't have had jazz if it weren't for New Orleans. He should've said "its jazz" rather than merely "jazz." Yes, I'm that persnickety.)
What a po-boy is supposed to be. Second day of Jazzfest we rested; in fact, we didn't go to either Saturday. We'd be back on the first Sunday, but before that the order of the day was leisurely strolling, shopping, drinking and, of course, eating. I had never managed to get Wes to Domilise's before, which was an odd omission. I spent many of my college hours in there quaffing beers and devouring poor boys, which are among the very best in the city, some of which are quite unique. Frequently invoking the cliché of "better late than never," off to Annunciation Street at Bellcastle we went. 
Doesn't look like much, does it? (Person standing in front of da place, i.e. Wes, excepted, of course.) Ah, that's the deception of the New Orleans neighborhood restaurant; it might look like a dump, but the food within might well be some of the best in the city. Surely you've learned this lesson by now. 
The menu looks deceptively simple and run-of-the-mill (click the picture to enlarge), but if you know the food well or if you ask the right questions, the gems emerge from the rock. What looks deceptively like "hot smoked sausage" is just that, but if you ask for it it comes swimming in a chili gravy that is so good in combination with that sausage that you'll be in the troposphere before you know it. Fried seafood also can be augmented by a ladling of brown gravy, and that day the fried catfish with gravy was the recommended combo. We got two small poor boys, knowing that we'd be having a Gargantuan meal later in the evening, and traded halves. Well, we thought we'd trade halves, but we each liked what we had ordered so much that we ended up trading bites instead. 
Some of the finest examples of the poor boy maker's art, these are. Actually, the only disappointment with mine is that it wasn't sloppier; lots of the time the gravy is dripping eveyrwhere, oozing out the sides of the sandwich along with the yellow and Creole mustards and down your chin and onto your shirt and pants and just about everywhere else. I actually managed not to get it all over me this time, so I feel I missed out on something. Fortunately, it tasted fantastic. Incidentally, these are indeed smalls; the large size has three pieces of that size. I didn't see Miss Dot Domilise there, although it appeared to be her daughter and perhaps granddaughter making poor boys there that day. Miss Dot would be in her 80s now, and I hope she's doing well, and having a well-deserved rest after making hundreds of poor boys every day since long before I can remember. If you've never eaten here, you're missing out. Compromise. Yeah, it pretty much sucked, and means that right wing nutcases Priscilla Owen, Rogers-Brown and Pryor will be appeals court judges now. It's a good sign, however, that the right wingnutosphere is apoplectic, and radical cleric James Dobson, whose puppet Senator Bill Frist is firmly ensconced in his pocket, had this to say: "This Senate agreement represents a complete bailout and betrayal by a cabal of Republicans and a great victory for united Democrats. Only three of President Bush's nominees will be given the courtesy of an up-or-down vote, and it's business as usual for all the rest. The rules that blocked conservative nominees remain in effect, and nothing of significance has changed. Justice Clarence Thomas, Justice Antonin Scalia, and Chief Justice William Rehnquist would never have served on the U. S. Supreme Court if this agreement had been in place during their confirmations. The unconstitutional filibuster survives in the arsenal of Senate liberals. "We are grateful to Majority Leader Frist for courageously fighting to defend the vital principle of basic fairness. That principle has now gone down to defeat. We share the disappointment, outrage and sense of abandonment felt by millions of conservative Americans who helped put Republicans in power last November. I am certain that these voters will remember both Democrats and Republicans who betrayed their trust." I can't wait until they find some dirt on this dirtbag, and take him out of the political scene. Meanwhile, Kos advises us to look at the cold, hard facts:
Now, depending on what the definition of "extraordinary circumstances" is, and who thinks they get to define that with certainty, we could be in for this fight all over again. This is yet more demonstrations that the Republicans do not want to govern; they want to rule. Vote Democratic in 2006. [ Link to today's entries ]
Cinnabar, 1993-2005. Our favorite area restaurant closed last Sunday night, and we had our final meal there a week ago tonight. We're very sad. 
Cinnabar, owned by siblings Alvin and Flame Simon and helmed by their "Magic Chef" Damon Bruner, served its last meals and drinks last Sunday night after 12 years of business in Glendale. Although they did great business on weekends, they couldn't get enough people to come during the week, and made the decision to close several weeks ago. We first found Cinnabar via Dr. Cocktail, who recommended them to us as a great place to get well-made and classic cocktails (one of the few). Our first visit there was just to drink, and we weren't disappointed. They were one of the only places in Los Angeles (if not the only one) serving Sazeracs. Their cocktail menu included classics like the Sidecar, as well as 1930s-era cocktails from New York and tropical concotions from Cuba (such as the Hotel Nacional Special). The bar itself had some history as well; it was rescued from the now-demolished Chinatown bar Yee Mee Loo's, and according to Doc, it was once a prop in a 1930s-era movie. 
As we were drinking during our first visit some other people sitting next to us at the bar ordered food, and as soon as it was set down in front of them the aroma wrapped around our heads and nearly drove us mad. What we were smelling was perhaps the restaurant's signature dish, the Spicy Lemongrass Bouillabaisse, which I'll describe a bit later on. It was a dish that (as far as I know) Chef Damon had inherited from his predecessor, but it led us straight into the rest of his own wonderful cooking. We quickly became regulars, and not just for drinks. We loved ever single dish we ever ate there, and when I was trying to behave myself during my major weight-loss period, we could still dine at Cinnabar because many of their entrées came in what they called a "half-order", which was more like two-thirds, and was a perfect amount of food. We got to know the owners, bartenders and servers, and were happily greeted by name whenever we arrived. When we sent friends there, and they said they were friends of ours, Flame once exclaimed, "Oh, Chuck and Wes! I can hardly keep those two out of here!" We felt at home there, we felt happy there, but apparently we (and many others) didn't go there often enough. As they say, I suppose all good things come to an end. (Goddammit.) As it turned out, though they were always busy on the weekends, they hardly had anyone coming during the week. Special events held on weeknights always sold well, but it apparently wasn't enough. Several weeks before we left for Jazzfest we got an email from Flame via their mailing list, saying that from then on the restaurant would be closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, and we thought that was a bad sign. Then, while we were at Fest, I checked my email and, at the bottom of the message about their upcoming Mother's Day event, was this: What else is there to say? We immediately emailed some friends and made plans to have two more dinners there, on the next two Saturdays after we got back from New Orleans. The first Saturday's dinner was with Dr. and Nurse Cocktail, and unfortunately I forgot my camera so I have no pictures of that meal. Fortunately, though, Doc had his Treo phone/PDA camera with him -- only 640x428 resolution and no flash, and we were in the dark, but we made do. Almost everything we had that evening was ordered the following week as well, with a couple of exceptions, including one of our favorite Cinnabar desserts, simple yet lovely: Chocolate Fondue, a little ramekin of a dark, dense sauce consisting of lots of melted chocolate and cream, kept warm above a votive candle, with fresh fruits for dipping. 
There was one other notable dish that night, served when it was far too dark for the camera phone and which we didn't order the following Saturday, so no pictures. My description will have to do: Northern Pacific Oysters, half a dozen on the half-shell, topped with an ice-cold pickled ginger and sake granita. This was one of Wes' favorite dishes at the restaurant; he never ceased to rave about it. Usually he just had one, as an intermezzo during one of Damon's tasting menus (five courses, typically, for about $45). This time it was a whole plateful of them, and he and Doc gobbled them down. I, alas, thought I would not. I love oysters in every form -- fried, broiled, baked, stewed, in oyster dressing or gumbo or other soups -- except raw. I just can't do the raw oyster thing, as much as I want to. Maybe it's something I can build up to throughout my life, but right now and for the last 30 years I just haven't been able to do it. I did end up having one ... and the flavor was wonderful, but there's just something about the texture of a raw oyster that's still off-putting to me. I must get to work on that. The mood was more jovial than we had expected. We were delighted to dine with Ted and Janet, of course, but when Flame came by our table she seemed to be in a great mood. It seems that she, Alvin and Damon had been discussing the possibility of closing for a long time, and made the decision to close a year ago; it was only a question of when, and when was announced with just over three weeks' notice. That made it more jarring for us, but she seemed to have made her peace with it. That made us feel a bit better, but only a bit. What made us feel the best was the grand company, the terrific drinks, and the fabulous food. The following Saturday we returned for what was to be our last meal at Cinnabar, and this time forgetful eejit Chuck didn't forget the camera. Robb and Jaason joined us, and the meal was on. Oddly enough, in all the years we had been dining there, Wes and I had never tried the drink that Cinnabar inherited from Yee Mee Loo along with their bar, perhaps because we're skeptical of blue drinks in general (unless we're really in the mood for one, which is infrequent) and more so of drinks named after toilet cleaning products. However, since this was our last chance, we had The Infamous Yee Mee Loo Tidy Bowl: 
Yep, that's one blue bleepin' drink, all right. Doc was right; it was the least of the drinks on the menu. What did it taste like? Blue. And rum. And a little citrus (the blue curaçao, of course). Blue rum drink. That's about it. But now, we can say that we've had one. Time for a real drink after that -- the Cinnabar Negroni. Former bartender Jason (we think) came up with this variation on the standard Negroni, which is equal parts gin, sweet vermouth and Campari, and we find the variation to be superior. Not only do we find it so, but Gary Regan found it to be good enough to publish in his book New Classic Cocktails, immortalizing it in print forever. Here's the recipe, with our latest bitters specification:
That, my friends, is a kick-ass drink, a kicked-up Negroni that'll tickle your palate as a near-perfect aperitivo to your meal. Make your Negronis this way and not only will you like it better (I predict), but you'll help keep the memory of Cinnabar alive. Okay, our palates perched and ready to go, we dove into the menu. The signature appetizer at Cinnabar never appeared on the menu, for some reason. We didn't care; we always knew to ask for it, and in fact we ordered it nearly every time we dined there, often splitting it before each ordering our own starters. If we'd forget about it, our servers Jessica or Chris would always remind us. These were the No-Ri Rolls: Slices of sashimi-grade tuna rolled up around a spear of asparagus with a strip of nori (seaweed) on the outside, then dipped in a tempura batter and fried just long enough to crisp up the batter and cook the very outside edge of the tuna, leaving most of the tuna raw. This was served with a spicy mayonnaise-based dressing and shredded carrots and daikon with sprouts. 
So simple, yet so wonderful in flavor, the whole far surpassing the sum of its parts. Such a lovely thing deserves a close-up, I should think: 
I felt like splurging. This was to be our last meal there, so let's not skimp on anything. I had tried just about every starter on the menu save one, primarily because of its expense. As it turned out, $15.50 was a pittance for what may be the best thing on their starter menu; as gorgeous as all the dishes are, this one absolutely knocked my socks and shoes off: Pan-Smoked Lobster, with baby field green salad, soy sauce, ginger and scallions. The lobster was amazing, slightly smoky and impossibly tender, just as tender as the butter-poached lobster we had had a few months back, courtesy of the recipe from Chef Thomas Keller of The French Laundry. I daresay that I may like pan-smoked lobster better than butter-poached. The dressing was spicy-tangy-gingery; in my humble opinion, a Platonic dish. 
Robb and Jaason split a dish that we ordered the previous week, one that we had enjoyed very much: Spicy Sizzling Calamari Salad, with cilantro, mint, peanuts and lime juice. It's so nice to have calamari not-fried, which is how so many places prepare it. This was stir-fried in a wok, Chinese-style, but with Thai flavors and seasonings. Beautiful. 
For my final entrée I chose something that had appeared on and disappeared from the menu at various times, and I was glad to catch it one last time; it's one of my favorite salmon preparations ever. Sesame-Crusted Wild Alaskan King Salmon, with wasabi mashed potatoes and lobster coconut-curry sauce. This, along with dishes like the bouillabaisse and lobster, are perfect representations of the California-French-Asian fusion that's executed so perfectly by Chef Damon. The black and white sesame seeds provide a perfect crunchy crust and creamy, nutty flavor; the salmon is perfectly cooked; the broth, based on a classic French lobster stock becomes Asian-tropical with the coconut milk-based mild Thai-style red curry sauce, with an up-your-nose zing from the wasabi in the potatoes, but not so much as to cause the exquisite pain I usually seek from wasabi and horseradish, with the potatoes anchoring the dish in creamy, American comfort food. And it's all perched atop some kale, green beans and a stack of batonnets of other veggies, so that I'll grow up to be big and strong. 
That was washed down with a glass of Sonoma Pinot Noir, the name of which sadly escapes me, but a Pinot was perfect for this dish. Wesly couldn't have anything as his final Cinnabar meal other than the restaurant's signature dish -- the Spicy Lemongrass Bouillabaisse, with fresh crab, sea scallops, rock shrimp, lobster and fish of the day, with glass noodles in a lobster, lemongrass and Asian lime leaf broth. It's absolutely amazing, incredibly aromatic, spicy indeed and delicious in the same way a good gumbo is, with many layers of flavors playing off each other like musicians in a symphony orchestra. It killed me not to get this, but I was in a mood for something else. I had the perfect solution, though -- I had Chris ask Chef to pack up an order of it to go, and I'd have it for lunch the next day. I couldn't let it pass me by either, 'cause it's also a Platonic dish. 
Robb had a dish that I had been very fond of, variations of which appeared on the menu now and again, and of course, the dish is made magical by the very first words that describe it: Bacon-Wrapped Swordfish Medallions with garlic mashed potatoes and whole-grain mustard cream. My own particular favorite rendition of this dish featured bacon-wrapped medallions of monkfish, which I love even more than swordfish. 
Jaason had what I had last week with Doc and Nursie, although then it was too dark to get a decent picture with the camera phone. My splurgey mood last week (although the dish wasn't really expensive) was to have something truffley, and since one of my other favorite fish was being served in a truffley manner, it was a no-brainer: Panko and Herb-Crusted Alaskan Halibut with grilled celery root purée and black truffle cream. "Cream sauce!" shrieked my inner WeightWatchers counselor. "Cream sauce, cream sauce!" "Feck off," I retorted to my inner WeightWatchers counselor, and beat him over the head with my inner rubber truncheon until he retreated into my inner coat closet, whimpering and cursing, whereupon I then locked him in. Presumably Jaason had no such inner struggle. 
They looked at and ate the food, and saw that it was good, and after the third course, they rested. (Then we had Chris take a picture of the table, and I had a dopey look on my face.) 
Okay, enough rest. Time for dessert! They mostly speak for themselves, such as Wes' choice: Lemon Bread Pudding, with green tea ice cream, raspberry and mango sauces. That's a glass of late harvest Riesling next to it. 
Jaason got another old favorite, and the one with the best name: "Chocolate Air Cake ... on a Drunken Cloud". A light-textured, almost fluffy but rich chocolate cake with a densely chocolatey topping, atop a Grand Marnier-flavored whipped cream. Oy. 
Robb got another favorite (but they're all our favorites ... how the feck do we have a favorite when they're all our favorites?): Warm Banana Spring Rolls with chocolate sauce and vanilla bean ice cream. 
Finally, mine; the only one on the menu I had never tried before, and finally ordered at the recommendation (urging, really) of our server Chris. I'm really glad I listened to him. Rustic Apple Tart à la mode, with caramel sauce, sort of the poor man's Tarte Tatin and incredibly tasty. The 20-year-old Taylor Fladgate tawny port I drank with it as lovely, lovely, lovely. 
And with that, we were finished. I managed not to cry, as I feared I would. I also managed to have as wonderful a Cinnabar experience as any I'd had before -- great drinks, great food, great friends, in a warm, friendly atmosphere. Places like that are damned scarce these days, particularly right by your neighborhood. Flame and Alvin are done, apparently, but there's some potential good news on the horizon. The owner of the building which housed Cinnabar likes having a restaurant there, and Chef Damon is actively seeking and lining up investors with the aim of reopening a restaurant in that space, with him as chef-owner, potentially by the end of this year. It won't be Cinnabar; it'll be redone, rethought and will have a new name. We'll undoubtedly go there, because I'll eat anywhere that Damon Bruner is cooking, and I'll eat just about anything he puts in front of me. But it won't be the same, and it won't be Cinnabar. Sigh. Ah well, all things must pass. Flame, Alvin, Damon ... Jason, Bob, Doug, Carlin, Eric ... Jessica, Chris, Arturo and all the rest of the staff of Cinnabar -- thanks a million, from the bottom of our hearts, for years of lovely evenings. Wesly and I will miss you more than we can say.  
[ Link to today's entries ]
Cha-CHING! Several lovely listeners of "Down Home" coughed up $1,030 for KCSN last night! Thanks a million, y'all! That, combined with the fact that our Incredibly Generous Anonymous Benefactor From Chatsworth has pledged to kick in an additional $1,000 to every show that makes at least $1,000 in pledges, plus just the employee matching funds that I know are already coming from one pledge, brings our grand total for my show to $2,390. That oughta keep me around for a while. However, I could be sittin' prettier, if there happens to be someone left who forgot about my shift during the drive, and still wants to pledge online. In fact ... every online pledge of $100 or more enters you in our online sweepstakes to win a Sony PlayStation Portable, the hottest new technogizmo. I'd say your odds are pretty good, too. The Cocktailian. Today's installment of Gary Regan's fortnightly column has The Professor, our cocktailian bartender, discovering that California brandy holds its on in two Big Apple recipes. Hmm, the Debonnaire Cocktail? Dubonnet, Germain-Robin alambic brandy and crème de cassis? I'd drink that! Read on. Cocktail of the day: Fear and Loathing on the Cocktail Trail. 'Member a while back, when the Regans called for entries in a cocktail-creating competition? The idea was to honor the late Hunter S. Thompson by creating a cocktail in his honor. The results are in, via this month's issue of Gary and Mardee's Ardent Spirits newsletter. Some of the entries were, predictably, weird.
The winning entry was submitted by LeNell Smothers, owner of LeNell's Ltd.: A Wine and Spirit Boutique in Brooklyn. While I can't necessariy see Hunter drinking too many of these and winding up whapping big hairy bats with a yardstick, Gary opines that Hunter would have approved. We'll try this one this weekend.
Seems mighty Suth'un to me. I'll wear my seersucker suit while we're tippling. Christy Moore on RTÉ's "The View". See a 39-minute interview with Christy Moore, featuring live performance, recorded on John Kelly's programme "The View" on Irish television. Man, RTÉ is doing a great job
streaming and archiving programming. I woulda killed for this kind of
thing 17 years ago when I came back from my first trip there, or 15 years
ago when I started Do they have a file on you? Today's email newsletter from the ACLU led me to this fascinating and disturbing little quiz, which determines, based on your legal political activities and exercise of freedoms, whether or not the FBI probably is keeping tabs on you. The questions ask whether you're vocal in opposition to government policies (well, yes, that'd be me), attended an antiwar protest, belong to certain organizations, attended any meetings or gatherings with people who oppose government policies, etc. The most startling question, however, came last: Have you ever sent a package using FedEx? My "yes" answer prompted this reply:
I had no idea. Between the six questions on the quiz (and doubtless bolstered by other aspects of my opinions and positions), the result was returned that the FBI might have a file on me. If true, it would be unsurprising; they've probably had a file on me since my subscription to Mother Jones in high school, and for what I wrote on my draft registration form when I was 18 (I was in the first group that had to register, and it cost Jimmy Carter my first presidential vote). Don't let this worry you into shutting up, though. Then they win. [ Link to today's entries ]
Digital Dish ordering buttons fixed. Okay, we had a few technical problems the other day. Clicking on the buttons to order copies of Digital Dish: The Freshest Writing and Recipes from Food Blogs Around the World, the new anthology which contains some of my food writing, was returning an error. This time I think we've got it nailed. To order one or more copies of the book, click on the appropriate button below:
That oughta do it. Buy one, so's I can make some money off this thing! Buy several -- they make great gifts! Just monkeying around. From my friend Steve Kelley: "May 5th marked the 80th anniversary of the arrest of John Scopes for teaching evolution. Here's a piece that ran in the July, 1922 issue of The Nation. What's amazing is how much it sounds like something somebody could write today. Who says history never repeats?" Right now, Kansas is just as crazy as Tennessee was then. Joseph Wood Krutch wrote:
Parkway Bakery and Tavern. At this rate, it'll take a month for me to get through all our food experiences during Jazzfest. Oh well, better slowly than not at all, eh? 
After a day's festing on Friday the 22nd we didn't like showering and getting dressed up for a fancy restaurant, and as we all know, many of the best places to eat in New Orleans are as casual as casual can be. That evening's repast was a short walk (we needed the walking, believe me) from our friends' house in Faubourg St. John, over to Parkway Bakery and Tavern, reopened about a year and a half ago after 75 years of operation under its original owners, and eight years of closure. What new proprietor Jay Nix has wrought is pretty much perfect realizations of the classic New Orleans poor boy, to wit: 
That's a fried oyster poor boy, dressed. Big, plump and perfectly fried in a seasoned cornmeal batter, crisp and hot. Hoo, boy. Just about as good as it gets. 
That's a hot sausage poor boy, dressed, and done properly with patties, not links. Creole hot sausage is one of the two greatest non-seafood poor boy fillings, and is completely unique to New Orleans; there's nothing else like it anywhere. It was great, too; very peppery (both red and black), garlicky and well-seasoned. As it turned out, we didn't make it to Gene's this time, so I'm really glad I got the hot sausage here. 
That's a roast beef poor boy, also dressed. "Profoundly beefy" is one of the best descriptions I've ever read of what a New Orleans roast beef poor boy should taste like, and this was a superb example. Not a whole lot of additional seasoning on this roast beef, but as you can see, it even looks tender, all on the verge of becoming debris, and melting in your mouth. That, plus a pile of Hubig's Pies along with free Blue Bell ice cream (served by The World's Happiest Poor Boy Restaurant Cashier, who said "I'm so happy right now, I think I'm about to hallucinate") made for a supremely fine meal. (Urp.) [ Link to today's entries ]
Good news! The Supreme Court has struck down state bans on interstate wine shipments, meaning that people across the country can now buy wine directly from out-of-state vineyards. This is great news for wine lovers, as well as small vintners without large distribution networks who can now sell their wines directly from the wineries nationwide. Pass the corkscrew! Quotes of the day. Broadcasting veteran Bill Moyers, one of the most respected broadcast journalists in history, "closed the National Conference on Media Reform in St. Louis on Sunday with his first public response to the revelation that White House allies on the board of directors of the Corporation for Public Broadcasting have secretly been holding PBS in general -- and his show in particular -- to a partisan litmus test." Among his comments:
[ Link to today's entries ]
An important message from Robert Hess at the Museum of the American Cocktail:
The Museum needs our help. I know that many of you who read this weblog are cocktailians, so whether you're well-seasoned or a rank beginner, we need to have you on board. Please join the Museum today! Most of your membership is tax-deductible, and you'll be helping to support the world's only cocktail museum. If you have a Ruth's Chris Steak House in your city, keep an eye out as well; the Museum has made a deal with Ruth's Chris to host travelling cocktail seminars, and your membership gives you a discount on the admission fee! [ Link to today's entries ]
Waiting for the other shoe to drop. If I were triskaidekaphobic, I'd be hiding under the bed today, particularly considering the amazing run of luck I had yesterday. I'd better make sure someone doesn't drop a grand piano on me as I'm walking down the sidewalk today. I got a fix-it ticket in February for a burned-out taillight, and of course I, being me, waited until the last minute to get it taken care of. This meant my having to go downtown to Traffic Court on the final due date for the ticket, which was yesterday. Such a proposition is generally a nightmare, and I steeled myself for a most unpleasant morning. Freeway traffic wasn't bad at all, oddly enough, but as I turned onto S. Hill Street and approached the courthouse, my heart sank -- there was a line of approximately 300 people stretching out the front door of the courthouse and wrapping around the block. (Fuck.) I passed the courthouse to look for parking, and immediately past it was a huge, welcoming sign that said, "TRAFFIC COURT PARKING, FLAT FEE -- $7.00" (Double fuck.) Muttering a litany of hideously foul obscenities, I flipped around the corner to see if there was anything I could do about the parking situation, as it is a violation of ever fiber of my being to pay that much to park my car, and as I approached the courthouse again I quickly pulled into a Marie Laveau parking spot (my term for an impossibly unlikely parking place found in an area where it's incredibly difficult to park, and which couldn't possibly be any more convenient to my destination). It was about a quarter of a block and across the street from the court ... perfect! Well, at least one thing is going well today, I thought. I removed anything looking remotely valuable from the car, including a sweatshirt that was nearly a rag, and stuck it in the trunk. Upon looking at the parking meter, I saw that the person who had just vacated that space had left me over 90 minutes of time on it. Wow, thanks, mystery person, I thought. Given its location I figured I'd need to deposit 50¢ for every 7.5 minutes to get the meter up to its 2-hour maximum, but no ... it only wanted a dime. I grabbed the book I had just started, wondering if I'd finish it in that appalling line, and thought that if I was still in line after an hour I'd have to call into work to tell them I'd probably be late. To the end of the line I went, sighing with resignation, and didn't even get a chance to open my book before I was greeted by a nice courthouse lady who asked me what I was there for. "Fix-it ticket," I said. She asked if the correction had already been certified, which it had, by a CHP officer the previous day. "You need to go through that door to the left," she said, pointing. "Oh, that door
over there ... with nobody waiting to get in through it?" I went inside, and it was a large room lined with cashier's windows, and herding ropes the likes of which they actually needed outside, rather than in there. There were five people in line ahead of me. In and out, zip zip zip ... and I had plenty of time. It wass only about 8:40. What to do then? How about going to breakfast? At Grand Central Market! I love L.A.'s downtown Grand Central Market -- tons of food stalls, fresh produce, spices and chiles and moles and herbs and botánica stuff. Thing is, it's notoriously difficult to park around there. There's a structure adjacent, but it costs money unless you purchase a certain amount inside. Grr. Fortunately, there was a Marie Laveau parking spot ... directly across the street from the main market entrance. Hmm, what to do now? I found myself drawn to a stall advertising "Productos Latinos", where the nice Korean lady running it (ah, I love L.A.) was putting out some apparently freshly made mole paste of a kind with which I wasn't familiar -- Mole Teloloapan. I read later that it comes from the state of Guerrero in Mexico, and is described as "super-red, chocolatey and nutty, with a nice bite that's high and flavor and low in heat; you feel instant heat, but it doesn't last." Sounds good to me, and at the time it looked and smelled really good. (I adapted my old friend Luis' rule of thumb for eating from street food stalls in Mexico: "If it smells good, go for it. If it looks like it's been sitting around in the sun all day, it probably has.") Half a pound of mole Teloloapan cost me
the princely sum of $2.25. Enough crushed red pepper to last me a year?
$1. As I was putting my change away, a ratner intent-looking Latino
gentleman came up to the counter and without speaking, gestured four
upraised fingers to the lady. She broke into a big smile and said, "I got
'em for you, like always!" He paid quickly and departed just as quickly.
I wondered if he needed an actual fix of whatever was in those bottles to
keep the creepy-crawlies off of him. The lady noted my puzzlement and
said, "It's his favorite hot sauce." I asked to see what it was, and she
had one bottle left. If he was so intent on getting that stuff, I figured
it was worth looking into. Salsa Huichol, family-owned since 1949, apparently named for the indigenous, Aztec-descended Huichol people and made from cascabel chiles grown in the Nayar Mountains in the state of Nayarit in Mexico. And cheap. And hot. And really tasty. I decided on a somewhat unlikely breakfast -- a carnitas taco. One little taco. I was being really well-behaved. The next stall I came across was just opening, with piles of just-prepared meats that looked incredible -- carne asada, spiced chicken, lengua, and lots more. I ordered my taco, which was two bucks -- kind of expensive, double what they charge at the taco truck in our neighborhood (more on that later). I watched as the server prepared it, putting one medium-sized corn tortilla on a paper plate and plopping an absolutely Gargantuan mountain of pork onto it. "Cilantro, onions, salsa?" Yes please. "Hot or mild?" Silly question. He threw a few more tortillas on top, charged me another buck for a melon agua fresca, and there was breakfast. As it turned out, there was enough meat and tortillas there for four well-stuffed tacos, which I augmented with my newly-purchased Salsa Huichol. The carnitas was very porky, salty, crispy at the edges and marvelously tender, just perfect. It worked out to be cheaper than the truck, as I had ended up paying about 50¢ for each of these tacos. Look at all this food, I thought. This is way more than I should be eating; I don't even have more than three of the little tacos as dinner, and I've got four bigger ones here. Just use the rule -- eat half, and dump or save the rest. It was too good. I scarfed them all. 9:30, and time to head to work. I was ten minutes late, and nobody even noticed. I had never been so glad to have procrastinated in paying a ticket before. What a lovely, lovely morning. I'm probably doomed. [ Link to today's entries ]
The Digital Dish is here! Upstart publisher and editor (and Looka! reader) Owen Linderholm emailed me several months ago about an idea he had -- a book that would include food writing from a wide variety of food-related weblogs. I was honored to be asked to contribute, and now after lots of hard work, the fruit of our labor is ready for harvest. 
Digital Dish: Five Seasons of the Freshest Recipes and Writing from Food Blogs Around the World was published last week, and is available for order now. Besides myself, there are over 20 other food webloggers participating. It's a great idea -- food writing is forever, in my opinion, whereas a great deal of weblog writing is as ephemeral as it gets -- and a terrific project; I hope you'll buy one (or several!) Here's a little preview: the book's introduction, and profiles of all the participating weblogs and their authors (.pdf file). Digital Dish is $19.95, plus $5 for handling and 2-day shipping (CA residents will add sales tax). For shipments outside the U.S., it's a US$11 fee for shipping.
Although it's listed at Amazon, please buy it here, 'cause that way I get the money for it, rather than the huge evil faceless corporation. Hey, ain't nothin' wrong with an author gettin' paid! I'd be honored and thrilled to have my writing on your bookshelf, and not just as a fleeting glance at a transitory page on your computer monitor. It feels good to be published. Enjoy! This Is The Dirty Dozen Brass Band Collection is released! (Um, last month, actually; I've been a busy yet distracted boy lately.) My latest record project is now available, compilation by me and liner notes by my good friend, music journalist Steve Hochman (of the Los Angeles Times and many other publications). TITDDBBC is the only record to cover the entirety of the Dirty Dozen's career, beginning with rare and until now out-of-print tracks from their debut album My Feet Can't Fail Me Now, all the way through their most recent release, Funeral for a Friend (a tribute to the late Tuba Fats). It was a fun and enlightening project to work on. There were a few DDBB albums I was actually missing (especially their rare debut), so I acquired the rest of them, finding a frighteningly overpriced LP of the debut album in a shop in New Orleans. Then, I completely immersed myself in their music for almost a month. As much as I liked the DDBB, I must confess that I tended not to listen to them as much as other brass bands like Rebirth, and spending all that time being bathed in all their music opened my eyes to what incredible jazz and roots innovators they are. The song choices I made were presented to the band, who really dug the list and gave it their blessing, and so far the reviews have been good. Here's the track listing:
Buy it from the Louisiana Music Factory, at your local independent record dealer, or if you must, here's a link to Amazon, the giant faceless corporation. Buy one or more today! (Man, am I hawkin' da products today, 'r wot?) Oh, by the way, about that little
round sticker on the CD shrink wrap that says "18 songs handpicked by the
band", that would be ... not true. Handpicked by me, actually,
and approved by the band. Hee hee. From this week's issue of The Onion:
Does Fictionology have their lawyerly hit squads yet? [ Link to today's entries ]
Belated Happy Birthday, Christy! Aah Jaysis, I knew I'd forget this; it was three days ago!
Christy Moore turned 60 years of age on Saturday, celebrating it with what sounds like a fantastic gig in Waterford. Sorry I missed it.
Happy birthday, Christy. You and your mates changed my life about half a life ago. Thanks a million for all the great songs, tunes and craic since then. Let's have plenty more. "Why haven't you been posting for the last four days? Where's our free content?!" Because I'm lazy, and because you all will surely agree that time spent away from the computer (eating, drinking, reading and having relationships) is superior to time spent in front of the computer. So there! Bayona. All my meals at Bayona have been memorable, for the company as well as for the food. I myself have never had a bad meal there (some people's mileage may vary); in fact, I've had nothing but excellent meals there. I've always had a soft spot in my heart for this place and for the cooking of Susan Spicer. Since this was the first fine restaurant I took Wes to in New Orleans, we decided it was time for another visit. Bayona was also the site of our cocktail epiphany. Years ago we had had a vague dissatisfaction with the pathetic state of cocktails at 98% of the bars and restaurants we went to, just having begun our researches on how to imbibe higher quality concoctions and for kindred spirits who could help show us the path. It had also been many years since I had had a Sazerac, probably due to the fact that the last one I had at that time was undrinkable. (I won't say where, because it's a good place that now makes fine Sazeracs, if a bit too sweet, and was probably due to a single clueless bartender at the time. He had made me an opaque Sazerac that tasted of nothing but Herbsaint and seemed to have orange pulp floating o the top ... *shudder*). I saw Sazeracs on Bayona's drinks menu, along with a few other traditional New Orleans drinks, and decided to try one again just to see if perhaps my tastes had changed, or if theirs was better. The Sazeracs they served us, served in a non-traditional manner in a cocktail glass, were in all other ways a revelation. After having three or two more, I made the silly statement, "Jeez, too bad we can't just go around and try every Sazerac in town." To which Wes wisely and incredulously replied, "Why the hell not?" (We consequently had five more Sazeracs through the course of that afternoon and evening, in five different bars, and kept up that rate for the next few days.) Our return to Bayona was for dinner on our first full day in town, Thursday the 21st of April, after that Gargantuan final meal at Uglesich's you read about last week. Fortunately we sat down for lunch at 11:30, and our dinner reservations weren't until 7, so there was sufficient time to get reasonably hungry again. Of course, we kicked off the evening with Sazeracs, again served in a cocktail glass rather than the traditional Old Fashioned glass, and again, they were excellent. A little frothy; I prefer them stirred rather than shaken, but a relatively minor quibble. Enough bitters and not too much sugar; overly sweet Sazeracs are the bane of this drink in New Orleans. I once watched a bartender pour at least an ounce of simple syrup into my Sazerac and a place which shall go nameless for the moment. Okay, appetizers -- for me, it was back to an old friend: 
Sautéed Veal Sweetbreads with Potatoes, Mushrooms and Sherry Mustard Sauce. Crispy, tender inside, intensely rich yet still delicate. A few cubed beets added into the mix for color, and a sauce that was absolutely perfect for them. Don't be afraid of food like this; if questions like "what part of the calf does this come from?" bother you, don't ask them. Just say "sweetbreads" and they sound far lovelier than their actual name (which doesn't bother me). Food this good really deserves to be enjoyed. 
Wes began with the Crispy Smoked Quail Salad with Bourbon Molasses Vinaigrette. Since his birds were so tiny I only got the tiniest bite, but the smoke flavor was very appealing, skin nice and crispy, and the greens also included sliced apples with a toasted pecan topping. That vinaigrette was terrific, too; it's hard to go wrong with Bourbon and molasses, although if I try to reproduce it at home I'll go with cane syrup instead. 
My entrée selection kicked off my continuing taste for pompano on this trip, which I hadn't had in a while. It's pretty delicate in flavor, and can be easily overpowered by a gloppy sauce (like Antoine's pompano en papilotte, which is overkill). It's best almost nekkid, with accompaniments that complement and balance it rather than overpowering it. Chef Spicer did that well with a decidedly non-New Orleans version of this local favorite: Pan-roasted Pompano with Curried-Coconut Black Lentils and Fresh Mango & Spring Onion Chutney. A very tropical, Caribbean flavor to this dish, with the fish nicely nekkid except for the dollop of sweet, tangy but not overpowering chutney on top, with a bit of pappadam for garnish (!). The lentils were earthy as usual, with only a hint of the curry behind the coconut milk with which they'd been cooked. A few haricots verts so that I got a lil' vedge-a-tibble with it, and that made a lovely dish. 
Wes chose the Grana Cheese & Sage Breaded Veal Cutlets with Polenta, Wild Mushrooms and Marsala Sauce. These weren't your typical New Orleans-style pannéed veal, they were thick, meaty cutlets that were rosy red on the inside, crispy and very well seasoned on the outside. I loved the Grana Padano cheese in the breading; it's a hard, "grainy" cheese of which the legendary Parmigiano-Reggiano ("The undisputed king of cheeses") comes from, although made in other parts of Italy and not in Parma. That said, my favorite breading has actual Parmigiano in it, but I'm just being picky. Polenta was the perfect accompaniment for this, as was the garnish of a little bitter leafy green; not sure which one, as I didn't get a taste. Wines were by the glass; I had a Pike's 2003 Viognier from Australia, Wes had a 2002 Sang de Cailloux Vacqueyras from the southern Rhone valley. Yum. Now, on to the most important course of the evening. We each ordered one, ate half and then swapped, which is way better than just splitting one! I'm not going to behave myself, dammit; I'm on vacation. 
El Rey Chocolate Mousses with Dulce de Leche & Warm Cinnamon Churros. The mousse (which was delicious but not furious) was also blessed with a little chile powder, tequila and Grand Marnier, and was fabulous. It was a dessert I might have expected more in Los Angeles or perhaps Mexico City or Caracas, and was a nice surprise. El Rey is a Venezuelan chocolatier that's quickly becoming one of my very favorites, giving the fabled Valrhona a run for their money. (When Wes was given pieces of each in a blind tasting, he preferred the El Rey.) They use old-growth criollo strains of cacao, and is earthy and spicy and fruity and fabuloso. The churros went perfectly with the mousse, but it was kinda funny to see them on the plate with such an elegant dessert; they're so thoroughly non-fancy that the incongruity was entertaining. The recommended liquid accompaniment was Gran Ducque d'Alba Brandy from Spain, and I'll be wanting to pick up a bottle of that as soon as budget allows. 
Next after the swap, keeping up the theme of chocolate (because about 75% of the time I'm one of those people who think it's just not dessert unless there's chocolate involved), we had Bittersweet Chocolate Pecan Semifreddo with Bourbon Caramel, along with Francis Darroze Armagnac Réserve Speciale (oh boy, that's going to be an expensive trip to the liquor store). Rich and thick and gone in about 90 seconds, sitting atop a shortbread cookie with ground pecans. 
Believe it or not, after all that we actually managed to waddle over to Donna's to hear Evan Christopher and Tom McDermott (along with Shannon Powell, Matt Perrine and Michael Skinkus), some of our very favorite local musicians, for some fantastic jazz and ragtime and choros. It was full but not too crowded, not too hot, and we managed to get a place to sit for the majority of the time we were in there. Evan's an amazing, supremely expressive musician, and Tom never ceases to make my head spin when he plays. (He's got a brand-new album out, all in the Brazilian choro style -- in the context of their music, it's their equivalent of old jazz and ragtime -- with Brazilian choro musicians playing on Tom's original compositions in the style, plus some Bechet and Gottschalk for good measure.) We even managed to stay conscious through the end of the second set. (Sadly, that'd be the last time we'd manage late-night music clubbing for the entire visit.) A few Jazzfest highlights, Day 1. First day on the Fair Grounds was nothing short of spectacular, weather-wise. I can't remember the last time Jazzfest weather was this good, if ever. Mild temperature, gorgeous sun without being broiling, and a breeze that would have been chilly if it had been any cooler, but was just cool enough. I only have one thing I do upon setting foot on the Fair Grounds each Jazzfest day, and that's head over to Food Area II, in the very same place every year, so familiar it's as if it were my own backyard, to head over to the stall that sells what's got to be the most underappreciated and unjustly unheralded food item at Fest: Creole's Stuffed Bread, from Lafayette.  
Don't look like much, does it? Nope, just a lil' bun, with some meat inside. Perfectly browned bread filled with a mixture of ground meat, sausage, spices, cheese and peppers, seasoned to absolute perfection, and royally and effortlessly kicking the ass of the lauded Natchitoches Meat Pies (which don't hold a candle to these). They're the product of Creole's Lunch House in Lafayette, and as I have for many years I've greeted Mrs. Merlene Herbert, my very favorite food vendor at Fest (personally, not only for what she makes). She's been the first person I see at Fest for going on 20 years now, and it wouldn't be the same without her. I did manage to get a photo of her finally, for my own album, but I won't post it here; she didn't feel she was looking her best that day (kinda hard to look your best in a roasting hot food tent while wearing a hair net) and I know she wouldn't want me to. We love ya, Miss Merlene! The other culinary highlight of Fest that day: 
Ahhhh ... cochon de lait poor boy. Pit-roasted pig, intensely smoky, meltingly tender, and "all debris", as they said in Da Paper. I still miss the cochon de lait of the old days, from the vendor that slopped them with gravy and sold french fried potato poor boys as well, plus that magnificent combo that was piiled with both pig and potatoes, and smothered in gravy. That was the sandwich that made my Israeli friend eat treyf for the first time.* Then they were replaced with another cochon de lait vendor that was markedly inferior, and we were sad. The current one took over from them, and they're pretty damned good, although I still miss those 'taters. A few musical highlights: 
  
 
From top left: The Magnolia Sisters, an all-female Cajun band based in Eunice, features Ann Savoy and Jane Vidrine, plus Anya Schoenegge and Lisa Reed, doing not only traditional waltzes and two-steps but also the slow, often unaccompanied ballads that would have died out if they hadn't been passed along by Cajun women, from mothers to daughters. There aren't nearly enough women in Cajun music, and we love seeing them. Swamp rock 'n roll from C.C. Adcock, who put on a great set as ever. John Boutté, my favorite singer in New Orleans, absolutely rules, whether he's singing R&B, soul, gospel, folk or jazz. He had a great choir of friends singing with him, and absolutely brought the house down. If you ever get a chance to see him, do so at all costs, especially if he's touring outside of New Orleans; I don't know how often he gets to do that. Tim Laughlin, my old Holy Cross High School bandmate and I had the same music teacher when we were kids, the late Bill Bourgeois. He was a fantastic teacher, but it's obvious that the lessons really took with Tim, and not so much with me. Not only is he one of the finest jazz clarinetists in the city (or anywhere else), but he's just about the only one prolifically composing new tunes for the repertoire of traditional New Orleans-style jazz. As he puts it, as great as the classics are, how many times can you hear them over and over again? Tim put on a great set as ever, and it was a double pleasure to see and hear Tom McDermott at the piano with him. A trip to the Gospel Tent (which unfortunately I didn't do nearly enough this Fest) for The Anointed Jackson Sisters, who were good but kinda slick for our tastes. Then ... Wilco. What was that I was saying about how I can't stand all those mainstream rock bands that have nothing to do with either jazz or heritage coming to Jazzfest? Well, there's an exception to that -- such bands that I happen to like are fine. (Hypocrite, you say? Aah, ya mamma.) Besides, Wilco is far from mainstream, so there. I decided against seeing them indoors at the State Palace Theatre the night before, as we already had restaurant and music plans, and had really been looking forward to this set, albeit with a bit of trepidation. I wasn't sure how they were going to sound outdoors, in front of a huge crowd that is often more interested in talking and drinking beer than listening to the music, especially farther back from the stage. My fears were partially realized, as some of their stuff seemed to work a little less well in this kind of venue. Fortunately, as the set continued, the guys seemed to get more into the groove of playing outdoors, and by the end they were crankingly fine. Wind-down and dinner with the Fat Pack came later, but I'm too lazy to post about that now. (* -- Oh yeah, the asterisk. Almost forgot. Okay, in 1991 my friend Doron, who was born and raised in Israel, came with his then-girlfriend Francine down to Jazzfest. On our first day there I of course made a beeline for the cochon de lait poor boy stall around the middle of the day and began to devour my poor boy. The aroma of that poor boy, and the more massive aroma emanating from the stall, began to drive him to the brink of insanity. "Oh my God!" he shouted. "That smells so good!" I told him exactly what it was, and he seemed a little anguished, undecided, and then finally blurted, "Fuck eet." He went over there and bought a large one, with gravy and potatoes. He came back over to me, gently unwrapped it, took a huge sniff, whereupon an expression of sheer bliss crossed his face. As he prepared to take a bite he hesitated, turned to me and said, "So this is all pig?" "Yep, I'm afraid so," I replied." His eyes took on a look of steely determination and he said, "Oh well. My poor mother." And took a huge bite. The whole thing was gone in about three minutes. As my friend Steve said, "You made a nice Jewish boy eat treyf? You are so going to Sheol.") [ Link to today's entries ]
Uglesich's Restaurant and Bar: 1924 - May 6, 2005. All y'all who're there today ... enjoy every oyster.   
Anthony and Gail, thanks a million for so many great meals over the years, and giving us the gift of just about the best fried oysters and soft shell crabs anywhere. John, thanks for getting our dishes to the table without fussing at us (well, 'cause we were always so well-behaved). Michael, thanks fa shuckin' all dem ersters. I think I'll fix me some Shrimp Uggie for dinner this Sunday. UPDATE: There's a sweet little story about Uglesich's closing on NPR's "All Things Considered" today. Da Box Set soars at Fest!
We were pretty shameless. We'd not only plug it to bystanders who were eyeing it, we'd ask people at the Record Tent and at other local shops how it had been selling during Fest. "Fantastic," said a salesguy I didn't know at the Louisiana Music Factory. "We had to order another case of them, in fact. Pretty darn good set, too -- a great overview!" I thanked him for saying so, without mentioning that I was the one who put it together. I was glad to hear nie things about it from the folks at the Factory; Barry Smith, the Factory's owner, had told me a few months ago that it sold well over Christmas as well, and that he also had really liked it. That means a lot, coming from a hardcore local music person such as himself. So yes, we had heard that it was doing really well, but confirmation came in today's Times-Picayune in Keith Spera's article about record sales at Fest, in the form of actual rankings (Thanks, Michael!):
Yeah you rite! Thanks a million to everyone who bought one. To everyone who hasn't bought one ... buy one, fa Gawd's sake! [ Link to today's entries ]
It ain't over until it's over (which is Friday). He's been talking about it for years. He never really did it, so we never really believed him, even though we knew it was inevitable. The day has come, though -- Anthony Uglesich is closing Uglesich's Restaurant this Friday, after 81 years in business. Part of me is really sad -- I've always loved the food there, and had some of the best fried soft shell crabs of my entire life there (especially when you go in and ask what's good that day, and Anthony immediately says to forget everything else and get the crabs). I remember being able to go there when there was no blocks-long line, when it was an open secret of New Orleans chefs and people who worked downtown, before the tourists discovered it several years back. I remember any number of moan-and-pound-on-the-table moments. The other part of me really thinks that Anthony and Gail need to take it easy. They've been working their butts off, starting at 4:30am, for 50 years. They deserve it. Still, I'm glad that Anthony suspects he'll be back in some form after the summer, with just appetizers on the menu. I wouldn't care if all he served were those fried oysters with blue cheese vinaigrette ... Our last meal at Uglesich's. Maybe it wont' be; maybe we'll be able to go back next year and have a few small plates of terrific food over on Baronne and Erato. But probably, this was our last full meal there, on Thursday, April 21. 
There was already a line by the time we got there at 10:20am, and they had already opened. I think everyone knew this was going to be their last chance, and the line contained locals as well as out-of-towners (both knowledgable and mindbogglingly clueless). Wes and I met up with Dave, Nettie and Robin again, and had a blast hanging out in line until we were able to get in and order after about half an hour (a mere blink of an eye). We chatted with Anthony as we tried to decide what we'd all get (five orders of the oysters, as everyone wanted a whole order for themselves) plus four or five other appetizers to share, plus poor boys and plates. He excused himself to answer the telephone, and his side of the conversation went something like this: "Uglesich. No ma'am, no reservations, you come and get in line. What? No ma'am, we're a seafood restaurant. Seafood only. You haven't done your homework, have you? You've never heard of us? I guess you're not a foodie! Wh-- I don't know about that, ma'am, but come on over if you want. Look, I'm really busy right now, I got people goin' out the door and down the block." *click* To us, he said, "She said she was born and raised here, older lady, but she'd never been here, never even heard of us, but someone told her we were closing soon and that she should go. I told her we were seafood only, and she said that her favorite meal is a hamburger at McDonald's!" We gasped and laughed, and expressed our utter astonishment that a native New Orleanian could be like that, and then Anthony added, "Y'know, I've never been to a McDonald's in my life." "You ain't missin' nothin', Mr. Anthony," I assured him. As is the usual way at Uglesich's, you wait in line to order, then you wait around inside before a table opens up. If you're smart, you quaff one of Gail's perfect Bloody Marys (singing with horseradish) or have some raw oysters and the three-foot oyster bar. The place is tiny, 10 little tables, and the intricate juggling act of who sits where and when is handled by John, their longtime (and usually only) waiter. Probably one of the hardest-working waiters in New Orleans, John's speed, efficiency and sardonic sense of humor has always been a fun part of a Uggie's visit, but we knew never to get on his bad side, unlike some unfortunate others. Just as we were about to get to the table for six that John had cleared for us, two other parties of clueless tourists who apparently knew each other decided unilaterally to take that table and push it together so that they could all sit together, then proceeded to do the deed and sit. This was likely to be the worst mistake they'd made all week. John, bless his overworked heart, let out an enraged bellow that they had turned his finely tuned symphony of tables into a "clusterfuck", and proceeded to chew them up and spit them out into little wads. The entire restaurant fell silent as he continued to berate them as I've never seen a waiter berate a customer before. Clearly they didn't understand that John was the master of his domain. I kinda felt sorry for them (there are many who would say that a server should never speak to a customer in this way, and I'm usually one of them), but they also kinda asked for it; they really did screw him up, and thanks to them we had to wait longer for another table to open up. Apparently the ranting was a little much for management, as Anthony asked him to cool it, but he had it out for that party for the rest of their stay. They'd meekly ask him a question, and he'd reply, "No. I'm punishing you." We loved him. I left a larger tip to help make up for the tip he inevitably wasn't going to get from the clueless-tourist party. Okay, let's get down to business. 
Fried oysters, topped with blue cheese vinaigrette, on a bed of shredded lettuce. Sounds simple, don't it? It's a quintessential example of the whole being far, far greater than the sum of its parts. Part one is pretty feckin' fantastic -- perfectly fried oysters, in a crispy, well-seasoned cornmeal crust. Uglesich is a Croatian name, and Croatian immigrants and their descendants have had the lock on the best oysters in south Louisiana since they began arriving in the late 1800s. If the surname ends in "sich" or "vich", baby, you wanna eat their ersters. I love fried oysters so much I could just sit there and eat a whole plate of them, unadorned. These oysters, however, were anointed with a dose of a blue cheese vinaigrette that's light years-removed from gooey, thick blue cheese salad dressings. The dressing is light yet pungent with blue cheese flavor, and an absolutely perfect complement to those oysters, the two ingredients catalyzing an alchemic reaction that transmutes a seemingly simple dish into gustatory gold. Ya think we like dem ersters, Chief? Ya right. 
I was going to get Firecracker Shrimp, which is like BBQ Shrimp topped with horseradish cream sauce, but Anthony said no. When he vetoes one of your ideas, you always go with what he says, because he's always right. He thought I'd enjoy a newer dish better: Shrimp and Bacon on Sweet Potato Purée. Three bacon-wrapped (I'm your slave already, with that one adjective) shrimp, grilled and served atop sweet potatoes with about a pound of brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and topped with bacon crumbles. Good, good, good, good, good. (This was too new for the cookbook, but I know I can make this at home.) 
Another new dish recommendation, this time to Robin, who was kind enough to get two and share it with the table. Ecstasy -- Shrimp sautéed in extra virgin olive oil, with a sherry and lime dressing, over lettuce and served with blue cheese dipping sauce with a touch of Gruyère. VERY different from the blue cheese dressing on the oysters, and again ... seemingly simple, but the combination of flavors really made this dish. That sherry-lime dressing was amazing. 
I didn't hear this getting ordered -- I'm not sure if he was out of green tomatoes, or if this was a recommended variation -- but the Fried Mirlitons with Shrimp Rémoulade were great too. Usually this is fried green tomatoes, a dish Anthony is famous for but which originated at Upperline Restaurant Uptown, but it worked almost as well with the mirliton. 
A longtime Uggie's favorite -- Shrimp and Grits. Just a breaded and fried grits cake, topped with small shrimp in a very well-seasoned cream sauce and some French bread to sop it all up. I remember the first time I tried this my head nearly fell off, it was so good. It seems that it's a little different now than it was before, but still lovely. Now that we're done amusing our bouches, let's get down to the main courses: 
Paul's Fantasy -- Pan-fried trout topped with grilled shrimp and new potatoes. I love Shrimp Uggie, but I can make that at home now, and it was what I used to get most frequently. This one I hadn't had in a long time, and remember, I'm still on my trout kick. Green onions, olive oil, cayenne, parsley. Simple. Perfect. 
Wes had Muddy Waters -- Pan-fried trout with muddy water sauce (chicken broth, anchovies, tons of garlic, gutted jalapeños) and Parmesan cheese. Very flavorful, not spicy at all. A lovely dish. No coffee or dessert, as we know ... not that we would have had any place to put it if there had been. It was a fantastic time, and we couldn't have had a better time during our last Uggie's meal. We bade goodbye to Anthony, Gail, John and their oyster-shucker Michael, and then I left to fall in love with a painting. [ Link to today's entries ]
Hoo-boy. Weight on April 20, 2005: 162 lbs. Weight on May 4, 2005: 169 lbs. I had a great trip. I'm goin' home, via Chicago. What kinda airline nutball routes a flight from Los Angeles to New Orleans through Chicago? (Apparently, the kinda nutball that offers such a flight for a fare of $185 return, and apparently we're the kinda nutballs who sign on.) It wasn't as bad as we thought it'd be, though, particularly since we got to try one of those great examples of regional American food for the first time -- the Chicago-style hot dog. Usually I only have hot dogs once a year, at our friends' annual Labor Day Weekend Karaoke Barbecue (where they are, of course, bacon-wrapped), but according to our friend Gregg, a Chicago native, we needed to make an exception here. They did not fail to please -- meaty and spicy, with a skin that crackled and an array of crunchy toppings. We were a little concerned, however, about the fluorescent green pickle relish. I happened to glance toward the food prep area as the lady was assembling our dogs, and what caught my eye was a flash of color that we were fairly certain exists absolutely nowhere in Nature. 
That plus an icy Sam Adams at an airport eatery and bar called the Prairie Tap, decorated in faux Frank Lloyd Wright, which made me wanna stay in the area for a while and head to Oak Park for a couple of days. However, we had lots of Louisiana food to eat and music to hear, and onward we went. One interesting aspect of flying to New Orleans from Chicago is that I had never approached the city from the north before, and never had this particular view of the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway -- pretty neat. Seeing the city as we approached the south shore put me in a good mood right away. 
Despite the fact that we had to be up at 4:30am to get ready and be picked up by the airport shuttle at 5:45am, were in the air all day and didn't get to New Orleans until 9:30pm in the L.A. time zone, we weren't about to let the rest of the evening to go waste. Some of the Fat Pack were already there, the rest were arriving the next day, so we met Diana, Robin, Nettie and Dave at their Faubourg St. John house, tried unsuccessfully to get into Dick and Jenny's (45-minute wait, at the end of which their kitchen would be closing), and decided to stick with our first idea for the visit's first meal -- we headed down Canal to Mandina's.
They're open until 10:30, fortunately, and even though the restaurant was sparsely populated at that hour, the kitchen was not -- the food was, as usual, superb.
The drinks were as well, as always. I love going into a place with old-school bartenders who know how to make a feckin' Old Fashioned -- whiskey, sugar, bitters. No soda, no smashed fruit, just the good stuff. It came garnished with a cherry (which is fine) and a chunk of canned pineapple (which was weird, but easily removable). Damn, damn fine drink. I can't go to Mandina's without having their Turtle Soup, which is one of the best in the city -- different from, but almost right up there with, the turtle soup at Commander's Palace, the apotheosis of turtle soup in New Orleans and a Platonic dish. To even put Mandina's version in the same paragraph as Commander's speaks very highly of them. Chopped egg, a drizzle of sherry, and lots of luscious turtle meat. Doesn't look like much more than muddy water in the picture, but don't let the picture fool you.
I was still in a trout mood from the last fine restaurant meal I'd had before we left, that lake trout with blueberry farro at Blair's in Silverlake, so I still had trout on the brain. The Trout Meunière, with that luscious brown butter and lemon sauce, is a no-brainer.
Wes, who devours so much soft shell crab and duck when he's down here that I fear one day he'll turn into a creature with the head of a duck and the body of a soft shell crab (what would that be called, I wonder?), had the Soft Shell Crab Meunière.
Robin had the crab as well, and unfortunately I didn't get pictures of the other dishes. Nettie had Daube Creole over Spaghetti -- a chunk of beef roast that's been slowly braised in a Creole red gravy for hours until it's completely falling apart. This is a great, great old dish, and I'm inspired to make it at home as soon as I can. Dave had the Pannéed Veal, another old favorite of mine, which I think was half-gone before I could even think about getting over to his side of the table. I did, however, manage to get a picture of our one addidtional indulgence. I hadn't had a Fried Potato Poor Boy in years and years. It's the original "poor boy sandwich", fried potatoes (y'know, French fries) on French bread and doused with lots of roast beef gravy and debris (y'know, the little bits of melt-in-your-mouth tender beef that fall apart from a roast that's braised almost forever). We got ours dressed, and were a bit gobsmacked that it came with gooey melted cheese also. This sucker went around the table a few times before it was gone. Good, although it could have used more gravy, and an Atkins-ite's worst nightmare. Heh.
We drank, and ate, and laughed, and ate, and laughed, and ate and laughed some more. What a great way to start a visit home. (Well, that and go to my sister's house and collapse into bed, exhausted and bloated.) Column: "Hatred for gays has a creepy, familiar look." I read this column by Leonard Pitts in the Times-Picayune yesterday. Their online articles only last a couple of weeks, so I thought it bore repeating:
One feels complelled to mention that gays were included in the Holocaust; gay men were also systematically rounded up and sent to extermination camps in Nazi Germany. I'd sure like to hear some of these self-proclaimed Christians (especially the ones who are pathologically incapable of minding their own business or focusing on their own family) talk about what they love rather than what they hate. April Looka! entries have been permanently archived. [ Link to today's entries ]
|
Okay, I have to confess ... while we were on
the Fair Grounds, Wes and I went to the Record Tent every day (okay, two
or three times a day) to discreetly see how Doctors, Professors, Kings
and Queens: The Big Ol' Box of New Orleans (aka, "Da Box Set") was
selling. "Hey," Wes would say to someone who'd pick it up. "That's a
terrific set. You from out of town? Man, what a great look at the city's
music scene." Smile, nod, walk away with Box Set. Hee hee. 
| Several of my friends and loved ones (and a few kind strangers) contribute regularly to this weblog. Thanks to Wesly Moore, Mike Luquet, Andy Senasac, Michael Yasui, Steve Gardner, Michael Pemberton, Steve Kelley, Barry Kelley, Eric Labow, Tom Krueger, Greg Beron, Sean Burke, Shari Minton and Barry Enderwick. |
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