|
|
|
|
Grubbing in New Orleans
|
|
Here's some of my favorite places to eat in the Crescent City.
Parasol's You know the food is good when your barmates are off-duty chefs from two of New Orleans' most esteemed, and expensive restaurants -- Commander's Palace and Brigtsen's. They, like you, have come to sample the city's best roast beef po-boy. And they, like you, have come to fork over a paltry $3.80 for a minor miracle. Mother's has its fans, misguided though they may be. R & O Pizza has aspirations toward the throne. Don't believe the hype; this is it. Dressed with shredded lettuce, pickles, tomatoes, mustard, mayonnaise and gobs of fresh brown gravy, none of which can be contained by the yeasty french bread on which the fresh-sliced roast beef is slathered; this two-fisted sandwich looks like a culinary train-wreck. The flimsy paper plate quakes beneath the weight. Delivered with a tall stack of napkins, this po-boy demands your respect. All the beef is roasted on premises. 80 pounds of Irish pride leave this kitchen every day as customers descend upon this ramshackle corner bar to pick up their roast beef po-boys. One neighborhood regular orders a large -- one half for him and one half for his dog. "If I didn't, he'd snatch the damn thing out of my mouth." Owned since 1952 by the Passauer family, Parasol's has remained true to its roots in the city's Irish Channel. All walls are painted a subtle green. Unlike Bennigans, being Irish is not a once a year affectation at Parasol's. It is here that the city's largest and most raucous St. Patrick's Day party takes place. More importantly, it is here that the mythical Irish marriage of beef and potatoes reaches new culinary heights when you order a half, roast beef po-boy and a half, french fry po-boy. Don't forget the gravy!
Rocky and Carlo's "Gimme a baked macaroni, brucceloni, a side of red gravy and a Wop salad. And make it snappy will ya' honey? I got to get back to the 'finery." You're hip. You're familiar with the strange lexicon that native New Orleanians use to describe their foods. You know what the counterman at Mother's means when he asks if you want that po-boy "dressed." You know what olive relish is and why it is essential to a good muffeletta. Even "tasso" ham doesn't throw you for a culinary loop. But Rocky and Carlo's will. The sign out front proclaims: "Ladies Welcome." Was that ever in doubt? In the parking lot, two new pickups sport "David Duke for President" bumper stickers. The room, like the building in which it is housed, is large, nondescript and functional. Video poker machines clang and clamor. "America's Funniest Home Videos" blasts from the corner television and cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air, like early morning fog. Long a hangout for local refinery workers, Rocky and Carlo's has seen more than its share of fights. Today, you are only likely to witness violence if you try to break into the line which snakes backward from the steam table to the door. Your friendly hotel concierge would never point you here. Why would I ? Baked macaroni, brucceloni, a side of red gravy and a Wop salad. Speak these words and you will be rewarded, as was our friend the refinery worker, with a $6 meal that you will never be able to finish, much less duplicate. Oh, but you will try to finish it. Who wouldn't? The brucceloni -- fork-tender beef, stuffed and stewed -- would be the envy of any uptown New Orleans menu; as would the deftly fried, corn flour-crusted oysters and shrimp. Lavished with garlicky red gravy (known to outlanders as tomato sauce), you quickly decide that the gargantuan helping of baked macaroni may be the best thing on your oversized plate. That is, until you taste the Wop salad. The first bite (and all subsequent) explodes in your mouth. Like steam rising off Louisiana blacktop after a hot summer day's rain, the smell of onions, olives, garlic, cheese, peppers, oil, vinegar, artichokes and giardiniera seems to hover over the bowl of lettuce. The resulting oily, pungent, Italian morass of vegetables belies description. Political correctness be damned; you'll love this Wop!
Eddie's at Krauss Krauss is a department store, frozen in the amber of the 1950s. Wayne Banquet is a chef non pareil. At the top of the escalator, on the mezzanine, behind a selection of ladie's hats that even Minnie Pearl would question, these two unlikeliest of bedfellows collide. Eddie's is far from fancy. Seating is on chrome stools and service is brisk but friendly. Imagine a larger version of the small-town lunch counter and you've got a picture of Eddie's at Krauss. After negotiating the polyester pathway, you deserve a hero's reward. Sit down to a plate of Eddie's justly famous red beans and rice and an order of fried chicken. You won't find a cheaper plate lunch in the city. Nor will you find a better example of this distinctive of New Orleans dishes. Let the swells eat pompano en papillote. Oysters Rockefeller? You can have it. Banana's Foster? An expense account can take you only so far. Four dollars and directions to Eddie's will take you much farther -- to the heart and soul of New Orleans cooking. With the first bite of the pork-infused red beans, you will come to understand why the late, great Louis Armstrong signed his personal correspondence: Red Beans and Ricely Yours, Louis.
|
 |
|  |
contact us |