Unlike, perhaps, the rest of the world, I am not happy when a restaurant backs down on its coat and tie dress code. (Witness my response to the "21" Club's capitulation to the madding crowd.)
You'd think the oldest restaurant in the U.S. would hold firm. But, no. ABC reports that formal attire is out the window. "We still don't allow things like ripped jeans and flip-flops," said Yvonne Alciatore Blount, whose family has run Antoine's for five generations. "And many of our diners, especially at dinner, do enjoy dressing up, but we no longer enforce the coat and tie rule."
And civilization marches slowly to the sea.
Rubenstein's Department Store has been on Canal Street in New Orleans since 1924. It remains in the Rubenstein family and, unlike many such stores in other cities, continues to do well. There are two floors of clothes inside, surprisingly high-end stuff for both men and ladies. There are some items made specifically for Rubenstein's and bear their label.
A sale was afoot when I visited and from the moment I entered I was shadowed by an eager, smiling young salesman named Spencer Tracy. I kid you not. I usually hate this sort of treatment, but he was so smiling and so friendly, I didn't mind his company. I think it was the moment he offered to bring me a Coke or a Beer that he won me over.
"Are you serious?" I said. "Yes," he smiled. "Do people actually take you up on that offer?" "Yes, one a hot day, they do." "I can tell you," I replied, "that if anyone in a store in New York City ever offered a customer a coke or a beer or even a glass of water, they would fall over from shock."
I bought a nice short-sleeved shirt with a Rubenstein label. Next year, I'm saying yes to that beer. Somehow, I can't think of anything cooler than shopping for clothes in New Orleans while drinking a beer.
An abandoned antique store that was apparently a costume rental store in a previous lifetime.
A famous restaurant in the French Quarter.
An enchantingly grungy old eatery just behind the Hotel Monteleone. They spell it out for you: Gumbo Red Beans Rice Hot Sandwiches. It's what you want.
An otherwise cheerless building at the corner of Canal and St. Charles is enlivened by the one-story-tall, carved-out name of Gus Meyer. Meyer's was once a mini-chain of department stores with locations across the south. This building was the original outlet. The remained two are in Birmingham and Nashville.
Well known for its Po' Boys. Lines down the block.
A hotel felled by Katrina. Ain't gonna open anything soon. But the sign survived and is glorious.
Got this in the dark in the Carrollton neighborhood. Still worth it.
Only in New Orleans could a Walgreen's look this grand. On Canal Street.
This more modest, but no less appealing, sign is on Royal Street in the French Quarter.
Here are some leftover images from my recent journey to New Orleans. I couldn't not post them because they are such good signs. Of course, NoLa is a kingdom of good signage, where classic neon and such are not tossed out for some crappy new plastic or cloth awning.
Not the interesting abbreviation of Pharmacy. And the restaurant is pronounced "Two-Jacks."
Commander's Palace is known for, perhaps more than anything, its attentive service. Little did I know.
The other night, I had planned to eat at Dick and Jenny's, a local favorite in New Orleans' Uptown neighborhood. But, upon arriving, I discovered they were closed for July. All I knew about the area was that Commander's Palace was somewhere nearby, so I told the cab to drive there, hoping the place (routinely rated NoLa's most popular restaurant) wouldn't be fully booked.
The front desk told me they could possible squeeze me in if I was willing to cool my heels at the bar for 45 minutes. I agreed. Every New Orleans restaurant has its singular eccentricities, and I discovered one of Commander's Palace's when I was led to the bar. My guide led me straight into the kitchen (through doors labeled "Yes" and "No" in big brass letters). Passing the kitchen is the only way you can get to the bar. So it's a safe bet that every diner gets a good long look at the chefs in action.
Commander's Palace's second eccentricity—and, yes, I would call it a eccentricity rather than a clear-cut virtue—is the slavish devotion of the waiters and staff. I was shunted off to a far corner of a second floor space called the Garden Room. I was none too happy, feeling I had gotten the worst table in the house. But my mood soon changed. Every waiter—and I seemed to have at least four—constantly smiled at me, refilled my water glass, asked if I was all right, and engaged me in conversations about my life and experiences which sometimes lasted five minutes. I was taken care of, as they say. If I had truly wanted to be left alone, I would have had to beat these guys off with a stick.
By the end of the evening, I had met the head chef, the estimable Tory McPhail, and the dining room manager, Michael Brewer. Both acted like they would have died a little inside if I hadn't chosen to eat there that night. I was flabbergasted, but I had to hand it to them. They knew how to treat a customer.
As for the meal, I was stunned. I expected that, since Commander's Palace is a big tourist magnet, the food would be rote, less than stellar. But this was the best meal I had in New Orleans. The Oysters Racca—light and crispy oysters, with bacon braised artichokes, leeks, double cream and oyster demi-glace—was mouth-watering and is one of the best things I have ever eaten. And the Gulf Crusted Wild American Shrimp was almost as good, with succulent homemade barbeque sauce and mushrooms, grilled leeks, and andouille-cracked. I could have started over and eaten the entire meal a second time.
Antoine's is the oldest family-run restaurant in the United States and, as such, can lay claim to its share of original dishes, mysterious traditions and arcane rituals. The restaurant itself is a byzantine maze of room dedicated to bizarre design motifs and antique gatherings.
I had dinner the other night in a sparsely populated main room. The service was confident, deferential and attentive. Derrick was the waiter's name, and he looked like he only 18 and weighed 98 pounds, but his attitude was that of a man with decades of experience. My friend and I had many of the signature dishes: Oysters Rockefeller, Oysters a la Foch, Pommes de Terre Souffles and Baked Alaska.
We finished with another longtime Antoine's favorite, Cafe brulot diabolique. We had no idea what we were getting into when we ordered it. First, two warmed, long-stemmed china coffee cups came to the table. On the side of each was an illustration of Satan. Then Derrick returned with copper pan filled with brandy and spices, which he lit on fire. After letting it burn a bit, he slowly pouring in hot black coffee, stirring it until the flames subsided a bit. He then ladled a cupful into each mug while the mixture was still burning.
"How long should I wait after the fire goes out to drink it?" I asked. "Right away," said Derrick. He further explained that the coffee was named as it was because it was "Black as night and hot as Hell."
Whereas in New York, we can't seem to knock down our cultural landmarks fast enough, in New Orleans even a hurricane like Katrina won't kill a classic restaurant or bar. Most of the famous French Quarter destinations have bounded back, with only a few going down for the count. During my stay there, I paid a call of such irreplaceable treasures as Mother's, Commander's Palace, Acme Oyster Bar, Tipitina's music club, Vaughan's Lounge, The Olde Absinthe House and others.
One place I visited for the first time was Central Grocery on Decatur Street, not far from the French Market. This is an old Italian grocery with an atmosphere of circu 1940. It has many of the products you find in a grocery in any Little Italy in New York, as well as the requisite Cajun products and about 108 different kinds of hot sauce. What's it's really known for, however, is something you definitely can't get on Arthur Avenue or in Bensonhurst: the muffuletta sandwich.
The muffuletta is a killer sandwich, both in the sense that it's a great sandwich and that it's so big it could conceivably kill you if one fell on your head from a great height. The bread is a whole Italian, seeded round about one foot in diameter. Inside are layers of procuitto, salami, and provolone, topped with—the key ingredient—a generous layer of spicy olive salad. The creation is then cut four ways, in the manner of a pizza.
You can buy these sandwiches as a "whole" or a "half," and, unless you're part of a big, hungry group, or a fool, you want a half. One person can't eat a whole. It's a very satisfying feast, and best if you sit and one of the Central Grocery counters and munch it down there, soaking in the workaday, aged character of the place.
The place next door, Progress Grocery, another old-time Italian place, also claims to have invented the muffuletta, but most people seem to except that Central Grocery is the author.
New Orleans, being a city that honors old traditions, has a huge hat emporium (well, huge by hat store standards) on St. Charles Street off Canal. It's called Meyer the Hatter and is about the most impressive edifice dedicated to haberdashery that I've ever seen. Though the shop is limited to the ground floor, the entire, four-story facade of the building is blanketing by the store's sign. Glimpsed from across the street, Meyer seems some mercantile giant.
The store was founded in 1894 and advertises itself as the "largest hat store in the south." While shopping inside, however, Sam Meyer II himself corrected that slogan, saying "the only hat store in the south." Sam is the third generation of four Meyer generations that have worked that store. It has never fallen out of family hands. He said he sells 2,000 hats a month, many of which lids he designs himself (though he does not manufacture them). Folks travel from all around, and phone orders come in from overseas.
Sam's an irrascable guy, but I'm proud to say he personally helped me find the hat I purchased at Meyer. I kept having to apologize for various stupid things I said about hats and the hat business. He barked and grumbled and complained, but he did his job, fetching me at least a dozen different hats before I finally settled on a Stetson Panama called the "Soho"—a new model just arrived, he told me, and the last he had in stock. It had a soft, flexible frame that was far more comfortable on my head that the stiff straw hats that are the norm.
"They can make 'em like this if they want to," Sam said. "They don't have to make them hard. I don't like 'em hard. I don't ask for 'em hard. Look at this." He knocked the brim of a stiff straw hat. "It's like like a rock."
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