I have a new love. And it is Galatoire’s. I love old-school restaurants–even if they’re not as good/delicious/worthy as they used to be. I love the style of service that is professional, where the waiter knows more about the food than I do and we both accept and work with that fact. I love the mix of high and low, regulars and tourists, stylish and tacky that frequent such places. Galatoire’s reminds me of La Coupole in Paris: if you embrace its method and its madness you will experience its charm and have the night of your life.
Last night I dipped deep-fried eggplant in béarnaise and powdered sugar and happily did it again. I then worked with the special recommendation of our waiter and mixed tabasco with powdered sugar and dragged the eggplant through it. Happily again.
The shrimp rémoulade was unlike any rémoulade I’ve ever had or read about–more like cocktail sauce with a dash of mayonnaise in it than any classic preparation. But toss some sweet Gulf shrimp in that bright red mess and spoon it over lettuce and you have a mighty fine dish.
Following the recommendation of our waiter, we downed drum (a white fish “you could say is meatier than trout or you could say trout is softer than drum” according to our waiter) “sautéed” (I would call it pan-fried which, by the way, is hands-down the best way to cook white-fleshed fish) and doused with “crabmeat yvonne” a topping of crab, mushrooms, and artichokes tossed in plenty of browned butter and sautéed soft-shell crabs. The crabs were okay. The drum was fabulous.
I’m glad to learn that the line down Bourbon Street isn’t just for the atmosphere. The kitchen may not be revolutionizing créole cuisine, but it knows what they hell it’s doing.
Full and sated we ordered bread pudding anyway. I’m glad we did. It was topped with bananas, which is just plain wrong (what with the very smell of bananas being nausea-inducing), but if, like me, you managed to get a corner untainted by banana, you were rewarded with a custardy pudding and smooth caramel sauce that put the right sweet finish on a meal not gotten anywhere else. The historian in me loves the long line from which this meal descends. The anthropologist adores the crowd. The food lover smacks her lips and says “more please.”
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