Last Tuesday evening, 8:30 pm, sitting at the bar at Emeril's Nola restaurant in the French Quarter.
Priceless.
I'll spare you a description of the work hours and travel hours and money issues that made it so hard to get here. Let's just say I finished the odious work task that had been bearing down on me and emailed the results just 5 minutes before my dinner reservation, and fairly ran from the W Hotel 3 blocks away, and here I finally was. Where I haven't been in I-don't-know-how-long and where I don't know when I'll be again.
Gin and tonic at the bar, Bombay Sapphire, yes, available anywhere, but just the special thing I needed RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW to celebrate being done with work and finally able to ENJOY BEING IN NEW ORLEANS.
Moved to the kitchen bar. French bread, onion roll, jalapeño corn muffins.
Barbecued shrimp with a sauce so deep and dark and rich it almost seemed like chocolate. A rosemary biscuit on the side.
A gumbo, almost a Manhattan clam chowder, but with sausage and onions instead of clams.
Filet mignon, garlic mashed potatoes with a maple glaze, grilled portobello mushroom.
A white with the shrimp. A red with the filet.
I talked a bit to the young cook manning the pizza oven right in front of me. Not his first gig, he says. He's been cooking since he was sixteen. Two years. It seems longer to him than it does to me. He says he cooked for Chef John Besch before he came to Nola. How do you like it here? I asked. It's okay, he said. Me, I'd be beside myself if I worked in the kitchen of a famous restaurant. Or so I imagine.
It's almost 10 pm now, and my server, an older, Asian gentleman that everyone calls Ben (he tells me it's really spelled Binh) assures me I can stay as long as I like. They're still serving everyone who's here - and the place is crowded and noisy - but they've stopped seating people. So no one's waiting impatiently for my seat.
The maitre d' came by to ask how I liked everything. I loved everything. If I were on death row and my last meal were coming from this kitchen, I wouldn't mind at all.
The atmosphere is warm and welcoming, nothing snobbish, nothing elitist. At a table behind me is a couple with a little girl, 6 maybe, and a baby in a big stroller. Do all famous-chef restaurants let you bring a big baby carriage in during the prime dinner hours?
At the other end of the kitchen bar - it's all women at the kitchen bar tonight, four others and me - is a woman who is remarkable neither in face or hair, but who is distracting to everyone around her because of the very low-cut top she is wearing to display her unabashed bustiness. I would describe it as something like what Scarlett O'Hara and her female companions were wearing during their nap time in the middle of the party at Tara. If my mother were here she'd call it a "foundation garment." The kitchen cooks and servers struggle admirably not to be noticeably distracted.
I am also distracted by the fact that she and the woman she is dining with are both drinking something in big wine glasses that looks so bright red that it is hard to believe it is not carbonated. I am tempted to ask a server what that could be, but I resist.
The manager comes by to talk to me, and I tell him how much I loved the sauce for the barbecued shrimp. He takes me to a display case at the front of the restaurant, pulls out a cookbook, and shows me that it contains the recipe for that. I think of other restaurants I've been at, nowhere near as reknowned (I'm thinking Highwood) where the chef acted offended at the mere suggestion that I might try to reproduce his dish at home.
Back at the kitchen bar, I tell Young World-Weary Pizza-Oven Chef that I now had the recipe for the magic barbecued-shrimp sauce. It's probably not that hard, he says. Oh sure, on paper, I say. He waves a hand toward the kitchen. It is probably 30 degrees hotter where he is standing than where I am sitting, which I suppose explains his languid movements. He is cooling off with a big glass of milk. Gesturing to the kitchen staff, he says, if these guys can do it, I'm sure you can.
I bought the cookbook, and Binh brought me a menu to take home. Since Emeril wasn't in the house, I asked Binh to sign the book. Mr. Young World-Weary asked me if I would like to have everyone in the kitchen sign the menu that they'd given me to take home, and I said that would be wonderful. When he brought it back to me, full of signatures, he said, watch those names - in ten years, we'll all be famous.
On a warm, breezy New Orleans night, I walked back to my hotel, past a cop and a proprietor having a pleasant talk out on the sidewalk in front of a bar, past a public library, past a wall spilling over with bougainvillas. In my hotel room, wood-shuttered French doors open out onto a balcony overlooking a quiet courtyard, a still pool, vine-covered brick walls, and a moonlit sky. I fall back onto the king-size bed and fall deeply, happily asleep.
"Your swimming suit matches your eyes, you hold your nose before diving, loving you has made me bananas!"