Month: July 2013

The Peacemaker

New Orleans was treating me well. I had arrived the night before, driving up from South Florida, and my first stop, directly off of the interstate, was Pêche, a new destination – it opened about three months ago – in the Link Restaurant Group, the people behind Herbsaint and several other places. If you are in New Orleans and want some great seafood, take a drive to Magazine Street and sit for a while in Pêche.

Looking for Walker Percy: The courtyard of Creole Gardens, a bed and breakfast in New Orleans.

Looking for Walker Percy: The courtyard of Creole Gardens, a bed and breakfast in New Orleans.

After oysters, smoked tuna dip, raw tuna with fennel, corn and tomato water, and excellent grouper collars, I drove the short distance to my inn, the Creole Gardens, and settled in for the evening, thinking of tomorrow’s meals. A comfortably shabby courtyard, complete with banana trees hanging with bunches of the fruit and a gurgling fountain, and a small but serviceable room, greeted me.

Up early the next morning, breakfast at the inn – grits, two eggs over easy and bacon. My mind wasn’t really on that food, though, because I was thinking about how long it would be before I could have lunch. You see, my plan was all about the po’ boy; specifically, one with the name “Peacemaker” made at Mahony’s, a restaurant I knew of and one of the meals recommended to me by John T. Edge when I asked him “If you could eat three meals in New Orleans now, where would you go?” (Pêche and Brigtsen’s were the other two.) I had read about the Peacemaker a few years ago, and that, along with John’s input, resulted in Mahony’s getting my business in a po’ boy-rich city.

You must go here when in New Orleans.

This sign guides you to one fine  po’ boy.

I made the right decision. Mahony’s is also on Magazine, in a non-descript house with a welcoming front porch that allows for outdoor dining. Wooden flooring, SEC football posters on the walls, condiments stored in six-pack containers. You place your order at the end of the bar, give your name, and wait for the goodness to come out of the kitchen. The Peacemaker is “market price,” owing to the fried oysters that are key to its deliciousness. It comes in large and small, and I ordered a small, knowing dinner was still on the agenda. Pickles and mayo, please, hold the lettuce and tomato. I took a seat, looking forward to the sandwich.

A few minutes later the cook delivered it to me, wrapped in white butcher paper. I opened it and inhaled, then slowly took the first bite. Perfect muffaletta with sesame seeds, slightly warm, the proper level of chewiness. (Mahony’s get its bread from the Leidenheimer Baking Company, which was founded in 1896 by George Leidenheimer, who was from Deidesheim, Germany, a city near where I lived in Germany.) I asked for a side of mayonnaise and settled in for a leisurely meal. The Abita Amber was a good complement.

The Peacemaker, closed view

The Peacemaker, closed view

Not the most visually appealing image, but once this is in your mouth you will be in heaven, guaranteed.

Not the most visually appealing image, but once this is in your mouth you will be in heaven, guaranteed.

What we have: three or four fried oysters, cheddar cheese, and two slices of bacon. And we also have something approaching perfection. Oysters cooked with aplomb, crisp on the outside, warm and soft interiors. The bacon combined with the oysters to create a great taste. Even the small pickles added their element, turning these ingredients into something really special. My only thought other than “This is excellent” was that a better grade of cheese would make this po’ boy even better. The cheese resembled the Boar’s Head variety, and alone had an unremarkable taste. Perhaps a goat cheese, or a sharp cheddar. But, minor quibble aside, I would without hesitation enjoy a regular appointment at Mahony’s.

Oh yes, the name. Peacemaker. You might be wondering about that. I asked a waitress and she told me that she had heard it was because when musicians would stay out late at night playing and doing other things that happen at night they would stop by Mahony’s and take one home as a peace offering to their significant other, thereby keeping the peace, at least as long as that po’ boy lasted.

The perfect way to arrive in New Orleans

I  drove up from lower Florida yesterday – that state is too long – headed to New Orleans, where I am spending two days on my way to Houston, so I asked my friend John T. Edge where he would eat now if he could have three meals in the Crescent City. Pêche, one of his picks, was my destination last night, so I made sure I drove rapidly enough to make it in time for dinner. It’s on Magazine Street, and as I approached the building I spied a parking spot directly in front of the restaurant’s main entrance. I took it, got out of the car, and marveled at my luck. As I shook off the road two young guys who were smoking on the sidewalk asked me if I was “from around here”. I told them no, that I had just arrived from Florida … they were bartenders, in town for Tales of the Cocktail, a five-day convention/festival. So, not only do I find a parking spot right outside the restaurant, but I arrive in New Orleans on the opening day of an event dedicated to mixology … That is the perfect way to arrive.

I took a seat at the raw bar and scanned the the crowd; the place was packed, loud, the the diners ran the gamut from old to young, hipster to grandparents. John’s recommendation, as I knew it would be, was sublime. I started with a small bowl of smoked tuna dip, which contained a hint of heat – perhaps jalapeño – and was a creamy delight on the Saltines that accompanied it.

The oysters looked good as they were shucked in front of me, so I chose six: Blue Points from Connecticut, Louisiana Area 3, and St. James (Virginia.) Cold, crisp, revivifying. Eating them drove the long drive right out of me.

Blue Points, Louisiana Area 3, a St. James (Virginia)

Blue Points (Connecticut), Louisiana Area 3, and St. James (Virginia)

Next came raw tuna with fennel, tomato water and corn (and a little basil thrown in). Again, amazing, fresh flavors. Tuna was a bit warm for my taste, but that was probably because I took my time with the dip and oysters before I proceeded to that plate.

Tuna, fennel, tomato water and corn

Tuna, fennel, tomato water and corn

I then took a pause and perused the menu, considering the Louisiana Shrimp Roll before deciding on the Grouper Collars. I am very fond of Hake Cheeks, which I ate often in San Sebastián, so I thought I would give the grouper a try. It was a good choice. Served with tomato and cucumber and parsley, fried to the perfect level of crispiness, full of tender, rich meat.

Grouper collars, pepper jelly, and cucumbers

Grouper collars, pepper jelly, and cucumbers

Bartenders surrounded me, I was finishing a glass of Albariño, and New Orleans was just outside. It was a perfect evening. Donald Link, Stephen Stryjewski, and Ryan Prewitt have a new winner on their hands.

My Grandmother’s Kitchen Is Everywhere

My grandmother, Ida Boyette, died early this morning. She was 84, and had heart disease, and more recently suffered a series of strokes. She was tired. A few hours before she left this world I kissed her forehead, told her I loved her, and left her room for the final time.

Ida Boyette and James Brock, her first grandson.

Ida Boyette and James Brock, her first grandson.

It's always too early to say farewell to someone you truly love.

It’s always too early to say farewell to someone you truly love.

She indeed lived a full life, raised six children, and is one of the main reasons I cook. For many years we visited papa and grandma in Savannah, at least once a year, and my memories of those visits are primarily of her kitchen, whose door we most often used to enter and leave the house. The door took us to the backyard, and its window held an amazing view of a giant oak tree, full of Spanish moss. (If I was not in the kitchen, I was in that yard, which was also graced with a beautiful old magnolia tree, my grandfather’s garden, and the healthiest azaleas I have ever seen.)

Ida and James, my maternal grandparents.

Ida and James.

Ida and James, doing what came naturally at Thanksgiving.

Ida and James, doing what came naturally at Thanksgiving.

Back in that kitchen, my grandmother was probably breaking down a chicken or two, preparing to fry them for a hungry crowd. (My grandfather, James Calvin Boyette, was a hunter and a fisherman, and at one time even raised quail in that yard, so there was always something that needed attention, from dove to squirrel to bass to cobia and everything in between. And more often than not, his wife was left with the task of cleaning what he and his sons and friends brought home.)

I did not know it was happening, but what Ida was doing in that kitchen in Savannah entered into me, slowly and surely. She was, of course, taking care of her family, feeding a husband and children and visiting relatives. But she was also thinking diligently about what she was preparing, and I remember many moments when the joy she was feeling erupted in the kitchen: laughter as blue crabs scampered on the counter near the sink, when shrimp flipped in cold water. I smell still the ingredients she used in her mincemeat pies, the raisin and spices.

There was a large table in the dining room, and we all gathered there. In that kitchen, and around that table, I developed, over the years, a passion for working with food, for cooking, for taking ingredients and transforming them into something that made people smile. I learned from her, in short, how to create.

Thank you, Ida. You’ll be in my kitchen forever.

It runs in the family.

It runs in the family.

An Italian winter’s tale of grace

I was in Florence for a few days, a stopover of sorts before I traveled on to Umbria. I was staying at the Hotel Hermes, hosted by Patricia Baglioni, the wonderful woman who owns the small hotel. She steered me toward her favorite places in the city, restaurants and otherwise, and told me some fine stories about her childhood in Texas and Mexico and coming to Italy to study and falling in love with an Italian man whose family owned hotels. He sadly died a while ago, too young, but not before they had a marriage full of adventure and travel and great meals. (Her husband was a hunter, and she showed me some photographs of him with wild boar and pheasant and deer, all of which ended up on their family table.)

Patricia Baglioni, the consummate hostess of Hotel Hermes. (Photo courtesy of Patricia Baglioni)

Patricia Baglioni, the consummate hostess of Hotel Hermes, and a guest. (Photo courtesy of Patricia Baglioni)

It was in the middle of December, and Florence was beautiful. Florence is always beautiful. It was to be my final day in the city, and the next morning, the 17th, I would depart for Umbria and Brigolante, the agriturismo near Assisi that Angela and I would use as home base for the winter holiday season. I went for a walk along the river after breakfast, over the bridge and up toward the Uffizi. For lunch I had coniglio fritto at Al Tranvai, a small place I had read about in Saveur. If you are in Florence you must go, and please order the rabbit. I spent the afternoon wandering, no destination in mind, and ended up at a bar run by an American, a guy who had fallen in love with the city when he and his girlfriend had passed through two years earlier. He told me she had left him to return to California. He thought about her rarely, he said.

Rabbit and zucchini at Tranvai.

Rabbit and zucchini at Al Tranvai.

In the kitchen at Sostanza. (Look at the bottom right corner of image and you'll see a perfect piece of beef.)

In the kitchen at Sostanza. (Look at the middle-right section of the image and you’ll see a perfect piece of beef.)

For dinner I went to Trattoria Sostanza, and, of course, had a bistecca. (I will revisit Sostanza, both corporeally and on Mise en place. It is deserving of that, and more.) Communal tables, two seatings nightly, excellent food. I had a view of the kitchen, and my steak was cooked semi-vertically on a grate over charcoal. It is in the top 5 on my best steak list. After dinner I walked along the river and admired the duomo, thinking of Dante and Beatrice.

I was excited about my drive to Umbria, and after a late breakfast at the hotel headed to the rental agency to pick up my Fiat. As I walked past the window of the German shoemaker snowflakes began to fall, wispy flakes that melted as soon as they landed on the street. I ambled along, not quite wanting to leave Florence behind. I stopped at several food stores along the way, and decided to have an early lunch: fried squash blossoms, a few slices of ham, and a half-bottle of Montepulciano.

Blossoms from a vegetable on a snowy day

Blossoms from a vegetable on a snowy day

While I sat eating the blossoms at a table covered in butcher paper the snow grew heavier, the sky darker. The thin slices of ham melted on my tongue and the red wine warmed me. People rushed along the sidewalk, looking up at the sky. I bought a few tins of pâté and some sausages and cheese for the trip, then continued on to the rental agency.

The car, a white Fiat 500, was small, but just big enough for Angela and me and a bag or two. I drove the short distance back to the hotel and loaded my things, bid farewell to Patricia, then took off toward the river. It was snowing heavily, but I had no worries, and entered the traffic stream, the radio playing a Count Basie number.

Five minutes later it all came down. Snow mixed with ice, heavy. The little car’s windshield wipers struggled to keep up, and the traffic came to a standstill. I endured at least an hour moving at a crawl. We were headed up an incline, toward the autostrada, out of the city, but nature had something else in mind: by the dozens, cars began pulling to the side of the road, unable to make it up the hill. The snow grew heavier, and I thought to myself that I was glad I had brought my hiking boots. I parked my car in the best location possible, its nose still jutting into the street. I, along with other drivers and passengers, emerged into the icy early afternoon.

167933_477533883353_184459_n

I began walking down the narrow, icy street and saw cars parked on both sides of it, two wheels on the sidewalks, two on the one-way thoroughfare. The neighborhood in which I interrupted my journey was just outside one of Florence’s old gates, and as I walked down the hill toward the massive structure I began thinking about where I would spend the night. My first thought was to phone Patricia at the hotel, but when I took my iPhone from my pocket I discovered I had no credit remaining. I kept walking and soon saw a restaurant to my right; it was closed, but lights were on in the dining room and I saw a man in a chef’s jacket standing behind the bar. I knocked on the door and he motioned for me to come in; he was on the phone, and pointed to a bar stool. As I approached him I noticed a group of people sitting at a large table at the rear of the restaurant and realized I had interrupted family meal.

A family meal in a warm place.

A family meal in a warm place.

I sat and looked at the wines on the bar, and a minute or so later my host put down the phone. We shook hands, and he said his name was Paulo. He mentioned the ice storm, and I told him I was stuck, had been forced to park my car on the side of the road, and that I was looking for a place to spend the night. I asked if I might use his phone, but he had another idea: he began calling friends who lived in the neighborhood, asking if anyone could put me up for the evening. I tried to stop him, to tell him I would call back to the hotel in which I had been staying, but he ignored me. After a few calls he put the phone down and smiled, offering me a glass of wine. “Don’t worry, a friend has a bed and breakfast one street over, and he has a free room. He told me I could have it for 35 euros.” Perfect, I said, and we toasted the weather.

He then asked me to follow him, and we walked toward the kitchen, stopping at the occupied table. He introduced me to his father and mother, and some of his employees. His father, who had the year before handed over the kitchen to Paulo, had worked in a restaurant since he was 17, and had opened his own, this one, 15 years earlier. I shook hands with everyone and admired the food on their plates, refusing an offer to eat with them … they had already done enough.

Paulo wrote an address down, then told me that I should come back that evening for dinner. How could I refuse? I was reluctant to leave the warm restaurant, but wanted to find my room before it grew dark. I walked back up the hill to the car and retrieved a few things, then followed the directions Paulo had given me.

It was indeed one street over, one snow-filled street. I saw the number and rang the bell, and was met by a man in his 20’s, who welcomed me in and showed me the room. It was wonderfully decorated, warm, large bed, tasteful fabrics – dark green and an interesting shade of red. He told me his mother and he owned the building and that they were glad to do a favor for Paulo. He seemed to be in a hurry, so I thanked him and walked him to the door. I opened my Mac and found an email from Patricia; she wanted to make sure I was safe, and I told her my tale. She laughed and made me promise to stay at Hotel Hermes when I next was in Florence.

I put my bag away and saw a bottle of wine on the table near the window, poured myself a glass, and sat down, watching the snow fall. (The image of that snow at that moment is in my mind still, and when I wish to evoke a feeling of peace I can conjure it up. I see the snow fall, watch it accumulate on the balcony rail outside the window, silently.)

My room with a snowy view.

My room with a snowy view.

After enjoying another glass of wine I showered, then traced my steps back to the restaurant, which was full of people. Paulo had reserved a place for me at a table along the wall, and I sat, enjoying a perfect view of the entire room. The barstools were occupied, and all but one table was full. I ordered some prosecco and looked at the menu, my eyes landing immediately on wild boar, one of my favorite proteins. They were serving Cinghiale al Ginepro, and I ordered it. A leg of a fine animal ­– Paulo told me they had marinated it in red wine – that had once roamed woods not far from Florence. I was deciding on a first course when a waiter came out with a bowl of pasta and set it before me. I looked down and saw truffles. Tartufo. White truffles, alba madonna. Shaved truffles on top of thin, wide noodles, in a rich sauce that tasted of olive oil and shallots. I lowered my head over the dish and inhaled, and tears came to my eyes.

Those tears were not caused by sadness or tiredness, but were provoked by a profound sense of gratitude, a feeling that was almost holy, sacred. I was sitting among strangers, in a warm restaurant whose chef had housed and fed me. That morning I had checked out of a hotel whose owner, concerned about me in the ice storm, called to make sure I was safe, a woman with whom I still correspond and will surely see next time I am in Firenze. I drank and I ate, and thought of nothing else.

Yes, the truffles and pasta were sublime, as truffles almost always are. The wild boar I remember still: gamy (as I like it), rich, perfectly cooked. But on that evening in Florence, as the snow fell and I sat at an unfamiliar though perfect table surrounded by happy people talking and enjoying their food and wine, I was the recipient of kindnesses that outshone even the finest truffle.

© 2024 Mise en Place

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑