Notes from Tujague's
Here are my notes from dinner at Tujague's, at the corner of Decatur and Madison, on a chilly winter night, shortly after the State of the Union speech...
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Dinner at Tujague's. Five tables, all couples: three men and women, two pairs of gents. Place half-lit and gloomy, no candles on the white papered tables, just eight or so 50watt bulbs in large fixtures, high overhead; ceiling itself must be 15' or more. Bar sounds like a birthday party, kitchen clatters happily as if cooking for fifty, the dining room feels like a 1930s railway station beanery at midnight.
No menu; the waiter (who looks like Ed Koch in a floorlength white apron) comes and reels off the four specials; the rest of the meal is set. One is beef brisket (?!); I opt for drum, a kind of dense white fish, and a glass of white wine.
Shrimps remoulade appear, dark red sauce and very spicy on iced, even icy, greens. Next comes little cup of gumbo, very dense, with chunks of sausage at the bottom. Sub-waiter comes by with a basket of hot, lofty, crusty French bread, hot enough to burn fingers. My water decanter is shaped like ship's brandy flask. Small plate of beef brisket, chewy, oddly flavorless; Ed Koch and I debate whether Tim and I could ever have eaten an oyster po'boy here, he thinks not, as brisket is the house speciality. He is hurt I don't finish it; I plead greater interest in the drum.
Couple a decade or two older than I am are leaving, shaking his hand; 'see you next year,' they say, like 'next year in the Holy Land.' Young m-f couples left long ago - looked like slightly disappointed honeymooners. Extended pause while the drum is prepared; I pretend to read 'Shadows on the Teche' leaflet but it's too dark. Instead, study walls lined with autographed b&w photos of celebrities, mostly from the 1950s and 60s, and waitstaff from 1940s/50s; shadowboxes display hundreds of liquor miniatures, presumably emptied in 1930s. Piratical laughter from bar, punctuated by squeaks from video slots and e-poker machines.
The drum appears, also embedded on lettuce; another rich, sharply spicy sauce accented by green and red peppers and onions -- the fish itself is aromatic and spiced through.
Conversation sharp, too. Triangulated: two tables of men and me, across room, across flitting waiters who chime in sometimes. Much talk of Bush's State of the Union speech, angrily asking 'where was New Orleans?' 'why all that money to Iraq and nothing here?' 'Bush wants to forget us and our Democratic governor.' Anecdotes - everyone knows someone, or many someones - that has yet to see money from insurance, FEMA, bank loans. Businesses can't recover: no residents to spend money, nor be employees for the services tourism requires in order to run full throttle.
Last pair of diners and I talk through my second glass of wine. Dessert is -- so heavy! -- bread pudding. Oh well: I left half my loaf, so I know it's going to a good home.
+++++
Dinner at Tujague's. Five tables, all couples: three men and women, two pairs of gents. Place half-lit and gloomy, no candles on the white papered tables, just eight or so 50watt bulbs in large fixtures, high overhead; ceiling itself must be 15' or more. Bar sounds like a birthday party, kitchen clatters happily as if cooking for fifty, the dining room feels like a 1930s railway station beanery at midnight.
No menu; the waiter (who looks like Ed Koch in a floorlength white apron) comes and reels off the four specials; the rest of the meal is set. One is beef brisket (?!); I opt for drum, a kind of dense white fish, and a glass of white wine.
Shrimps remoulade appear, dark red sauce and very spicy on iced, even icy, greens. Next comes little cup of gumbo, very dense, with chunks of sausage at the bottom. Sub-waiter comes by with a basket of hot, lofty, crusty French bread, hot enough to burn fingers. My water decanter is shaped like ship's brandy flask. Small plate of beef brisket, chewy, oddly flavorless; Ed Koch and I debate whether Tim and I could ever have eaten an oyster po'boy here, he thinks not, as brisket is the house speciality. He is hurt I don't finish it; I plead greater interest in the drum.
Couple a decade or two older than I am are leaving, shaking his hand; 'see you next year,' they say, like 'next year in the Holy Land.' Young m-f couples left long ago - looked like slightly disappointed honeymooners. Extended pause while the drum is prepared; I pretend to read 'Shadows on the Teche' leaflet but it's too dark. Instead, study walls lined with autographed b&w photos of celebrities, mostly from the 1950s and 60s, and waitstaff from 1940s/50s; shadowboxes display hundreds of liquor miniatures, presumably emptied in 1930s. Piratical laughter from bar, punctuated by squeaks from video slots and e-poker machines.
The drum appears, also embedded on lettuce; another rich, sharply spicy sauce accented by green and red peppers and onions -- the fish itself is aromatic and spiced through.
Conversation sharp, too. Triangulated: two tables of men and me, across room, across flitting waiters who chime in sometimes. Much talk of Bush's State of the Union speech, angrily asking 'where was New Orleans?' 'why all that money to Iraq and nothing here?' 'Bush wants to forget us and our Democratic governor.' Anecdotes - everyone knows someone, or many someones - that has yet to see money from insurance, FEMA, bank loans. Businesses can't recover: no residents to spend money, nor be employees for the services tourism requires in order to run full throttle.
Last pair of diners and I talk through my second glass of wine. Dessert is -- so heavy! -- bread pudding. Oh well: I left half my loaf, so I know it's going to a good home.
posted by CatzEyes at 7:08 AM
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