“…the city of Stella, Blanche and Stanley, the city that to William Faulkner was 'the labyrinthine mass of oleander and jasmine, lantana and mimosa," a place one admirer said 'could wreck your liver and poison your blood,' the city of the Italianate mansions of the Garden District and forlorn housing projects like the one named Desire -- a place that gave America most of its music, much of its literature, a cracked mirror glimpse of American exotica and a fair piece of its soul…”
- Peter Applebome, New York Times, 8/31/05
Bayona
430 Rue Dauphine
New Orleans, LA 70112
504-525-4455
Memory is a capricious thing, and one is never quite as much its master as one thinks. I ought to have written this when it happened, but as it turned out I was reminded of this restaurant just recently by someone who had been there and even now still remember what I had. It helps, of course, that I still have the receipt from when we went. Yet I remember, too, flying into a post-Katrina New Orleans from Phoenix – Sarah having arrived earlier than I – and getting picked up by Jeffrey from the airport in his Ford Explorer. It was a warm, cloudless evening bordering on the muggy, the perfect kind for staring out of open car windows on long rides at high speeds; but there was no time to waste on ruminating about the weather. We were off to Bayona.
I first met Jeffrey when I moved to DC – around the same time that he did. He had grown up in New Orleans and was a damn likeable chap, as well as being a gentleman and a scholar in equal parts. He was also that rare breed of sensitive individual that is not built to last on this earth; and it sometimes seemed that he carried the weight of the world on his back, but to his credit he hardly ever looked the worse for wear. Jeffrey was an excellent person to talk to about any and everything. I soon found out that, among other things, eating – and eating well – was important to him, and naturally we became friends.
He had a habit of going on about things that made sense to him but not necessarily to his audience; but his manner was charming and his enthusiasm infectious, and you soon got around to his way of thinking. I was regaled with stories of a restaurant in a faraway place called Bayona, and reverential descriptions of the food and its creator, Susan Spicer. It was the perfect name for a chef, really, and I quickly became enchanted.
When I finally made it to New Orleans it was the first Mardi Gras after Katrina, and Jeffrey had moved back to his hometown. Sarah and I went to visit for the weekend, and arrived on the last night before Bayona was to close for the Mardi Gras weekend. Good fortune, then, as we sat to dinner – friends reunited and hardly believing it – in a quirky little Creole cottage in the French Quarter.
It was night-time, and we did not get to see the courtyard about which we had heard so much, but the inside of the restaurant was delightful enough. We each had appetisers – I had the carpaccio – and Jeffrey called for a bowl of their famous cream of garlic soup for us to share. It was rich and tangy yet not overwhelming, and Sarah went on about it for quite some time; but I could not see what all the fuss was about and was perfectly content with what I had ordered for myself.
The thing that strikes me even now about Bayona was that the staff and the service were all extremely pleasant and effervescent. It is not easy to keep up the good cheer when you are waiting on many different tables at once, rushing to and fro between the kitchen and the restaurant trying to keep track of orders coming in and going out. Our waitress and servers were in all probability tired and overworked and looking forward to the end of their work week, but they never once let us see any of that, never once dropped the façade, and always had a big smile or a few kind words for us each time we stopped them.
We had, respectively, the lamb, duck and striped bass as entrees – and Sarah’s fish came in a black bean dressing that was quite out of this world. As for myself I quite enjoy eating red meat, and washing it down with big, full red wines. It makes me feel as if I am part of a greater cause; that this is the way it has always been done and the way it should be done for many, many years to come. That night we drank an inexpensive Burgundy red – Vincent Girardin, Maranges 1er cru, Clos des Loyeres, 2002 – and if it had been any good it was probably lost on us as we talked the night away.
(I have since then become quite a fan of Burgundy reds. They are much more approachable than Bordeaux reds, often earthier – which I like – and yet for the most part have the same strength and character and complexity.)
It was obvious that our waitress was a dessert person, for she perked up on its mention, and took immense pleasure in delivering her recommendations. My tastes tend towards the savoury more so than the sweet, but I had to have the Bananas Foster, especially while in New Orleans. It was a good flavour, and strengthened my belief that the best desserts usually have alcohol in them. I had a glass of port to go with it and felt quite pleased with myself.
I doubt that Bayona, when I went there, was functioning to the best of its abilities, as it had been only a few short months after people had started returning to New Orleans after Katrina, and so I hesitate to judge the food. I would have liked to have gone at a time when the shadow of the city’s great disaster was not still hanging over it. We had a grand time though, and what I saw was enough to convince me that the spirit of Bayona was the spirit of New Orleans – genuine, warm, hospitable, and rooted in history. I knew now that it was this spirit that made Jeffrey who he was and what made dining at Bayona so enjoyable, and a spirit that, flooding notwithstanding, would never die.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Monday, December 18, 2006
If it be not now, yet it will come
Amanda was the first to arrive, and as I met her in the doorway we both – from afar, in that manner of two people excited to see one another – unloaded in our attempts to get the first word in. She won handily, of course; with words that were not so much accusatory but rather tinged with relief at the absolution of guilt. “You didn’t answer your phone, and your doorbell’s not working. But I’m on time!”
I forget now what it was I was about to say, but I am sure it did not matter, for she had come to dinner and was, as she pointed out, prompt. There were deviled egg appetisers made especially for her, and a bottle of wine already open, so I went into the kitchen to fetch both. Amanda followed me in and we talked as though already deeply into conversation: of lives and loves and of discovery and worry, of corned beef sandwiches, or in short – the things that mattered. There was a moment where I looked at her as I held out a wine glass and she fumbled to remove her coat: Amanda has stringy chestnut hair and a smile as disarming as it is naughty, and a warm, inexorable earnestness that takes a piece of my heart away every damn time.
Allison was the next to arrive, and let herself in as Amanda and I were busy with our respective tasks in the kitchen: her, drinking and talking and I, cooking and listening. In truth the food was mostly done or prepped before anyone had come over; I had made the deviled eggs earlier that morning, Laura’s lentil burgers in the afternoon and the ravioli just minutes before. The fish was ready to go in the oven, the béchamel was bubbling weakly on the stovetop, and the bread already sliced. I am not by nature a planner or a maker of lists, but in food I know one thing if any: that readiness is all.
The kitchen of the house I grew up in was never very conducive to conversation. It was a square-shaped room, small, and was not lit very well. There were two doors, one coming from the dining room and the other directly across from it, leading out to the back yard. Something about how this was set up made the room seem a journey rather than a destination, and we rarely, if ever, stayed in the kitchen beyond the necessary. It was not a place to linger, sadly. We did not have an island counter, but instead a smallish round table that served as a prep station and storage for all manner of snacks and dried goods. It was too low, in my opinion, for standing up against – and the nature of prepping, and cooking too, really, is such that it demands standing up, as if at attention.
My kitchen now is no more impressive, by any means. It is shaped as though it were an afterthought, a room squeezed into whatever space was left over in the apartment. There are tight corners and minimal counter space, and really no more than two persons can cook in it comfortably at any one time. Yet five or six can be in it at a time, and somehow it feels like a good place for a conversation – in part, I think, because of the window. There is a large window right above the sink, with a sizeable sill where I store my produce. It looks out towards the doorway to our apartment, and one can, if one is looking out for them, see one’s visitors as they approach. I have long passed the age where it was acceptable to assign inanimate objects personalities, but this window is quite something else.
The three of us stood talking in the kitchen for a little while as we waited on Clayton and Laura, before I shooed them out to sit at the table. It is a good feeling being in a kitchen when not actually doing anything – being passive in the midst of action – especially when there is anything cooking. It is kind of like going out on a boat – there is always something else to do, but sometimes you’d much rather not, and rather just have a glass of wine and listen to friends. A kitchen should be that kind of place, I feel.
Clayton and Laura finally arrived, and we sat down to dinner and it was very pleasant indeed. Laura is a tidy eater, and she handled the lentil burger with a grace borne of years of fine dining. She once told me that growing up, her “mom’s favourite thing to make for dinner was reservations” – which partly explains her skill with the fork and knife. She is also a wonderful dinner table conversationalist if you steer her away from her pet topics – which invariably involve bodily secretions or something or other – and has equal polish in both making fun of others and being made fun of.
As the night wore on, the wine loosened our lips, and there was much merriment. Slowly the feeling came upon us that the world was a good place, and we were all worthy people, and that brought smiles to everyone’s faces.
Lentil Burgers with Roquefort Cheese
1 cup lentils
2 cups water
½ cup breadcrumbs
2 eggs, beaten
1 onion, finely diced
2 cloves garlic, finely diced
2 tbsp curry powder
1 tbsp cumin
1 tbsp paprika
1 tbsp Old Bay
1 tbsp soy sauce
Cook the lentils in the water per instructions, simmering for at least 30 minutes. When done, drain and combine with breadcrumbs, eggs, onion and garlic. Season with spices and combine into patties. Refrigerate until time to cook – then pan-sear patties in butter for a couple of minutes each side and finish off in the oven at 350 for another 3-4 minutes.
I served this topped with Roquefort on ciabatta bread, with red onion and tomato, but we had leftover patties and the next day Clayton and I had them with a wild-mushroom-ricotta topping instead, and they were equally delicious.
I forget now what it was I was about to say, but I am sure it did not matter, for she had come to dinner and was, as she pointed out, prompt. There were deviled egg appetisers made especially for her, and a bottle of wine already open, so I went into the kitchen to fetch both. Amanda followed me in and we talked as though already deeply into conversation: of lives and loves and of discovery and worry, of corned beef sandwiches, or in short – the things that mattered. There was a moment where I looked at her as I held out a wine glass and she fumbled to remove her coat: Amanda has stringy chestnut hair and a smile as disarming as it is naughty, and a warm, inexorable earnestness that takes a piece of my heart away every damn time.
Allison was the next to arrive, and let herself in as Amanda and I were busy with our respective tasks in the kitchen: her, drinking and talking and I, cooking and listening. In truth the food was mostly done or prepped before anyone had come over; I had made the deviled eggs earlier that morning, Laura’s lentil burgers in the afternoon and the ravioli just minutes before. The fish was ready to go in the oven, the béchamel was bubbling weakly on the stovetop, and the bread already sliced. I am not by nature a planner or a maker of lists, but in food I know one thing if any: that readiness is all.
The kitchen of the house I grew up in was never very conducive to conversation. It was a square-shaped room, small, and was not lit very well. There were two doors, one coming from the dining room and the other directly across from it, leading out to the back yard. Something about how this was set up made the room seem a journey rather than a destination, and we rarely, if ever, stayed in the kitchen beyond the necessary. It was not a place to linger, sadly. We did not have an island counter, but instead a smallish round table that served as a prep station and storage for all manner of snacks and dried goods. It was too low, in my opinion, for standing up against – and the nature of prepping, and cooking too, really, is such that it demands standing up, as if at attention.
My kitchen now is no more impressive, by any means. It is shaped as though it were an afterthought, a room squeezed into whatever space was left over in the apartment. There are tight corners and minimal counter space, and really no more than two persons can cook in it comfortably at any one time. Yet five or six can be in it at a time, and somehow it feels like a good place for a conversation – in part, I think, because of the window. There is a large window right above the sink, with a sizeable sill where I store my produce. It looks out towards the doorway to our apartment, and one can, if one is looking out for them, see one’s visitors as they approach. I have long passed the age where it was acceptable to assign inanimate objects personalities, but this window is quite something else.
The three of us stood talking in the kitchen for a little while as we waited on Clayton and Laura, before I shooed them out to sit at the table. It is a good feeling being in a kitchen when not actually doing anything – being passive in the midst of action – especially when there is anything cooking. It is kind of like going out on a boat – there is always something else to do, but sometimes you’d much rather not, and rather just have a glass of wine and listen to friends. A kitchen should be that kind of place, I feel.
Clayton and Laura finally arrived, and we sat down to dinner and it was very pleasant indeed. Laura is a tidy eater, and she handled the lentil burger with a grace borne of years of fine dining. She once told me that growing up, her “mom’s favourite thing to make for dinner was reservations” – which partly explains her skill with the fork and knife. She is also a wonderful dinner table conversationalist if you steer her away from her pet topics – which invariably involve bodily secretions or something or other – and has equal polish in both making fun of others and being made fun of.
As the night wore on, the wine loosened our lips, and there was much merriment. Slowly the feeling came upon us that the world was a good place, and we were all worthy people, and that brought smiles to everyone’s faces.
Lentil Burgers with Roquefort Cheese
1 cup lentils
2 cups water
½ cup breadcrumbs
2 eggs, beaten
1 onion, finely diced
2 cloves garlic, finely diced
2 tbsp curry powder
1 tbsp cumin
1 tbsp paprika
1 tbsp Old Bay
1 tbsp soy sauce
Cook the lentils in the water per instructions, simmering for at least 30 minutes. When done, drain and combine with breadcrumbs, eggs, onion and garlic. Season with spices and combine into patties. Refrigerate until time to cook – then pan-sear patties in butter for a couple of minutes each side and finish off in the oven at 350 for another 3-4 minutes.
I served this topped with Roquefort on ciabatta bread, with red onion and tomato, but we had leftover patties and the next day Clayton and I had them with a wild-mushroom-ricotta topping instead, and they were equally delicious.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish
Partly because of how much I travel, and more because it is how I prefer it – I go shopping for groceries each time I want to cook. Some weeks this translates into an almost daily trip to the store down the road, depending on whatever I feel like eating that night. The cold, biting winter days, though, have necessitated decreasing the frequency of my trips – for who really wants to leave the house when it is freezing out? I barely even leave my bed if I can help it. What this means then, is that the night of the grocery store trip is always a night for seafood – in all its clean, wholesome freshness.
(***Note: I now live in Washington DC, and I can hardly call the winter days cold and biting, but afford me some poetic license.)
In my days of cooking with and learning from Morgan we had, by our own current admission, overdosed on salmon. We made it with ginger and teriyaki, we made it with béarnaise sauce. We baked it wrapped in tin foil, we poached it in white wine. It was affordable and available year-round, and unfortunately it did not take too long for us to get sick of it. To this day I would rather eat monkfish or catfish, and I make salmon but sparingly.
The other night was just such an occasion. I marinated two salmon fillets in a soy-honey mixture with a healthy dose of garlic and ginger root, then pan-seared them in the tiniest pat of butter and finished them off in the oven. I topped them with a curried béchamel, and paired these with roasted vegetable couscous, and it was like rediscovering a favourite book from your childhood after a long time. There is something so pink and pert about salmon, and the way it resists and finally crumbles at the insistent prodding of a fork – that makes it quite unlike any other fish in form and texture. Clayton pushed the skin to one side warily, and for a full beat I stared at him like he was crazy.
Salmon Fillets in Curried Bechamel
Two salmon fillets
½ cup soy sauce
¼ cup honey
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tbsp ginger root, minced
¼ cup butter
¼ cup flour
1 cup milk
1 bay leaf
2 tbsp curry powder
1 tbsp cumin
1 tbsp dried cilantro leaves
1 tsp turmeric
Heat the soy sauce in small saucepan, and slowly drizzle in the honey. When thoroughly combined, bring to room temperature and add garlic and ginger. Marinate the salmon fillets in this mixture for one to two hours.
Preheat the oven to 350. With the butter and flour, make a roux flavoured with the seasonings and cook it till it is golden brown. Bring milk to boil in another saucepan and combine with the roux. Add the bay leaf, salt and pepper to taste and cook till desired consistency.
Warm a oven-proof skillet over medium heat, then remove from heat and add a pat of butter. Return the pan to heat and sear the salmon fillets quickly, about a minute each side. Finish off in the oven for another 8-10 minutes or until desired doneness.
(***Note: I now live in Washington DC, and I can hardly call the winter days cold and biting, but afford me some poetic license.)
In my days of cooking with and learning from Morgan we had, by our own current admission, overdosed on salmon. We made it with ginger and teriyaki, we made it with béarnaise sauce. We baked it wrapped in tin foil, we poached it in white wine. It was affordable and available year-round, and unfortunately it did not take too long for us to get sick of it. To this day I would rather eat monkfish or catfish, and I make salmon but sparingly.
The other night was just such an occasion. I marinated two salmon fillets in a soy-honey mixture with a healthy dose of garlic and ginger root, then pan-seared them in the tiniest pat of butter and finished them off in the oven. I topped them with a curried béchamel, and paired these with roasted vegetable couscous, and it was like rediscovering a favourite book from your childhood after a long time. There is something so pink and pert about salmon, and the way it resists and finally crumbles at the insistent prodding of a fork – that makes it quite unlike any other fish in form and texture. Clayton pushed the skin to one side warily, and for a full beat I stared at him like he was crazy.
Salmon Fillets in Curried Bechamel
Two salmon fillets
½ cup soy sauce
¼ cup honey
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tbsp ginger root, minced
¼ cup butter
¼ cup flour
1 cup milk
1 bay leaf
2 tbsp curry powder
1 tbsp cumin
1 tbsp dried cilantro leaves
1 tsp turmeric
Heat the soy sauce in small saucepan, and slowly drizzle in the honey. When thoroughly combined, bring to room temperature and add garlic and ginger. Marinate the salmon fillets in this mixture for one to two hours.
Preheat the oven to 350. With the butter and flour, make a roux flavoured with the seasonings and cook it till it is golden brown. Bring milk to boil in another saucepan and combine with the roux. Add the bay leaf, salt and pepper to taste and cook till desired consistency.
Warm a oven-proof skillet over medium heat, then remove from heat and add a pat of butter. Return the pan to heat and sear the salmon fillets quickly, about a minute each side. Finish off in the oven for another 8-10 minutes or until desired doneness.
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