Oh, God, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair, the despair of another meal at Restaurant August. The stodgy pud. The snake vomit. The halt and the lame who think this is a good restaurant. Why, why, why, why, why, why, why?

No, I know why. I have begun to actively seek out horrible meals because they provide better material than good ones. It has come to this.

TEXT MESSAGES I SENT FROM A BAR, AFTERWARD, WHILE WATCHING BASKETBALL TO COMFORT MYSELF

TO CHRIS: Saigon 1959. Whores everywhere. Very bad music. They don't want our kind here.

TO PETE: John Besh is a turd.

TO CHRIS: The whores are drinking red shit. Tuesday never came.

TO CHRIS: Miami @ NJ

TO CHRIS: Suck my muthafuckin balls u shoe king

TO CHRIS: PHX hangs on in OT 126-118 fuck u

(I wasn't really mad at him, just hostile because he was busy and I couldn't emote at him about my horrible, horrible meal. I wanted to call my other most trusted food expert, The Fabulous Lorin Gaudin, and whine at her, but it was too late.)

More later, if I can bear to revisit the subject.

I have elected to assiduously avoid excessive negativity in this account of my latest meal at Restaurant August. We'll see how it goes.

Restaurant August has a lovely dining room upon which no expense has been spared. The menu always reads intriguingly and the kitchen uses hand-picked premium ingredients. The chef tells you so right on the menu:

Dear friends and Guests, On behalf of me, Octavio, our staff and families, welcome to our restaurant. We sincerely thank you for helping rebuild our city, restaurant and lives. Each day as we purchase local fish from Brian Cappy, produce from Jim Core and local rabbits and such from Wayne Rodi, we collectively enjoy the rebirth of New Orleans. Please savor our very personal menu all prepared and served by people who love what they do. John Besh

Besh is smart in declining to do tasting menus during Jazz Fest. Actually, Besh is smart to avoid doing tasting menus at any time. You'll get a more substantial meal by selecting from his extensive regular menu, which contains more dishes than you'd think an average kitchen crew could handle without sacrificing quality. The dining room staff is cheerful and attractive, if not overly burdened with the serving of food and drink. I ordered a martini in the bar while waiting for the rest of my party to arrive. It was very good and I was very glad I ordered it, for it was the only one I spied all night.

We were given three complimentary glasses of champagne upon which the restaurant had economized admirably and three amuses-bouche of oysters, fixed three different ways. All were intensely flavorful. Mine was so intensely flavorful with its thick coating of cheese crumbs that it made me exclaim aloud. We began our meal with a trio of appetizers. I had the crawfish agnolotti with crisp local cockcombs and morel mushrooms. The pasta was interestingly al dente, very very al dente, perhaps the most al dente pasta I've ever had. The "crisp" cockscombs, on the other hand, were anything but. It was difficult to tell what was inside the agnolatti because my attention was monopolized by the slivers of morel; no one can cut mushrooms into infinitesimal dry slivers as skillfully as John Besh. M had the white asparagus "soup and salad," which ingeniously disguised itself as a bowlful of foam in which the "salad" was so effectively concealed that she never did find it. S had the salad of heirloom beets, crabmeat, Allen Benton's cherrywood bacon, mustard greens, and quail eggs with black-eyed pea croutons, and let me tell you, we were all exclaiming aloud in amazement at just how many things Chef Besh can fit on a single plate.

The wait staff wanted to make sure we didn't fill up on drinks: my empty martini glass was whisked away post-appetizer, and I looked after it with real regret, for it was by far the best-prepared and tastiest part of my meal. Restaurant August has a superlative bar chef. Nor did they drown me with water; even when I laid my empty glass on its side for a space of fifteen minutes, they withheld liquids for my own good. No matter, for here came our entrées. Mine was a truffle-dusted loup de mer with cauliflower and Louisiana paddlefish roe. No truffle dust was in evidence, but that was probably just as well; I thank Chef Besh for not inflicting the powdered residue of cheap truffle peelings upon me. The cauliflower was another foam, of the unique consistency that only Besh can produce, and the soft white fish and salty roe went together in a way you wouldn't normally expect. M's Jamison Farm lamb cooked two ways with parsley root, turnip, and pears had an added bonus of whole onions. S's Moroccan-spiced duck with soft polenta, roasted duck foie gras, and local strawberries tasted of anise. Very strongly of anise. Pretty much entirely of anise. If you like anise, well, boy, this is your dish. Throughout these inimitable courses, we were treated to the sight of Besh's rugged profile as he greeted his many fans in the dining room. Even now, I was not offered another drink; the staff must have heard that I'd been hitting the sauce a little too hard and decided to help me with my problem. I really appreciated it.

On to dessert, where we had a chance to sample a sweet version of New Orleans' darling dish du jour, calas, or rice fritters, or possibly some other kind of fritters. They were as sugary as anyone could possibly want, anywhere, ever. The accompanying "jasmine tea" on the menu had morphed into some sort of "blackberry soda" with diverting lumps in it. I couldn't stop wondering about this dish. What was in it? Who had conceived of it? It truly piqued my curiosity, as Restaurant August's desserts have frequently done. M also ordered a Ponchatoula strawberry trio of shortcake, mille-feuille (a sort of Napoleon), and a cobbler that brought back comforting memories of the fruit-flavored cough syrup my mother used to give me.

All in all, John Besh has been an inspiration to me and I expect to be thinking about his food for a long, long time. But if he should ever swan his way over to my table, I'm introducing myself as Irene Reilly.

All day at Jazz Fest, Chris and I kept prefacing our statements with, "On behalf of me ... " I'm grateful for the continued existence of John Besh, truly I am. He provides an endless source of pure comedy gold just a couple of miles from my own front door.