zia_narratora ate at the Green Goddess and created this fabulous comic. Chris' hair cracks me up, but then it often does in real life too. At his old restaurant, the Downstairs, he once got a phone bill addressed to "Cliff DeHair." I still haven't let him live that one down.

Here, after annoying web-based delays, is the Times-Picayune review of The Green Goddess. Three beans, which is what we expected. I believe the food deserves four, but the atmosphere and service aren't there yet, so it's a fair rating. Even better, restaurant critic Brett Anderson appears to get the inspiration behind Chris' cooking: The chef has logged more than enough time in restaurant kitchens to be excused for having lost enthusiasm for the craft. But if anything is clear after eating at The Green Goddess, it is that DeBarr still believes his chosen profession offers a life rich in possibility.

Which is why we're living this life years after I begged Chris to never, ever open another restaurant. Life might be simpler if I'd managed to fall in love with a guy who was content to work on someone else's line forever, but I suspect it would be less interesting. As well, Chris is obviously so much happier and more interested in things since opening the place that I'd have to be a combination of Scrooge, the Grinch, and Selfish the Shellfish* not to support him in his quest. I'm bad, but not that bad.

As for the criticisms, I agree with some, take issue with others. Chris' twice-baked potatoes are great, but only when he personally makes them; nobody else seems able to make them any good at all. The numerous fans of the buttery-delicious Spooky Crepes, though, will be surprised to learn that they "exist primarily to show off the breadth of the kitchen's culinary knowledge." I don't believe Chris engages in that kind of culinary posturing -- he leaves that to the shark-fin-soup guys -- but even if he did, hello, huitlacoche is fucking delicious. It's still a bit alarming to many New Orleans diners raised on traditional ingredients, though (never mind that diners elsewhere are horrified and disgusted by the humble crawfish), and I'm hoping Chris can help ease them into a knowledge of its true nomminess.

At the end of the day, I'm waiting to hear from the folks who predicted that Chris would never be able to make it in the New Orleans restaurant world because he was so burdened by my drugged-out, has-been, sacred-cow-disliking ass. Evan? JoAnn? "Justine" from "Belgium"? Any theories on how the impossible came to pass? ... No, didn't think so. Sucks to be you.

I'm only sorry that Web readers can't see the accompanying photo of Chris juggling sweet potatoes in Exchange Alley. Why did he juggle sweet potatoes for his Serious Chef Portrait? Because he just had to.


*An obnoxious shrimp who was the antihero of several bedtime stories my mother used to tell me, perhaps suggesting an uncharming component of my childhood character.

There's an excellent 3-bean review of The Green Goddess in today's Times-Picayune, and I was going to link to it and comment on it here. Unfortunately, nola.com (the site that hosts the T-P online) is, as they say, borked. (Does that word mean what I think it means? Hope so.) Watch this space, as I expect they'll get it together eventually. For now, I will only say to my one true love: I told you to quit bothering with that stupid lemon parfait.

First of all, a thousand apologies to foodie readers, but I didn't take a single picture of the amazing-looking and -tasting food at Alinea. I enjoy seeing other people's food pix, but I just can't do that in fine-dining situations ever since I once saw Chef Pete scowling at a diner who was happily clicking away, and anyway you can see better pictures on their website.

I did, however, manage to take a few goofy camera-phone pictures of me and Neil:



This one is blurry, but I like the contented, slightly dazed look on Neil's face, which pretty well represents his expression throughout the meal:



And here's Neil in the photographic style of Nick Rhodes (yes, I was enough of a Durannie to buy Nick's incomprehensible photo book):



Here's a Magnificent Mile skyline near our hotel:



Mr. Beef from the outside:



Mr. Beef from the inside:



And the winner is ... Portillo's!



(I know I said I hated taking food photos, but Mr. Beef was empty and nobody notices what stupid touristy shit you do at Portillo's.)

In keeping with its Richard Bachman theme, this scary scale in my hotel bathroom weighed me ten pounds lighter than I weigh at home despite my having consumed a 23-course meal the night before:



Garden photos coming soon, I promise.

Well, I did it. I flew 927 miles from home, only really freaked out once, had a truly lovely dinner with Neil (more details later, or see his journal), and am now at O'Hare waiting to please God fly home. Before coming to the airport today, I had time to conduct an important taste test: half an Italian beef sandwich each at Mr. Beef and Portillo's. I'm sorry, Chicagoans; I know you think it's fast food, but Portillo's is about a million times better.

As of today, The Green Goddess officially has its liquor license! Swing by 307 Exchange Alley and have a Green Fuse, a Sultan's Dream, or one of their many other delicious specialty cocktails to celebrate. If you do not imbibe of the grain and the grape, they have lots of virgin cocktails too.

Me, I'm off to eat "transparency of raspberry and yogurt" and "black truffle explosion," along with twenty-one other tiny fabulous things.

Because I know I haven't been posting many photos lately (I'm still futzing around with new computer software/old camera software), here is a slightly blurry camera phone picture of me, Chris, Russell, and our dear, notorious friend Dale, a.k.a. Dr. Death, the mortician who helped me with so much hands-on research back in the day (Russell was Dale's date, and I'm very sorry I cannot remember his last name) at Commander's Palace last night. There was no special occasion, but as Dale says, it's always a special occasion when we get together, and he wanted to take us during his brief visit from his still-rebuilding home of Galveston, where he has been working constantly from the first wave of drowning victims to the recent surge of suicides similar to our post-federal-levee-failure one. Things got very gay indeed, but if Chris says a combination of champagne, other substances, and Dale's encouragement caused me to write any bad words such as, say, BUNGHOLE on him in permanent ink while he was passed out in his easy chair from his two cocktails after we got home, he is, of course, lying.



Please note that I am wearing my cocksucker suit, although you can't see it very well.

I'm sorry I am too lazy to write up the dinner, but it was exquisite. Chef Tory McPhail just gets better and better. theferrett, the Foie Gras du Monde with the coffee and beignets is more delectable than ever, if you can believe that.

Still no word on why Facebook disabled my account, and at this point I'm pretty much thinking fuck 'em. I enjoyed getting back in touch with a bunch of people there and meeting a bunch of new ones, but if they don't want me and my 2000 friends, I'll just become a Twit when I get back from Chicago.

A few years ago now, I made a bet with Neil that I could build him a helicopter that wouldn't crash. I lost. Thankfully, Neil survived the disaster, and ever since then I have owed him dinner at Alinea. It turns out that he will be at some big book thing (American Library Association? I think that might be it) in Chicago this weekend, and I'm not busy, so I am flying to Chicago to pay off my bet. I'm greatly looking forward to seeing Neil and eating at Alinea again, but aside from that other little trip to Chicago when we were still in post-K exile, just to see civilization again, this will be my first trip outside Louisiana/Mississippi since 2005. I'm certain I'll have a good time once I get there, but I'm also certain that the only thing that will compel me to get on that plane will be the thought of my dear friend's disappointment if I don't show up. Scared. I'm really doing it and I am flat-out dead-eye Jesus-praying scared, even though I'm only staying overnight. Oh well, it will be good practice for the Amsterdam trip in November ...

(By the way, anyone who wants to see an actual display of courage, as opposed to my whining about a four-hour jaunt, should go to Alinea's press page and read the second story from the top, "Burned" from Chicago Magazine. It's a grueling and fascinating account of 33-year-old Chef Grant Achatz's battle with stage 4 cancer of the tongue, of all things, his insistence on individualized treatment, how the experience has changed his already complex food theories, and his journey back to taste, which is still in progress. May God and all the saints bless him.)

Just wanted to mention that Chris is doing something really cool at the Green Goddess for the Independence Day of the Colonialist Power (a.k.a. the 4th of July): they've rented the penthouse apartment on the fourth floor of their building and will be serving a Persian buffet in honor of the people's struggle for independence in Iran. As Chris points out in his entry, "This will be a private RSVP party, and the only way to find out how to attend, with a lush Persian banquet, a clear view of the fireworks display on the Mississippi River during the night of Independence Day, and a preview of a few of our creative cocktails soon to be available at The Green Goddess, only happens if you get an email invitation from us. The only way to score an invitation is to ask me for one on our website email listing for your chef correspondent." Or you can just call for reservations at (504) 301-3347. There's a reason he is being all 007 about this, but I'm not allowed to say it here.

He will also be running a Persian tasting menu all this week and probably next week too. Here's the drool-inducing part of the post:

Our 4th of July Tasting Menu, to Persia and her people,
Let us remember their courage this Summer 2009

Chilled Cucumber Soup (for Rumi)
Blended with Yogurt and Sumac,
Finished with “Snow” from Lemon Balm,
Crenshaw Melon, & Pimm’s #1 $8

Shamsi’s Refreshment
Watermelon Juice, Izze Sparkling Pomegranate & a Big Sour Cherry Ice Cube $8

A Fragrant Slice of Koukouye,
A Persian Frittata redolent with herbs, &
Homemade Havashu Naan Flatbread $9

A Pair of Stuffed Vegetables
Eggplant filled with Roasted Red Peppers and Pomegranate,
Swiss Chard Dolma filled with Zeresk Pilaf of Barberries, Basmati Rice,
Saffron, Ivory Lentils, Pistachios, and Black Lemon $15

Peach-Passion Fruit Tea with Green Cardamom $4

Oasis Sweetmeat
Medjool Date stuffed with Rose-Scented Almond Filling $8

Pistachio Gelato in a “Nest”
Shredded Phyllo, Orange Blossom Water,
Saffron, & Candied Yuzu Peel $9

Tasting Menu $54 (including drink pairings)

I go through periodic spells of several days to a couple of weeks where the idea of getting online just revolts me for some reason, and I'm in one of those spells now. (I apologize if I've ignored any important communiques, and offer my earnest intent to get to them the next day it rains soon.) I did want to quickly jump on to give two updates.

First the bad news: Catcentric readers may recall that our Siegfried had to undergo extensive dental work a couple of weeks ago. The doctor thought the soft tissue he removed from Sig's mouth didn't look right and sent it to be biopsied. Unfortunately, the tests revealed that Sig has squamous-cell carcinoma on both sides of his upper jaw. The treatment would involve surgery with at least a month's painful recovery time, then reconstructive surgery to repair his jaw, as well as radiation. Sig is 10, but I can't see putting even a young cat through all that. As well, with our large and aging population, we will be called upon to make some difficult decisions over the next few years: if there is scant hope no matter what treatments we opt for, and if the treatments are expensive (the above would run a minimum of $3000), mightn't it ultimately be better to save for later illnesses that may have more chance of success? When Marcel was so sick with hemobartonella in the winter of '05, his bills ran to $4K, but we've never regretted spending the money because he made a spectacular recovery and has been thoroughly enjoying himself ever since (though he did earn the nickname "Four Large").


Siegfried (bad camera-phone shot)

Next the good news: The Green Goddess is open for business! (Visit chefcdb for more details.) They're serving lunch 11am - 4pm Wednesday - Sunday, dinner 5pm - midnight Thursday - Sunday. Paul Artigues is the lunch chef, Chris the dinner chef. He's ecstatic to finally be cooking instead of dealing with bureaucracy. The Green Goddess is located at 307 Exchange Alley in the French Quarter. Please note that while they do serve several wonderful vegetarian dishes including an entire vegetarian tasting menu, they are not a vegetarian restaurant, nor will they become one if enough puling PETA members whine about foie gras (which isn't currently on the menu, but soon will be). There seems to be a certain amount of misconception about this, and the pulers really need to bite Chris' sweaty crank after a long and busy dinner shift; that will teach them to love meat. Oh dear, I've done it again, haven't I? This was supposed to be a promo, and one doesn't generally mention the chef's sweaty crank during a promo. Oh, well ... er ... COME ONE, COME ALL!

Finally got the damned cucumbers in. My mother told me not to plant in the ground until Easter, and yesterday there was too much loud shitty rap* coming from a street party to work in the yard. I'm growing Yamato Long (a lengthy, thin-skinned green cucumber of the type I know as "English," but which I'm guessing from the name is actually Japanese) and Crystal Apple (a white, egg-shaped cuke). Also tried to grow Mexican Sour Gherkins, which look just like tiny watermelons, but found them too challenging (translation: all the seedlings fell over and died). Maybe next year. I hadn't really thought out where I was going to put the seedlings, so I just dug out and tilled a new, narrow bed about six feet long next to the Bed of Dangerous Plants (which is now a misnomer, since I've made much of it over into my tomato bed, and as George Washington Carver taught us on U.S. of Archie, tomatoes will not poison you. After that my back hurt, so I ate half a pot brownie a friend gave me last week, and it's starting to come on nicely -- that relaxing full-body high you feel in your joints and spine. Thanks, old pal, I needed that.

After reading chefcdb's most recent post, I think he needs to be clearer about the fact that, though it will feature many vegetarian options including a really brilliant tasting menu, The Green Goddess will not be a vegetarian restaurant. He had one in Athens and is an excellent vegetarian chef, but the Goddess' menu will include lots of tasty meat and seafood dishes too. Not that there's anything wrong with having a good vegetarian restaurant, but in practice, those are unfortunately so rare that the very concept will turn off a lot of potential diners. In my entire dining life, I've eaten at one great vegetarian restaurant (Pyewacket in Chapel Hill), a few very-good-to-OK ones (a swanky Korean place in New York City particularly stands out in my memory, but sadly its name does not), and several that were mediocre or below (how many ways can you serve veggie burgers and tofu bowls?). Granted, I've never had a chance to explore the wider vegetarian options of a large, more "green"-oriented city like San Francisco, but I'm always interested to see what chefs can do with vegetables/grains and have tried a fairly wide range of places, most of which disappointed me. It's a shame, because as much as I love being an omnivore, I do think that in the hands of a creative chef who knows his ingredients, vegetarian cuisine can be as interesting and delicious as any other type. When the Green Goddess opens (no, I don't know yet when that will be; keep an eye on chefcdb for news), try Chris' tasting menu and see.

*Well, mostly shitty. I admit a certain fondness for the current local bounce hit "Do the Stanky Leg," which I heard approximately 4536 times yesterday, though I still have no idea how to actually do the Stanky Leg.

I spent a week training myself to wake up early so we could get a good start in Grand Isle, and now I keep finding myself up at ungodly hours. It won't last once Chris gets his restaurant open*, but for now, I suppose it is all right for gardening purposes.

It leaves me cranky, though, so maybe this is a good time to address that shiny new New Orleans show, Treme. People keep asking me what I think of it, and my friend Adrienne suggested in a Facebook note about it that I should write for them, so I'll tell you pretty much what I told her:

There was a very good chance that the Liquor books would be made into a cable series until this thing came along. I had a writer who'd done a killer treatment, alleged interest from a couple of networks ... and then suddenly there was Treme. Of course there couldn't be TWO New Orleans series at once, and David Simon (sorry, never heard of him) is apparently some kind of big deal, so naturally my guy and his project got dumped. I'm feeling too grudgey to get excited about this, plus the fact that they're employing Snoozin' Spicer as a chef-consultant makes me suspect they will get everything at least as wrong as K-Ville did. Or, given Spicer's cooking habits, maybe it means they'll just steal all their ideas from better shows and then claim to have invented them. I also gotta say I don't remember all this emphasis on "New Orleans through the eyes of cooks" in the show's earlier publicity, but that's probably paranoia, because eliminating the competition and then absorbing its salable points just isn't how Hollywood operates.

Oh, you say, but Poppy, shouldn't you put aside your grudginess for the sake of something that will focus attention on New Orleans? Well, I reply, if we're at the point where we need a fictional TV show to focus attention on us, I think we're pretty much fucked anyway. I'm far more excited about the fact that the current American president actually seems to give a shit about us.

Tom Piazza is a good writer, and Lolis Eric Elie surely knows New Orleans, so those are two points in Treme's favor. I hope there are more. Yeah, my first instinct is to feel like they're taking food directly out of my cats' mouths, and yeah, I'll probably never watch an episode (never saw K-Ville either, just learned about it through cultural osmosis), but if nothing else, they are creating some jobs here and I don't actually hope they fail. Well, OK, I kinda do, but I realize that's just pettiness and the sort of thing I am trying to put behind me.

*If you want to know more about this, please look for updates at chefcdb. I'm happy for Chris' sake that it is happening, but since the details of opening a restaurant bring back sorrowful memories of the days when I had the drive and the caring and the voice to tell stories about such matters, I'm just staying out of the way, concentrating on my garden and my "craps" (crafts), and letting him do his thing.

My palate has no conscience, so I don't need a justification to eat foie gras, but in case you've ever felt morally iffy about it, here's an excellent and informative article in its defense from Incanto Restaurant of San Francisco. My favorite bit:

Working to ban something that 99% of people never eat is not an act requiring great moral or physical courage in the same vein as was, say, the fight for civil rights in the U.S. or the fight for self rule in India. By comparison, the anti-foie gras movement is – at best – founded upon a shrewd political calculation in which the professed indignation of a few is used to harness the indifference of the many to the inherent political cowardice of elected officials, in order to achieve a desired political outcome. In essence, it's a confidence game in which participating meat-eaters, by agreeing to condemn something that they don't care about, receive the equivalent of a get-out-of-jail card, i.e., the right to feel slightly less guilty as they bite into that factory-farmed McNugget. Guilt and moral superiority are tradable currencies; the anti-foie gras camp exploits this to the hilt. And we let them.

While I obviously don't agree with vegetarians who are anti-foie gras, at least they are consistent. I think it's ill-thought-out at best and hypocritical at worst to oppose foie gras while tacitly condoning battery chicken/egg production and such. Whatever your opinion of the gavage technique, it does lead to delicious food. Battery chickens go through all that misery only for their meat and eggs to end up with virtually no flavor compared to meat and eggs from chickens who have led less restricted lives.

Thanks to tamidon for the link. I guess. Now I'm hungry and it's Friday and I am doing the Lenten thing, so I can't have any foie gras right now, dammit.

I made three. So far I have kept two of them.

1. Stop worrying/making excuses for not writing - YES. If my current life path leads me back to writing, I'll be thrilled. In the meantime, I'm doing other productive things, and I refuse to keep talking about not-writing as if it is some sort of chronic disease I've contracted. I also refuse to listen to other people when they do the same. Don't get me wrong; I miss the work and (especially) the characters, and I'm glad others do too. But I'm not going to make it happen by agonizing over it not happening ... and neither are you, people who have exhorted me to "JUST WRITE." I mean that in the kindest way, but I do mean it.

2. Forgive all the bad food - YES. I have stopped bitching about those same old chefs. This doesn't mean I'll soon be eating at Bayona, Jacques-Imo's, or Restaurant August (I doubt they want my business at this point!), but if I am tired of hearing myself complain about them, I can only imagine how the people around me must feel. Also, my vitriol cannot possibly create good will for Chris in the restaurant world. These are the main reasons I've stopped posting on the local food boards; I dine out too seldom these days to have many new opinions, and I know everybody is sick of my old ones.

3. Resume weight training at the gym - NO. In my defense, I must point out that getting arrested, arraigned, etc. are time-consuming activities, but I know my back will feel better when I start doing this again, and there's really no excuse not to.

I didn't really get to finish earlier because I had a friend coming over. My previous post was provoked in part (accidental alliteration!) by coming across a reference to my alleged habit of "demanding" drugs via my journal. While I never "demanded" anything, there were certainly times when I was in severe pain, couldn't get in touch with my orthopedist, and hinted very strongly that I wouldn't be averse to pharmaceutical donations. Little pain-vacations, as I thought of them. I remain hugely grateful to the people who helped me at those times -- and someone almost always did -- but it was still a tacky, distasteful habit, and I'm sorry the rest of you had to read it.

The thing is, I knew there were readers out there who could and would help me, and I didn't always know how else to get in touch with them, and even if I did, it wasn't always easy for me to ask them directly for help. (Why it should be easier to embarrass myself before thousands of readers is a good question, but I don't have an answer for it at the moment.) And they did help me, and saved me a lot of pain. I really, truly tried to post the "hints" only when I was in serious physical pain, not when I just wanted the shit, though what with rebound pain and all, it isn't always easy to make that distinction.

Of course, the person to whom I owe the most gratitude is Chris, who put up with all this stupid behavior and kept loving me and did not leave me even when he spent every day worrying that he might come home from work and find me dead. Without him, my family, my closest friends, and Our Lady of Good Counsel (especially Father Pat), I probably would have been.

What else? Well, I heard a secret I'm not allowed to tell. I hate it when people say that, but if this one turns out to be true, it could seriously rock my world. In a good way. I hope to be reporting more fully on this within the week. And I had a prime bone-in ribeye dry-aged for 45 days at Delmonico a few nights ago. It arrived a bit rarer than I had ordered it (I said mid-rare; it teetered right on the edge of Pretty Goddamn Rare), which did not bother me at all, but did awaken certain primal urges I'm still trying to quash.

For the first time in ages, I am full of sushi. We haven't had sushi in months -- I think we just sort of forgot about it. Today we finally went to our favorite place, Ninja, to feast on mackerel and yellowtail and Godzilla rolls (avocado, asparagus, cucumber, and several kinds of seaweed topped with green tea powder). The former sushi chef, Moriake, left a while back to head the sushi bar at Hoshun, a new pan-Asian place on St. Charles. (Is it just me, or has New Orleans recently been plagued with "pan-Asian" joints that don't do any of their various cuisines authentically or well?) Apparently this didn't work out, because according to Steve, the new sushi chef, Moriake is now at the decidedly non-Japanese Redfish Grill ... WAITING TABLES.

Well, that was a sock in the gut. It was like hearing that he'd taken up torturing animals or become a Cowboys fan or something. Or, alternately, that he had contracted a terrible disease or become homeless. It made me realize just how deeply entrenched I still am in the "pro-kitchen" mindset, and unless Chris decides to give up cooking and help me start that alligator farm out in St. Bernard, I suppose I always will be. I recognize that waiting tables is hard work. I could not do it. I tip excellently. I like my favorite waiters. I have even loved a few of them. And yet ... my first thought was, "HE HAS GONE TO THE FRONT OF THE HOUSE ... THE DAAAAAAARK SIIIIIIIDE."

I just hope he's making all that money Chris always mutters about.

[ETA @ 9:20 PM: I talked to Moriake tonight and it turns out he loves waiting tables. He's one of those crazy people like Chris who actually enjoys talking to his customers. Selah.]

For some reason, Dr. Brite is in the mood to write about himself in the third person tonight. He has recognized in himself a need to work on his dinnertime conversation. Last night, he took his beloved husband of twenty years to Commander's Palace for a birthday dinner. As they sat in the romantic main dining room, sipping champagne and gazing into one another's eyes, Dr. Brite said, "I wonder if they pay people who volunteer to get rectal exams from medical students." He deplores the crestfallen expression this brought to his beloved's face and promises to avoid such topics whenever possible at future nice dinners. Today, his shriveled, raisin-like stomach is rebelling at the gluttonous surfeit of the night before, and his valve has been declared its own private disaster area.

He also wishes to inform the general public that the crackers he subsisted on during the Gustav power outage are called Nekot, and they are actually made by Lance, but in his faraway childhood, all such sandwich-type vending-machine crackers were referred to as "Nabs."

Dear Kind Folks Who Read This Blog,

Please, please, please, please, please do not send e-mails urging us to leave for Gustav. We're not mad at anyone who has already done so, and we know you're doing it because you care, but we ask that you respect our decision to stay this time. We made and planned for this decision a long time ago, we're as prepared as it is possible to be (food, water, battery-powered lanterns, big-ass gun, plenty of ammo), and you cannot change our minds, so be a pal and refrain from filling our inboxes with heartfelt odes to the wisdom of evacuation, OK? OK. Thanks.

In other news, I love Cafe Adelaide and am not going to rag on them due to one bad meal, but I have to say I miss former executive chef Danny Trace for more than just his sweet ass.