An 8-Course, $170 Meal (per person!) in New Orleans

First, I must tell you, I don't like to spend more than $25 per meal--especially when I'm driving cross-country on a tight budget. But, when six restaurant managers invite you to a meal where they are personally aquainted with the chef, you just can't say no. Well, maybe you can once you find out you're paying for your meal--and it's $170. Too late, it's already in your belly.

Cuvee, as most people know it, is a champagne--possibly one of the top ten in the world. To me, Cuvee is an eight-course meal (at least) including wine paired with nearly every dish, not to mention a Port wine from 1927. The chef? 32-year-old Bob Iacovone, a native of Massachusetts, who journeyed south and discovered how to spice up Creole food (if that's possible) with French and Spanish influence.

We sat down (after a quick dress code-check as we walked in the door) to be greeted with a spritzy Pa Ohler riesling alongside remoulade-covered shrimp atop fried squash. Perfectly creamy and not too greasy. Next, fried oysters were brought out on a bed of thinly-sliced cucumbers in a bloody mary sauce. Now, I've only had ocean-pulled oysters which can be rather salty. For those, check out Boston's B&G Oysters. The local-oysters in New Orleans are from freshwater and are as silky as a slice of butter.

While seafood was holding up the appetizer portion of the meal, no meal is complete without a salad to start. Their popular chop salad is a mixture of bleu cheese, bacon, apples, dark greens, with a dallop of bleu cheese dressing and a homemade saltine cracker in the shape of a half-moon on top.

After studying abroad in Italy, during college, I came to understand the importance of bread as a fifth (fifth?) utensil. At Cuvee, the bread basket combines white bread, biscuits, and cornbread to keep with Southern tradition.

Back to seafood, next came a large, fried bay scallop over spaghetti'd squash with chopped baby jalapenos and tomatoes. This was paired with an oaky chardonnay by Ramey. Seared, herbed Yellowfin tuna came next over creamed sweet corn and mashed potatoes with thin slices of aromatic truffles.

Not to break up the dinner, but halfway through the filling of our bellies, a traditional New Orleans wedding strolled by the window. White parasols bounced above the bridesmaids while men in black suits did a sort of hop-dance down the street. Turned out, they were celebrating the marraige at Cuvee.

Next on the menu came Red Snapper over a crabcake. It was accompanied by pickled, South African sweet peppers that were tangy and unique-tasting. To wash it down, we were poured a refreshing sauvignon blanc.

Foie gras. This is one of those foods that my French friend, Anne-Cecile, tries to force feed me. I can't do it. But, on this night, there was nothing better to touch my tastebuds. It was like the tiniest bite of the best steak I had ever eaten. There was so much flavor, I didn't need a whole 12 oz. The triangle-shaped foie gras was served over a bread crisp smeared with goat cheese. Also, on the crisp, was a balsamic strawberry--sweet and savory perfection.

As if that wasn't rich enough, the next dish was a creme brulee with tiny bits of foie gras--accentuating the rich, deliciously-fat flavors in the dessert.

Just when we thought we had been served dessert, a rosemary-and-wine chicken was set before us. The chicken breast was stuffed with homemade Borson cheese, and served over what else than a waffle. Now, I'm from LA and this was exactly like the LA-staple Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles only it was topped with a Mississippi cane syrup. What goes better with the chicken-and-waffle combo than a textured burgundy? And after, a deep pinot noir. Immediately after the chicken-and-waffle combo, we were served smoked duck on perfectly al dente risotto.

Now for dessert! Macadamia-crusted espresso ice cream drowning in fudge. A cookie wrapped in chocolate, infused with orange zest. And, a bowl of sorbet that tasted nothing short of the childhood-pastime, creamsicle. And a sweet, syrupy Port wine from 1927 to wash it down. It felt almost sinful to open the bottle.

Tell me, what is the best meal you've ever had?

Image 1 thanks to notashamed thanks to this license.
Image 2 thanks to _e.t thanks to this license.
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New Orleans: Jazz Fest 2007

Jazz Fest: A six-day music festival (split between two weekends) with everyone from Harry Connick Jr., Counting Crows, John Mayor, to Galactic, Norah Jones, and Van Morrison.

But don't get me wrong. The festival is not only about music. It's about shopping, with booths like the African-heritage Congo Square or the Louisiana Marketplace with local folk art (where I bought a cowboy hat to shade my face from the strong Southern sun!). And, it's also really about food: pulled pork po-boys, alligator pie, muffuletta, crawfish, fried chicken, and the most refreshing mango sorbet ever.

So, really, Jazz Fest is about New Orleans culture. The cajun-influenced flavors, the foot-stomping blues, the Louisiana sun beating down, and of course, cute little festival babies like the one above.

Unfortunately, we pulled into New Orleans too late on Friday to see the likes of George Benson or ZZ Top, but it was actually for the better. Friday was drenched in a serious rainstorm that had festival-goers up their ankles in water. Shelter couldn't even be sought out under the blues tent or the gospel tent, the water was just as high.


Saturday turned out to be one big mud-fest. Those who had taken a rain-check on Friday, made their way to the festival on Saturday making it one of the most crowded festival days in history. But, the more the merrier, right? The fields were so muddy, some people wore their galoshes, while others just traipsed through the mess.

Around two, we went to check out Buckwheat Zydeco. Then onto New Orleans-natives Cowboy Mouth which drew a crowd so large there was no moving forward, even from way back. I saw Cowboy Mouth in New York City only months before--the show was great but nothing like seeing them in their hometown. On our way to Galactic, we got sucked into the Stephen Marley with Junior Gong show. We danced as Stephen Marley sang his father's Iron, Lion, Zion and I am almost positive it was what being at a Bob Marley show is like. And, although I tried to convince a group of eight guys to go watch John Mayer, I didn't win that battle and we sat on the lawn to catch the end of the Allman Brothers' Melissa.

For a mere price of around $35 a day, Jazz Fest is definitely worth a trip to New Orleans. Not only does it support the local economy, it brings in some legendary musicians. Not to mention, some damn good home cookin'.

Journeying South: A Culinary Road Trip

Two-thousand nine-hundred miles to go. We're heading south on I-81 and I've never seen more farmland, more Amish-country, mustard field, grassy rolling hills into red barn farmland. I'm practically waiting for a buggy to roll by. Pennsylvania must be the most beautiful state I've ever seen. Ian and I are driving towards North Carolina in Ian's red pick-up truck, our stuff bulging out in every direction, a kayak, bike, and cooler all strapped down to the roof of the cap. And, now, with this farmland in front of me, I've never wanted to stick my hands in moist, rich soil as much as I do now. It is exactly how John Grogan describes it in NY Times Bestseller Marley & Me (an endearing book about a young newspaper journalist and his chaotic yellow lab).

Over the next few hours we cross through Maryland, West Virginia, Virginia, Tennessee and into a leafy, almost rainforest-like North Carolina. The farther south we go the greener it gets--as if winter never touches these humid, soggy places. In Virginia, we pull off for dinner at an unassuming intersection with an Applebees and a Waffle House catty-corner to each other. Our choice? Mrs. Rowe's Restaurant—a plantation-like restaurant, with home-cooked perfectly battered fried chicken, warm, baked apples with hints of cinnamon, savory spoon bread (a rice pudding-textured corn bread that is salty and sweet and feels so good sticking to your tongue and your teeth), and proper Southern sweet tea.

It isn’t until after dark when we pull into the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, rain pelting us from above a canopy of giant trees. Because the park is sliced down the middle by the Tennessee/North Carolina border, the exact state our tent is pitched in is still in question, but the babbling brook nearby lilts us off to sleep—even if the ground we are sleeping on feels like the hardest slab of slate ever.

I tell Ian I want to take a walk in the morning, check out some of the looming park nearby, but in a tired state of thoughtlessness, Ian locks his keys in the car. Calling AAA is proving to be a feat up here in the mountains, and soon a crowd of fellow camping guys has gathered around the car, sticking knives and sticks and antennae into the crack in the door to jimmy it open and telling jokes in thick Southern slurs. It is a miracle when Ian manages to jab his antennae onto the unlock button.

We drive through the Appalachians for a while, winding past a boulder-filled riverbed in which the water level is too low for swimming. We pass through Maggie Valley, a small mountain town with storefronts that tout one tourist attraction after another—Ghost Town in The Sky, All-American Transportation Museum, Blue Ridge Gem Mine. It’s hokey here, but beautiful, and kids don’t seem to notice cheesy anyway. We pass through a Cherokee Reservation, with storefronts touting moccasins and Kachina dolls and I am reminded of a Kachina doll I once had, whose long, black eyelashes lolled up and down when I moved her. We pass the 1996 Olympic’s White Water Rafting Course and Ian tells me this it the white water capital of the U.S. and I believe him. Every building we see is another adventure company guiding trips down the Ocoee River. Gates are set up through each rapids course for more technical trips.

Heading south on I-81 again, we have a destination in mind: Dreamland BBQ, a restaurant I read about in Travel + Leisure. After descending out of North Carolina, we pass through a leafy Georgia and into sweltering Alabama. We pull off the highway in Tuscaloosa, a honey-suckle scented backwoods neighborhood of Alabama where mouth-watering Dreamland is located. On your way to Dreamland, your nose will tell you if you are headed in the right direction long before your eyes see their sign. Inside, the place is a dive: no windows and the walls are covered in college sports teams’ memorabilia. We sit down at a table next to a framed newspaper clipping of President Bush. Apparently the President placed an order of ribs to-go so he could enjoy them on a flight.

“We have three items,” says our buxom waitress in a thick Southern drawl, “Ribs. Potato chips. And banana puddin'.” Turns out, the ribs can actually be separated into three items also: Rib sandwich. Rib plate. Or slab of ribs. Before we can even order, a stack of white Wonder Bread on a paper plate is set on our red checkerboard cloth-covered table with the most delicious, spicy BBQ dipping sauce. A slab of ribs is plopped down before us, also drenched in the same sauce, and before we know it, the tender meat of the ribs has fallen off the bones into our mouths. A few sips of sweet tea, bellies full, we exit the restaurant to the sounds of church singing coming from a nearby service. Only, we can't see any churches, only small one-room wooden houses with chipping paint and clotheslines. The woman's voice is alone, singing words of hallelujah and we are back on the road headed for the once-fallen city of sin and indulgence, New Orleans...

Image 1 thanks to psmyph according to this license.
Image 2 thanks to rjones0856 according to this license.
Image 3 thanks to Edgie168 according to this license.

Adventures of a Kona Town Transplant

Two years ago, I spent a summer in the coconut tree studded town of Kailua-Kona on the Big Island of Hawaii. "Kona Town," as the locals call it, is one of two major towns (as major as it can be) on the largest island of the paradisiacal chain. The other town, Hilo, sits on the wetter side of the island connected by Saddle Road, a road that cuts the volcanic island in half. It is said that if you see an old lady on the side of this dark, windy road, you must pick her up, for she is Pele's sister and Pele is the Goddess of Fire. She controls the active volcano that is erupting in Hawaii's Southwest corner--and you don't want to make her angry.

Black fields of dry lava reach across Kona's undeveloped land and although the town is relatively drier than it's rainforest counterpart, clouds accumulate every afternoon and spill rain over the town. The air is heavy, and heavier right before the daily storm. But the storm is brief, and warm, and allows for relief from the humidity's weighty pressure.

No matter how fine the rainstorms are, when you are a waitress who caters to the only outdoor section that is unsheltered in a packed, tourist-filled restaurant, they tend to pose a problem. At first sight of water beading up on the tabletops, salt shakers are quickly rounded up. On most days, this wet stint happens before the rush, before the tables are sat and the food is a bullseye target.

One day, however, the restaurant was full. Fuller than usual. My section, unprotected by the retractable tarp that rolls out over three-quarters of the patio, had couples and singles and families at every table with hot dogs and coconut shrimp and mai tais with little purple flowers floating in them.

The rain came fast and drove in bullets, aiming directly for the french fries, the calimari, and in particuler, the fish sandwich. My customers made a run for it, snagging the last stools at the indoor bar, crouching under the tarp, balancing their plates on the rock wall. Whatever they could do to avoid watery ketchup. I headed into the storm, round tray in hand to gather what I could of the salt-and-pepper shakers, to save any salveagable food my customers hadn't been able to grab.

"Can I help you guys move inside?" I asked a middle-aged couple that had stayed put. They continued to dig into their now-soggy, and becoming soggier, nachos. The woman's glasses were spotty with raindrops and the man's aloha shirt was turning darker blue by the second.

"No, we're fine," The woman said, her glass of beer now watered-down.

"Are you sure?" I asked. The grassy, oceanfront lawn in front of the restaurant was abandoned, its lounging visitors had run for cover minutes before.

The man looked up at me and said, "This is our 35th anniversary. And this is how we want to remember it."

I stood there for a moment, mesmerized by this couple, so carefree and in-the-moment. It didn't matter how uncomfortable they might be in the hours to come, or even in that moment, all that mattered was that they wanted to create this memory and have a story to tell for the years to come.

"Alright," I said. And all I could do was hope that when I am their age, I would sit as completely serenely beneath as heavy and wet a rainstorm, just to feel so alive.

I set some dry napkins on their table, turned around and scanned the sheltered lava rock wall for my scrambling customers.

Farmer's Market's in the Air

When I first moved to New York City, in summer months heavy with humidity, one of my saving graces was the farmer's market that lined the city sidewalks with buckets and barrels of ruby strawberries, orange and green heirloom tomatoes, artisan cheeses, and homemade jams. When I first came I was living in the high reaches of the Upper West Side. Farmers stood beneath the shelter of their shady tents with puffy pastries, spongy breads, and promises of crisp apple cider in the fall.

After two months I migrated to Brooklyn Heights where I clutched my air conditioner until the days and nights were just cool enough to escape the apartment and settle into pleasant summer temperatures. No matter where I went, it seemed a farmer's market plopped right down around the corner--a spread of culinary delight for my eyes, nose, and especially mouth to feast upon.

Almost year-round (sans the months when snowflakes fall from the skies and the temperatures dip below bearable), the local farmers find their way to Borrough Hall (Court Street & Montague Street) and stand tall with fruits and vegetables they've planted, nurtured, and nourished on display. For a couple dollars, I can buy sweet, yellow ears of corn, fragrant basil that opens the doors of Italy in my kitchen, and maple syrup tapped from trees not too far from my doorstep.

Since 1976, Greenmarkets have flourished in New York City with over forty-four markets dotting the five boroughs. With everything from organic produce to fish to wine and baked goods, these sales help support local families, gather your neighbors, and preserve open, green spaces. Not only that, but eating local is better for you: the less time produce travels, the less nutrients spill out along the way.

Can't make it to the famous Union Square market? Check here for some fresh produce near you. Can't cook? No problem--bite into a crunchy apple (no frying pan necessary!) or keep an eye out for recipes concocted by Greenmarket themselves like Cucumber Puslane Yogurt Salad, Blueberry Pudding Cake or Fresh Market Salsa.

I often refer back to my recipe for Pesto. The moment I open the bag and release the scent of basil into my kitchen, I am standing on the steps of Monterosso, the Mediterranean winking up at me.

[Image 1 thanks to jaymce according to this license]

[Image 2 thanks to the talented Ian Troxell, painter and fine artist]
[Image 3 thanks to hedox.us according to this license]

Whole Foods Steps It Up

Just when you thought you were doing yourself good by shopping at Whole Foods Market, you can now do other people good as well! By selecting products with the just-released Whole Trade label, you'll be aiding workers all over the planet--and specifically the ones who helped put that can of organic tomatoes in your hands.

Brand new to the store this month, look for the Whole Trades Guarantee label on items such as tea, bananas, mangoes, rice, sugar, and vanilla. Three of Whole Food's Allegro coffee--Organic French Roast, Organic Guatemalan, and Organic El Salvador--have also been stamped. Purchasing these items promises more money to producers, allowing them the ability to always produce their high-quality product without falter, and provides an outlet for low-income producers who can then, in-turn, create better work environments for their workers.

It's not all about the labor, though. The Guarantee is also promoting sound environmental practices (like integrated pest management systems and soil and water conservation techniques).

One percent of retail sales will go to the Whole Planet Foundation--a non-profit that devotes its funds to the poor in the countries that are filling Whole Food's shelves with products.

Worrying about where the money is going can be left to the Rainforest Alliance and TransFair USA--the certifiers who are making sure it gets to where it needs to be. Look for the do-gooders label in the grocery and produce departments for starters, but keep an eye out because it should be popping up all over as Whole Foods brings in more food items from developing countries.

So...eat up!

[Images thanks to adlaw according to this license.]

An Unlikely Pair (or should I say pear)

I can't explain it. There's something about the scratchy texture of a pear's flesh that's been diced into a cup of creamy yogurt and then mixed with wholesome grains like barley, oat and wheat. It's like a big glass of ice water--so refreshing! Okay, so maybe I'm sounding like your grandmother--"Put wheat germ on everything!"--but Liberté's Six Grains Yogurt is simply delectable.

I first discovered it after a day of snowboarding in the East Coast ski town of Lincoln, New Hampshire. Half Baked & Fully Brewed (187 Main Street; 603/745-8811), a cozy coffee shop and purveyor of all-natural, take-home meals like oven-ready Curried Lamb and handmade Artichoke & Portabello Mushroom Ravioli, can be considered the culprit of my addiction.

Sweetened with only fruit juice and blended with grains like rye, oat, buckwheat, rice, wheat, and barley, Six Grains is incredibly healthy and organic but does not fall short of feeling like a treat. Pear is my favorite (and, you'll find, most-often sold out) but Six Grains can also be found in strawberry, raspberry, and peach!

Quebec-based Liberté is an eco-friendly dairy company focused on sustainable business practices and delivering organic goods to its customers. Six Grains (and other Liberté products) can be found in Whole Food's stores, Fairway Markets, Stop & Shop Natural Department and other specialty stores in the Northeast.


[Image 1 thanks to Alejandro Sandoval according to this license.]
[Image 2 thanks to roboppy according to this license.]