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.
Image 3 thanks to princess of_llyr thanks to this license.

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'.

New Orleans: A Photo Essay

NEW ORLEANS

The French Quarter: New buildings alongside Katrina's path.

A beautiful home on St. Charles Avenue in the Garden District

People eating on their balcony.

A train along the Mississippi River. Some choice words.

A palace on St. Charles Avenue.

At the end of St. Charles Avenue. Is this slogan referring to Katrina?

A proper Southern home on St. Charles Avenue.

[Images thanks to Ian Troxell.]

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.

This is a test of the emergency broadcasting system...

Please, please, please excuse the interruption of my ever-steady blog posting! We are making our way across this wide, wide country. Just in the last two days we've traversed New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland, West Virginia, Virginia (oh, the fried chicken!), Tennessee, North Carolina (oh, so green!), back to Tennessee, Alabama (oh, the ribs!), through Mississippi, and now, we are in New Orleans. All of that in two days work is rather tiring...

Although the 5 days of rest and relaxation in Oxford, NY were a good prep for our exhausting adventures. Plenty of posts to come, believe me. Patience, my friend, is a virtue. ; )

Back in action soon...

Bidding adieu.

Today is my last day in New York City. Tomorrow we are packing up and shipping out. I have to say, for a last day, New York has done a great job of making it one of those typical annoying mornings when the grime and the grease start to make you snap at tourists who stand too long on street corners.

Of course, on the last day that I will ever need to ride the subway, my month-long subway pass expires. Okay, I'm not complaining--so I timed it almost perfectly, but when I head to the subway card-dispensing machine (because the people station attendants no longer sell tickets--not really sure what they do. They certainly don't give friendly directions.), it is not taking credit cards or debit cards. As is the story of Brooklyn!

No problem. I'll just head back out into the pouring rain that is soaking through my leather boots, juggle my $6 breakfast smoothie with my umbrella that will probably turn inside-out at any minute, and hit up the Bank of America ATM.

Convenience. The only saving grace for this moldy, abused city. Thanks to convenience, there is a Bank of America right down the street. I would have just gone to any of the seven ATMs I pass on my way to B of A, but the idea of a $3.50 charge is making me think I might as well just take a cab to work.

After getting money out, I realize that most likely the subway card-dispensing machines don't give change and I don't feel like taking a chance that it does, only to climb the stairs up to the street yet again. And since ATMs only spit out in increments of twenty, I am forced to slip into a drugstore for change. Buy a pack of gum, get my ten, my five, my ones and merrily (albeit twenty minutes late) descend down the stairs into the rumbling, damp (and now, flooding) subway station.

Life is hard in this city. And this morning was just one example of the common obstacles that make a simple task (i.e. a commute to work) become a silly goose chase. I will miss the depth of the people here--they carry a self-assuredness that I have yet to see in other places, a real strength. Pride in their interests--interests that are not manufactured by the mainstream--and a love for challenge. And although I admire how people here thrive on challenge (because I too will up the ante most days), the challenges here just don't seem worth it to me: cramming in to 400 sq. feet of space and trying to live a sane life. Only being able to afford those 400 sq. ft. because the cost of living here makes every day a battle. A battle...for what?

And so I leave, with much respect for those who choose to revel in the remarkable culture, energy, and rhythm this city has, but with no regrets. The quality of life has become too deprived.

[Image 1 thanks to efeb according to this license.]
[Image 2 thanks to Ian Troxell--my partner in adventure and crime.]
[Image 3 thanks to B.G. Johnson according to this license.]

Life's A...Beach!

Whenever the weather gets warm and my freckles start showing again, I can't help but dream of laying on the beach, sliding my feet around in warm sand, smelling my coconut-scented Hawaiian Tropic suntan lotion, and thinking of absolutely nothing. Except how badly I want to grab my surfboard and paddle out.

It's been tough living in Brooklyn, battling my way to the beach on the trains only to discover unsatisfying surf. Not to mention the $6 fee it takes just to get onto the beach in Long Beach--the closest and nicest of train-accessible beaches. Yes, $6 just to cross over from the boardwalk onto the sand.

This was a shock to me the first time I spent a day in this Long Island beach town. With one surf shop (decent enough) and local-magnet, burrito shack Aye Caramba (which also serves Caribbean fare), the image of what beach town meant to me (Santa Barbara and San Diego) floated farther and farther away. Even the scent of salty sea was nowhere to be found.

To me, Hawaii does it right. By law, all beaches must be open to the public. Yes, even the beaches in front of those mega-resorts like the Four Seasons Resort at Hualalai in Kona or the Princeville Resort in Kauai must let people onto the beach who are not staying at the hotel.
How to gain this said public access? When you drive up to the kiosk to enter the parking lot, just ask for a beach pass.

My favorite beaches in the world (okay, so I haven't been to Fiji, New Zealand, or most of the world yet), are in Hawaii. Sadly, the turquoise waters of Kua Bay in Kona, are no longer only accessible by an adventurous walk across a mile of black, sharp lava field. I know this doesn't sound enjoyable, but now that a paved road leads tourists right up to Kua Bay's white sands, the cove no longer feels like its your own when you arrive.

Lanikai, on Oahu, is my second favorite. The first time I arrived was by kayak. Gorgeous mansions line the shore, the Chinaman's Hat island looks so close, like you could doggy paddle your way right over to it. Brilliant coral in fuschia and blue creates an underwater civilization while sea turtles glide through less dense parts.

And unlike the beach that lines Malibu Colony's shore, anyone can settle into the sand, soft as velvet, with a book and a towel and enough drinking water to last all day long...

(Now fill me in. What's your favorite beach? Don't worry, we won't tell.)

[Image 1 thanks to Laura A according to this license.]
[Image 2 thanks to sarahkim according to this license.]
[Image 3 thanks to ssylvis according to this license.]