I did treat myself to two pralines on which to nibble while I waited for printouts and sipped my flambe'ed coffee, and I must say Po'Boy's pralines are delightful—rich and creamy, laden with pecans. I include a recipe, which I obtained from a friend, for those of you who may desire to make your own.
Joan'j Pralines
Grease waxed paper.
Select a pot large enough to prevent boil-overs.
Pour into the pot / cup of buttermilk, 2 cups granulated sugar, and I tsp. baking soda.
Stir until sugar is completely dissolved.
Place pot on low to medium burner and, stirring constantly, let candy boil to the soft ball stage (when a half tsp. or so of the syrup forms a soft ball upon being dropped into a cup of cold water). The mixture will turn a brownish color.
Remove pot from heat, add 2 cups pecan halves, 1 tsp. vanilla, and 1 tbs. butter.
Beat mixture briskly until it becomes glossy and very thick.
Quickly spoon onto greased, waxed paper, making small patties.
Let candy completely cool before removing from paper.
Should the mixture harden before you have time to get it all onto the paper, return to the heat for a few seconds to restore the right consistency.
Once I had finished my computer business and my snack, the clerk at Po'Boy sniffed and wrinkled his nose when I extracted my credit card from my soggy wallet in its baggie. Was he sniffing because he was a cocaine addict or because my wallet smelled bad? The latter, I decided, having detected a whiff of swamp odor myself. How very embarrassing! Now I had to wonder whether I had managed to eradicate such odors from my person. I believe I blushed as he handed back the credit card. I couldn't use cash, of course. My dollar bills were drying in the bathroom at the Hotel de la Poste, and my traveler's checks would have to be replaced, the signatures having smeared.
I had taken a bus and had to return on one so that I could pay for my transportation with change, which I had washed off with the perfumed hotel soap and dried on a hand towel before leaving. But before I returned, I spotted a shoe store and stopped to buy myself a new pair of walking shoes. If my wallet retained the swamp scent, so would my shoes, and no one wants to be trailed at every step by unpleasant odors.
This was all extremely inconvenient. If I could find the rude person who bumped into me on the wharf, I would certainly give him a lecture on manners. It brought to mind an incident some years ago when Jason and I were attending a performance of Strauss's Silent Woman at the New York opera—a lovely theater but a dreadful opera, by the way. Very unmelodic.
Be that as it may, I was bumped from behind by a woman holding a champagne glass, which she spilled on the shoulder of a very pretty teal silk dress I was wearing. The impact unbalanced me, and I fell against a stout, red-faced man smoking a cigar. The cigar burned a hole on the other shoulder of the dress, completely ruining it, and then the two of them snarled at me, as if I had been at fault, although I was simply standing in the lobby chatting with Jason and a couple from New York University. We had been immersed in conversation about the soprano, who would probably have sounded wonderful had she been singing some other opera.
Because my attackers didn't hasten away, I got the chance, in that instance, to tell them exactly what I thought of their manners. In fact, I believe I was quite intemperate. I demanded names and addresses so that they could reimburse me for my dress. Unfortunately, the bell sounded, and they took that as an excuse to go to their seats without giving me any information other than their opinion of non—New Yorkers. Jason was vastly amused at my display of temper and chuckled all the way through the last act. However, his humor was subsequently tempered by my revelation of what it would cost to replace the dress. Jason is not a miserly man, but then again, he's not given to flinging his money around.
Consequently, he was taken aback when he returned from the ACS meeting to find his wife absent and his bathroom festooned with damp currency, not to mention the errant smear of mud and swamp vegetation that I had missed when I attempted to set the bathroom to rights after my long shower.
"Carolyn, what happened in here?" he asked when I came in.
I must admit that I hadn't been planning to tell him about my mishap on the swamp wharf, having expected to be back before he returned and to use the hair dryer on the money if it hadn't dried out.
"There's mud in the sink," he said. "And wet money everywhere."
I did wonder what he made of these two facts. He might explain the drying money by surmising that I had developed some eccentric fetish for money laundering, but that would hardly explain the mud. I sighed and told him the whole story, and Jason was horrified at my ordeal, except for my ill-considered comment that swamp vegetation tasted like uni, which happens to be one of Jason's favorite sushi choices. However, his sympathetic nature overcame gourmet pique as related to uni, and he consoled me over my traumatic experience. I felt much better for having confessed and received his sympathy.
Jason then, with some hesitation, told me that Julienne had not appeared to give her scheduled paper, nor had she been in touch with conference officials to cancel. "I must admit, Caro, that I'm very worried about her. Missing Car-lene's lecture was a failure of friendship, and missing the session she was scheduled to chair a failure of responsibility, but failing, without explanation, to give her paper..." Heshook his head. "I just can't imagine Julienne doing that unless something is very wrong."
"I've known all along that she was in trouble," I said. "Does Nils know that she—"
"I haven't seen him, but I believe he's to join us for dinner tonight, and I can't imagine that he'll take the news of his wife missing her own paper as anything but very alarming."
"Absolutely," I agreed. "He'll just have to contact the police now. Unless ... unless ..."
"What, Carolyn?" Jason asked.
"Unless he's responsible for her disappearance."
"Surely not," said Jason.
"You know that Torelli left the conference unexpectedly?"
He nodded.
"And I just found out this afternoon that Julienne's brother Philippe is trying to get in touch with her. In fact, he's in New Orleans."
"Well, that's good news. Philippe can insist that Nils contact the police. In fact, Philippe can do it himself, since he's a relative."
"I suppose," I said dubiously, "but I can't get hold of him, and he may have been seen with Julienne on Sunday, the last day anyone saw her. According to Diane, he's got some bee in his bonnet about being entitled to the whole of their mother's estate. You don't suppose—"
"He's her brother," said Jason. "He wouldn't. . . certainly not over money." My husband looked appalled at the very idea.
"Well, you know what they say: most murders are motivated by sex or money."
"Who says that?"
"Mystery writers," I admitted. "And policemen, I suppose."
"We don't know any policemen," said Jason reasonably.
I knew Lieutenant Boudreaux, but he hadn't said anything about motivations for murder.
"And we don't know that Julienne's been murdered. I wouldn't imagine that we know anyone who knows anyone who's been murdered. After all, it's not something that's common in academic circles."
"No," I had to agree. "Did you mean to say that we have to have dinner with Nils tonight?"
"Before we get into that, I was checking for messages at the desk downstairs when the clerk asked if I was aware that the hotel charges for local calls, and that we've made quite a few."
"How much per call?" I inquired, aghast. I had no idea how many I'd made. It could be hundreds.
"Seventy-five cents." Jason studied me, looking a bit puzzled. "It is rather steep, but you can't have made that many. Say you made ten. That would be $7.50."
Say I'd made a hundred; that would be seventy-five dollars. I was going to have to ask just how big a bill I had run up. "I'll try to limit the calls in the future," I promised, knowing that i
f my search for Julienne demanded more calls, I'd make them. Would they be tax deductible? No, of course they wouldn't. My search for Julienne had nothing to do with a book on New Orleans cuisine.
"Now, about the dinner you mentioned?" That, at least, would be deductible. Unless it was to be held at some restaurant so boring that I couldn't write about it. "Who's going? Not just Nils, I hope."
Jason smiled. "The whole alligator-dinner group."
"And I'm supposed to find them another alligator dish?" I wasn't ecstatic to think of sharing my evening meal with Nils or the Abbotts.
"No one mentioned alligators," he replied. "They're taking us to the Palace Cafe. In thanks for your time and effort on the reunion dinner."
"You mean they're paying our way?" Had Broder agreed to that? I wondered.
Jason grinned. "Reluctantly, in some cases. I believe Car-lene had to nudge Broder into participating, but yes, we're the invited guests."
Isn't it amazing how often married people find themselves thinking the same thing? Both Jason and I had immediately realized that Broder would object to another expensive dinner, especially when he had to kick in for two extra people. The Palace Cafe? I thought I remembered it from my Great Chefs book. "Where is it? The restaurant?"
"The central business district, I think. Is that a problem for you? Were you planning on writing only about restaurants in the Quarter?"
"Oh, it's fine." The central business district? Was that near Philippe's hotel? If so, it wouldn't hurt to pop in and try to talk to him. Surely, he'd be in his room by the time we finished dinner.
21
Catfish Pecan with Meuniere Sauce
The French and their New World cousins the Creoles are noted not only for gourmet cooking but also for thriftiness. Combine these traits with the periods of poverty that formerly rich Creoles experienced (after the Civil War, for instance) and several famous New Orleans dishes were the result. Gumbo is certainly one—a combination of garden vegetables, leftover meat and seafood, and, of course, roux. Bread pudding and pain perdu are two others. In New Orleans, day-old French bread is not wasted. It is used to make New Orleans style French toast (pain perdu) as well as the many delicious bread puddings to be found in French Quarter restaurants. Don't decide, as I did, that you dislike bread pudding until you sample one of the exotic New Orleans varieties.
Carolyn Blue, Eating Out in the Big Easy
The Palace Cafe, which specializes in contemporary Creole menus, is another of the Brennan family ventures, and the Brennan family is synonymous with New Orleans cuisine. For a wonder, Carlene had chosen the restaurant. Maybe the "contemporary" label suggested California cookery. Perhaps it was a compromise with Broder, who would have chosen "inexpensive" from the guidebook and had to be satisfied with "moderate." (I had looked the restaurant up before we ventured out.) It was also blessedly close to our hotel, being on Canal Street.
At any rate, the ambiance was delightful. The dining area downstairs was given over to booths in green, cream, and brass with an impressive spiral staircase in the middle. We climbed the stairs. The second-floor dining room had a wonderful mural that depicted famous New Orleans musicians, reminding me that in my concentration on food and Julienne, I hadn't so much as visited Preservation Hall or any of the famous jazz clubs. The visit to the tassel-twirler establishment could hardly be counted as a musical experience, although the bands on the street, when I had the chance to listen, were wonderful, and outside our window at the hotel, we often heard the wail of trumpets and trombones.
At the end of the dining room, we could see the chefs working behind glass. Luckily, I spotted that feature before we were seated and asked if we could be moved closer. Miranda and Lester grumbled, but the maitre d' was very gracious. He simply replaced the reserved sign on our table, bowed to me, and led us farther back, where he removed the reserved sign from another table and seated me facing the kitchen. "Madame is interested in the preparation of fine food?" he asked.
"Madame's writing a book," said Carlene, grinning. "So be sure to produce your most delicious dishes for her."
"Carlene," Miranda hissed.
"Our creations are always delicious," the maitre d' assured her and then beamed at me. I beamed back. It really is fun to be a restaurant critic. I even got the first menu, which caused Miranda to frown. No doubt she felt that, being the most well-paid member of the group, she should be the diner most catered to.
Two appetizers had been recommended by the guidebook: red bean dip with homemade potato chips and oyster shooters. The shooters are raw oysters served in a shot glass, which did not appeal to me. Truth to tell, I like my oysters cooked and wanted to visit Antoine's for their oysters Rockefeller, a recipe that originated with the restaurant's founder. Rockefeller refers to the richness of the sauce, not some Rockefeller for whom the dish was created.
I chose the red bean dip, which was excellent, especially the homemade potato chips. I wondered, for just a moment, how hard it would be to make one's own potato chips and even walked to the glass wall to see if I could catch a glimpse of the potato chip chef at work (I didn't), but then I remembered that I really preferred other people's cooking and returned to my seat. Miranda glared at me.
Broder was saying, as I replaced my napkin in my lap and made a few notes on the red bean dip, that Julienne's failure to appear for her lecture was a cause of great worry to him. "Yes," Carlene agreed. "I think we all know her well enough to say that this last incident is ominous. Have you heard anything from her, Nils?"
"Torelli left. She probably went with him," Nils muttered.
"She didn't," I said. "The police checked that for me."
"You've been to the police?" Nils looked furious.
"Well, you wouldn't," I said coldly.
Nils didn't answer, but he looked upset, as well he might. Jason defused the situation by insisting that I try his crawfish cakes. Spicy, crispy, infused with Romano cheese and the delicious flavor of crawfish—they were wonderful. The waiter and I had a quick, whispered conversation about the flavors; Worcestershire and Louisiana hot sauce were responsible for the extra tang. I had two bites, one to savor the cakes by themselves, the second to appreciate them as they were served, with a lemon butter sauce in which I also detected white wine. I nodded to Jason and whispered, "Superb choice." My husband does have a wonderful way with a menu. Of course, I invited him to try my selection, as well.
"I can't imagine what's going on with Julienne," said Lester. "No matter what your marital problems, Nils, she shouldn't have failed to fulfill her conference responsibilities."
"Don't blame me for that," snapped Nils, "and I couldn't agree with you more. When I go to a conference, I give the paper I'm scheduled to give."
"Have you ever known Julienne not to show up for her lecture?" I demanded. Nils was silent. "Which means something is dreadfully wrong, and you're refusing to do anything about it. Now, Diane says that Philippe is looking for Julienne."
"You called Diane about this?" Nils was obviously infuriated at my interference. "The last thing she needs during midterms is to be worried about her mother."
"She's worried that you and Julienne might divorce," I replied, "and I can only assume that's because she's picked up on your attitude and your unfounded suspicions." At least, I hoped they were unfounded. Why else would Torelli have left so hurriedly? A man who was in love with Julienne wouldn't have left like that. Unless she'd sent him away. Oh dear, I just wanted to stop thinking about it. I wanted Julienne to appear and be fine and have some logical explanation for her disappearance, preferably one that would show Nils to have been unfairly suspicious of her.
Lips pressed together angrily, I turned to my entr6e, which had just been served. I had been lured away from guide selections by a dish called catfish pecan with meu-niere sauce. My anger and worry fled, at least temporarily, as I gazed at my beautiful entree: a six-ounce catfish fillet, brown and crispy in its pecan crust a
nd topped with pecan halves, parsley, and a lovely, spicy meuniere sauce. It tasted as good as it looked.
Since catfish farming developed into a lucrative industry in the United States, I have become very fond of this firm, sweet fish. It is not only tasty, but also low in calories and cholesterol, for those who worry about their weight and their arteries, and best of all, it's available in markets all year round, filleted so that the fish lover doesn't have to deal with all those tiny, dangerous bones.
Catfish Pecan with Meuniere Sauce
Preheat oven to 450°. Trim all fat from six 5- to 7-oz. catfish fillets.
Grind 3 cups roasted pecans and 1 cup dried breadcrumbs in a blender or food processor until fine. Pour into a pie pan.
Place 1 cup all-purpose flour in another pie pan and stir in 1/2 tsp. pepper and 1 tsp. salt.
Beat together 3 eggs and 1/2 cup milk in a medium bowl.
Season catfish with seafood seasoning. (Mix together 6 tsp. paprika, 4 tsp. ground garlic, 4 tsp. black pepper, 2.1/2 tsp. ground onion, 1.1/2 tsp. fine thyme, 1.1/4 tsp. fine oregano, 1.1/4 tsp. basil, 1 tsp. cayenne, and salt to taste. Can be stored in a cool, dry place, tightly sealed.)
Dredge catfish fillets in flour, dip in egg mixture, and coat with pecan mixture.
Film bottom of large, ovenproof saute pan or skillet with olive oil over medium heat.
Add fish and brown on both sides. Bake in oven for about 5 minutes.
Meuniere Sauce
Cook 2 cups fish stock or bottled clam juice, juice of 1/2 lemon, 1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce, dash of Louisiana hot sauce in medium saucepan.
Add 1 tbs. heavy cream and cook to reduce for 1 to 2 minutes.
Remove from heat and whisk 1/2cup (1 stick) un-salted butter into liquid.
Serve over cooked fish fillets and sprinkle with roasted whole pecan halves and (if desired) chopped parsley.
Carlene ordered a marvelous crabmeat cheesecake and offered me a bite, on which I made copious notes, and Jason had the seafood boil, which was served on a raised platter. The waiter told me that Paris cafes served in that fashion, and Jason pronounced his seafood so fresh that it must have been pulled from the sea that very day, which the waiter assured him it was. Nils and Miranda didn't offer me any of their entrees, and Miranda and Lester had rather sharp words when his selection arrived, a double pork chop, rotisseried and served with candied sweet potatoes.
Fairbanks, Nancy Page 15
