Speaking of Scones....

Dear Billy, Thank you for your letter. You wrote that you went to the Big Easy and dined out several times. You have a blog. You’re wondering if you should tell people about your culinary experience.

Well, Billy, when I have to make a difficult decision -- such as whether to watch an hour of “I Love the ‘90s” or write about crème brulee, I often think of the Golden Rule. The Golden Rule says that we should treat others as we’d like to be treated. You might ask yourself, “If I were a blog surfer, would I want to find an essay about New Orleans’ food?”

The answer, of course, is no. If I were a blog surfer, I’d hope for a racy essay a la “Sex and the City,” not a caloric essay a la mode. But one of my co-workers occasionally says, “Food is sex,” so maybe you can use your sensory imagination. (For the record, the ice-cream party on the July cover really is an ice-cream orgy, er, party.)

Thursday night, we ate at the Upper Line, an Uptown place recommended by my advisor-to-be. I ordered the grilled salmon with pureed spinach, while Mom went for veal grillades (pronounced grill-a-DEEs, not gree-ya-DAYS, according to our waiter). I also had a cosmopolitan -- my nod to Carrie Bradshaw.

Good menu phonetics apparently doesn’t guarantee good cuisine. Sure, you can say escargot….but can you cook the snail? At its high price, my salmon and spinach could have used more marinade. Or at least more garlic and lemon juice. Garlic and lemon juice are the Duct tape of the culinary world. Bland baked potato? Garlic and lemon juice. Lonely garbanzos? Garlic and lemon juice. When in doubt, drink more cheap wine and add garlic and lemon juice.

Maybe this is too-critical talk coming from a girl whose favorite kitchen instrument is the can opener. Lack of flavor has never prevented me from eating ….and eating….and eating. I finished most of my salmon and spinach, nixing my appetite on Friday morning and afternoon. My Friday night cosmopolitan tasted that much better after an all-day fast. Actually, after a few sips my whole day got better. The restaurant (Herb-Saint? McDonald’s?) had the most attractive waiters! The crispest tablecloths! Four stars! Another cosmopolitan!

Seriously, Herb-Saint has some great French fries. I realize there’s no better post-binge food than the fry, but even a straight edge would praise Herb-Saint’s fries. Our waiter explained that the lucky Herb-Saint potato is peeled, sliced, rinsed, sliced again (to remove extra starch), then fried. Ketchup? Zut, no! These fries are served with a creamy horseradish sauce. I wouldn’t be surprised if the horseradish only grows on a magical vine deep within the Garden District.

My alcohol-grease euphoria wasn’t quite at its peak when our guests arrived. Technically, they weren’t our guests -- only one middle-to-upper-aged couple and their male friend. But my mom immediately welcomed them to the booth adjoining our table. “You’ve got to order the fries!” she exclaimed. I contemplated another, stronger drink.

Anne Lamott wrote that she says two prayers before boarding a plane: 1) "Please don’t let the plane crash." 2) "Please don’t let any of the other passengers talk to me." I subscribe to this mentality/spirituality. My mom, on the other (right, I suppose) hand, spreads Christian good will to fellow diners, passengers, elevator occupants, etc. If life has a Miss Congeniality award, Mom will win it. I’ll close my eyes and say “world peace” until the judges let me pass.

“Where are you all from?” Mom asked the group, after they had ordered the fries. Right here in New Orleans. And us? “We’re from Tennessee, but my daughter lives in Pennsylvania.” Philadelphia? Pittsburgh? “No, Honesdale. Near Scranton.” Honesdale! Male Friend put down his glass. “Why, if I had eyes like yours, I’d be in the big city!” Come again? “Yes, sir! The boys here are gonna be all over you!”

Waiter? Another cosmo?

This is the only pick-up line I received during my stay in New Orleans. If the boys really are going to be “all over me,” I guess they’re keeping a respectful distance while they warm up. I do have a way with the over-70s, I must admit. But I felt Rolaids-brand relief when the waiter arrived with our check.

On our last night in the bayou I again ordered salmon -- served in a creamy sauce atop ricotta gnocchi. There’s a tasty review of La Petit here:

http://www.nola.com/dining/reviews.ssf?8007?8007

So, instead of describing my entrée at length, I’ll tell you about a crepe I enjoyed on Broadway, near Tulane.

When I think “crepe,” I imagine strawberries and whipped cream, tossed in a pancake by Pepe Le Pew. My Broadway crepe was no lightweight dessert, though, and the chef had neither twisty moustache nor (unfortunately) lovesick grin. My crepe -- selected from a list of 20+ options -- contained baby spinach, white asparagus, caramelized onions, garlic, and melted swiss. Mon dieu! The creator of this “Ultimate Vegetarian Crepe” came straight from The Outsiders or Rebel Without a Cause. Skinny, dreadlocked, misunderstood as only a crepe artist can be. When he handed me this masterpiece in a paper cone, he said, “Here you go, sweetie.” Voulez vous coucher avec moi, mi amor.

I didn’t get a beignet until I reached the airport on Sunday morning. The combination of fried dough and powdered sugar always scores, but N’Awlins beignets should be enjoyed at an outside café with Dixieland jazz playing nearby. There’s little romance in “Mr. Johnson, please pick up the nearest courtesy phone and dial zero.…” At 10 a.m. I boarded my flight to Philadelphia and opened a package of Cheez-Its, Best If Sold by 4/05. I had reached my final course. Back to Chez Can Opener.

Billy, I hope this letter helps. Good luck, and best wishes from everyone here. And if you’re ordering for me, I like my glass frosted and my fish medium-rare.