By Spencer Ackerman
Two friends emailed last weekend: We’re going to New Orleans and you should come with. We’re going to eat some serious pork. Hard to argue with that, really. About 36 hours after arriving on Friday, I’m in Atlanta, waiting for a connecting flight back home to D.C., with a new tattoo and an overfilled stomach. Here’s where I ate. I’ll try not to make this too Rachael Ray-y.
The French Market Cafe. For an early evening, you can do a lot worse than grabbing a pre-drink bite here, as the tumult of the market is likely to be over, allowing you a relaxing place to eat outdoors near the Mississippi. The photo you see, taken on my cell phone, is of the cafe’s red beans and rice and its jambalaya. I had the RB&R, my friend Sam the jambalaya. The Huge Ass Beer you have to get on Bourbon Street, but New Orleans allows on-street drinking, so you can take it with you. I’ve had better RB&R in my life, and Sam’s had better jambalaya, but you get some nice andouille sausage mixed in and the beans are well-seasoned. The rice is unimpressive. Still, your object is to fill your stomach for a night’s drinking.
Cafe du Monde. Miraculously better than you’d think a world-famous cafe — also right in the French Market — has a right to be. By the time we made it back here, we’d been drinking for several hours at DBA, an endeavor that convinced us to stop by a tattoo parlor and officially join the Misfits Fiend Club. We wanted chicory coffee and a massive amount of hot, buttery, powdered-sugary, crispy-to-yielding beignets. Simply a revelation. It’s one thing to buy the coffee & beignet mix and take it home to make yourself — and I stupidly didn’t even do that — but quite another to have the stuff served to you freshly by an irritated, zitty teenager in a stupid paper cap. I ordered a plate of three beignets and then had to order another, ending up in a sloppy, sugary mess, drunkenly rubbing my fingers on my jeans to soak up the powdered sugar and then licking my fingertips.
Slim Goodies Diner. Hipster brunch spot frequented by, among other people, Barack Obama. A piping-hot plate of hangover food served by heavily-tattooed waitstaff. I had something called the Orleans Breakfast — two eggs (I like mine over-easy), thick-cut bacon, chili, hash browns, your choice of toast or biscuit. A nine-dollar breakfast that’s underpriced. The chili could have been spicier for my taste, but that’s what hot sauce is for. The walls feature Polaroids of adorable children. The bathroom feature political posters in the style of a Mexican wrestling bill announcement.
Mother’s. Dingy-but-respected cafeteria-style joint where you’re likely to see framed and autographed photos of minor Sopranos characters and the 1991 New Orleans Saints and Colin Powell. Bills itself as featuring best baked ham in the world, but we just stopped in for a missed-lunch-pre-dinner 4 p.m. stomach-liner. I had a cup of the seafood jambalaya, figuring that I couldn’t very well go to NOLA and not have some jambalaya. Unimpressive. The shrimp was clearly frozen and the jambalaya was liquidy. They wanted $12 for that and a fountain Dr. Pepper. I felt insulted. Mike, a vegetarian, had a utilitarian bowl of red beans & rice that he tempered his expectations for. Sam had a slice of blueberry pie that I have a hard time believing was homemade.
Couchon. The main event, the reason I spent $500 this weekend — a fucking restaurant named Pig. They do their own butchering in-house. I feel for Couchon what Rich Lowry feels for Sarah Palin: a tingling, star-seeing sensation that’s illegal to teach in Bible-belt schools. The place isn’t cheap, but worth a million underwhelming meals at Mother’s.
The cocktail menu is wonderful: I don’t drink gin, but Sam had a really smart version of a mojito featuring gun and mottled parsley. Yes, parsley. It’s brilliant and smooth. Mike and I had something called an applesauce, which is bourbon, cinnamon, some sort of apple juice and other stuff I don’t remember because we kept drinking throughout dinner.
And dinner. Dinner dinner dinner. These people take pork seriously. Owing to a Food & Wine article I read about a year ago that vouched for the face-melting awesomeness of boudin, I started with the house version, which is a fried ball of the white pork sausage and pork liver with some rice and cajun spices thrown in. That came with a delightfully sharp mustard and pickled hot peppers. Sam had the boucherie plate, and it justifies its $18 price: the best pork headcheese I’ve ever had, delicate and almost spreadable, with unbeatable savoryness; a sliced ham that almost tastes cured despite being baked; an unbeatable pate. Mike cracked and had the deviled crab spread, which tasted as if it came out of the sea that morning.
Sam was too embarrassed to order the Louisiana couchon once I told the waiter I was having it. In his shoes I would not have yielded. Possibly the best pork dish I’ve ever had: a pile slow-roasted and spicy pulled pork in its own jus, topped with exquisite cracklins — which I’ve never tasted before — and accompanied by turnips and cabbage that I’m guessing were cooked with the pork as a kind of mirepoix. I actually pumped my fist in the air after I had my first bite. Had I been wearing a hat, I would have thrown it aside like my dinner was the climactic scene in Fitzcarraldo. Sam had the brisket and I guess it was good, but nothing compares to the couchon. It’s clear why the restaurant has recognition from F&W. Mike, our increasingly forlorn vegetarian, had a meal of some sides which he enjoyed and I didn’t taste.
We were set to order coffee and then Sam noticed something: a moonshine menu. Somehow this magical restaurant offers a selection of corn liquor. I’ve never had moonshine before, and figured it would be like everclear. Incorrect. Moonshine — we ordered the $7 version at random — is a syrupy sweet drink of overwhelming potency. We drank about half the contents of our shot glasses before experimenting with it. It turns out moonshine is an excellent flavoring for chicory coffee. When you drink it, all the stereotypes about rowdy hillbillies make sense: we walked the streets of New Orleans amped up, ready to take on all comers, writing an EP’s worth of songs for our new hardcore bands, SWAT Team and Grover Norquist. That’s fucking Gulf-Coast HC for you: powered by pork, corn liquor and beignets.
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Sounds like a good weekend. Mother’s is a touristy place, but touristy doesn’t necessarily mean bad in the City. New Orleans needs tourists and usually more than half the time it treats them well and, if the city is lucky, that treatment is reciprocated.
Saying that, you really should have gone for a roast beef debris po boy at Mothers. I’ve not heard much about their gumbo or red beans, but their po boys are where it’s at over there.
I only have eaten at Couchon once, and I loved it. Sounds like you missed out on the fried chicken livers – if you ever go back be sure to get an app of those. I, too, had an order of the brisket and thought it was just OK. After the fact, my waiter helpfully pointed out that if you’re going to a place named ‘pig’ maybe you should stick to pork. Everything else I had at Couchon, including that boucherie plate, was fantastic.
If you ever have occasion to head back to the City or, god forbid, Houston, ping the board and I’ll be happy to try to steer you to some places that will fit whatever it is you’re looking for.
Looking at their online menu, it appears the chicken livers have been replaced with rabbit livers… I would still give ’em a try! The oyster roast ain’t bad either.
The rabbit livers are indeed, fantastic. The best thing I had there. Next was the boucherie plate. The boudin is too gourmet to be authentic. It should have cheaper cuts of pork in it.
Did you have a sazerac?
Moonshine — at least in nature as opposed to in restaurants — is just really variable. I’ve had stuff that was like everclear, and I’ve had stuff that was incredibly smooth. Put it in a can of Dr. Pepper and you’ll smell it loud and clear, but you won’t taste a thing; I’m told the same is true of strawberry daiquiris, to serious effect at a party one of my friends held. Ultimately it’s all about who makes it and how carefully.
(I’d like here to give a shout out to homemade wines, which the same friend who gives me moonshine often gives me — corn wine, strawberry wine, scuppernong wine. Totally incredible. Makes me think a road trip to Alabama is in order so I can bring some back home.)
sounds awesome. may I also suggest: http://veganyumyum.com/2008/09/food-photography-for-bloggers/
I Second Tim on Mothers, you missed the glory of a sandwich with Debris :(.
Their softshell Crab po-Boy was also excellent when we were there, but probably out of season by now.
No scotch house? When we were there it was still destroyed :(.
I think the best meal of the trip (cross country road trip) we had was in Cajun country, a little town called Broux Bridge. Glorious Etufet (sp?).
Sounds like a good trip – FYI though it’s spelled Cochon, but pronounced couchon.
Mothers has great po-boys but the best poboys are from Parkway Bakery and Tavern in Mid-City. Parkway is my church. I worship every Sunday afternoon.
If you (or anyone, really) is ever back in town and need other recommendations, give me a holler at my blog, Fiyou on da Bayou.
Oh and I also have a tat from Electric Ladyland (I’m assuming that’s where you went, since you were at DBA. Hope you didn’t sit on the couch in there, by the way…). Good folks, there.
The best red beans come from my kitchen, natch. Glad you had a good time, though.
Parkway? We shall have words on this: Parasol.
Parasol might win for beef but Parkway’s oysters are unsurpassed. Parkway also wins on bartenders.