Winesday

Peter: Some good spice but can still taste the grape. High in alcohol though, which is a shame. How about some braised short ribs from Sylvain or the ridiculously good lasagna from Domenica.

Rene: Powerful oak on the nose, smells like the inside of a barn. Lot of heat in the back of the throat from the alcohol. Don't get very much fruit, just woodsy spice. But wine could stand up to something heavy which makes me want Ian Schnobelein's ravioli with veal cheeks, but since that doesn't seem to be on his menu anymore the rigatoni with oxtail ragout, broccoli, and ricotta at Iris would be a good substitute.

Joe the Wine Guy:  That wine is 2006 Domaine Chandon "La Riviere" Russian River Valley Pinot Noir. It has enticing aromas of cocoa powder, red plum, black cherry, and cedar which are a prelude to flavors of black cherry, dried cranberry, cocoa, and cardamom. It finishes with vanilla bean notes which would be perfect with roast rack of lamb with a fig reduction, or maybe a black truffle risotto, or even with a dessert like Black Forest cake. You can find it at Galatoire's and The Wine Seller and it retails for $45.

Top Chef Season 5

Top Chef Season 5 begins pretty soon, sometime between Halloween and Thanksgiving.

The profiles are up for this season's contestants. Once again noticeably absent is anyone from New Orleans. I guess the two days spent down here interviewing such chefs such as Food and Wine Best New Chef, Ian Schnoebelen, and the other culinary talent of the Crescent City could not match some of the chefs chosen for this season.

Wondering in a city as well known for its food and culinary history, why we have yet to see one chef from New Orleans, when we constantly see chefs from such foodie factories as Boulder, Co. Considering some of the bums that have been on this show, would it have been so hard to have Sue Zemanick compete. But I guess Bravo only wants chefs who have yet to have been discovered.

But then again, who cares?

The Past is Half Empty

A few months ago, we chronicled our experience at the Tales of the Cocktail Spirited Dinner at Stella!. What we alluded to was the utter prevalence of the grandiose, self-importance of the cocktail experts and aficionados and how this in a way soured the night. The New York Times has run a more interesting and better crafted piece exploring the same. Shocking, we know, but we might as well get upstaged by a dying newspaper.

This is my favorite part:

"Just when Manhattan’s most ambitious bartenders had started to resemble a troupe of historical re-enactors, sporting antique patterns of facial hair as they concoct 19th-century julep recipes, along comes Apotheke, with a host of drinks that Diamond Jim Brady wouldn’t recognize."

Following the Spirited Dinner, I had a discussion with a noted New Orleans food bloggist/lawyer/raconteur/seal clubber who dined at Iris. His response to the night can be summed up thusly, "I needed a fedora and some tight jeans to fit in."

Thankfully for all he does not own either, but perhaps he will grow a pencil thin mustache, the Boston Blackie kind.

A good cocktail has a certain magic and transporting quality, but let's not pretend it can replace the Flux Capacitor. And costume parties, especially those with some clever theme along the lines of "Ghosts Travel to Outer Space and Encounter the Elizabethan Period" or "Dirty Old Nuns and Catholic School Boys", provide hours of fun and endless opportunities for inappropriate statements. But there is no need to combine the two.

Drinks desire to be enjoyed and savoured. When you discuss and meticulously recreate a classic cocktail (down to using lake harvested ice), one crosses a dangerous line. The line between enjoyment and obsession. The only thing a well made drink should make you do is order another one.

In The Soul of a Chef and The Making of a Chef, Michael Ruhlman discusses the idea that one of the hallmarks of cooking is that a dish is a dish the world around. What he means by this is Sole Veronique, Kung Pao Chicken, or a hamburger have a defined and exact standard. There is but one true version of each dish. However, no two restaurants serve the same dishes; well, outside of McChain's Tapas Grill and Singles Bar. A Plato's Cave of dishes, if you will. In many ways there is a similar desire for an exact recipe for cocktails.

When bartenders begin messing with a Brandy Alexander they have done two fundamental things. First, they have created something new. Secondly, they have worn away at the protective enamel of what defines and distinguishes a Brandy Alexander. If the resulting drink is called a Champagne Alexander no harm done. However, usually the menu writers guild mandates that the drink be called a Brandy Alexander, with cute parenthesis.

Many restaurant menus have turned into paragraph long entries that require a thesaurus, atlas, and a lawyer. You know the types: "Holstein Farm's raised porcine shoulder over a caraway consomme wilted spinach fricassee, Mackinaw Island peach sorbetto, a reduction of 'mushroom juice', and artisan salami". Great now what the hell did I order.

The day may be fast approaching when cocktail menus exhibit similar phraseology. If so the tendency of people to explore cocktails and other handcrafted, expertly prepared goods may weaken. Sometimes its just easier to say "Budweiser". After all Bud is an import now.

Recognition of historical drinks must not become anchored by the constraints of the past. New products, flavors, and techniques can coexist with recognition that a Manhattan is a damn fine drink. But if you subsitute Rum for Rye and replace the cherry with guava, what do you get and so on and so forth...

So I guess the point of this rambling is, how do you enjoy and honor a virtue without it turning into a vice?

Call to Arms

Recently this rapscallion, Robert Peyton, has used the Internet to publish outlandish, salacious, and dangerous rumors about the crew behind this noble journalistic institution. Obviously Mr. Peyton did not read the "Terms of Use" Contract which controls the entire Internet. If he did, he would remember that the only information which can be posted on the world wide web must be 100% accurate and/or absolutely true.

Perhaps one of us assualted Mr. Peyton with a knife, but neither of us are Turks. Peter could be Armenian, but Peter is still awaiting the gynecological survey he requested from the Mormons, or something like that.

Indeed, the Blackened Out Crew and Fan will dine at Stella. Mr. Peyton and his cohorts have chosen to dine across town at Iris on the evening of July 17th. Perhaps it is the prospect of fun, hilarity, bonhomie, and general tomfoolery that they seek to avoid. Or perhaps they need a more secluded spot to plan their impending retirements. Regardless, the editors of this stalwart and our crew of merry eaters issue the following statement to Mr. Peyton:

Please meet us at a place of mutual convenience following your gustatory celebration so that we may duel on the neutral ground. We will take the streetcar towards your restaurant and your gang of misfits is instructed to take the streetcar towards the Quarter. We shall meet at Fat Harry's. You, sir, may choose the weapon. Choose wisely, and remember Blackened Out would never bring a knife to a gun fight.

Signed,
The Blackened Out Armenian (perhaps) and Frog

If you can not make it to Iris, you can make it here

This looks like a lot of fun. Today Cafe Adelaide starts at 530. Ten bucks.



http://blog.nola.com/dining/2008/05/new_orleans_to_join_10_other_c.html

Restaurant Iris

I first learned about Iris when the chef/owner Ian Schnoebelen became a Food and Wine Best New Chef in 2007. Lady and I dropped into Iris a few nights before LSU dismantled the Buckeyes. We sat at the bar and were completely blown away by the food, drinks, and quaintness of this wonderful Riverbend eatery. As we were leaving that visit, Matt Flynn walked in; coincidence or good food?

This past weekend Legend came back to New Orleans after a 4 month hiatus and he brought with him the Ultimate Law Clerk. Also, joining us were the Bodegas. I had called weeks before to get reservations and I am glad I did. When we arrived at 9 p.m., the place was packed. It took only a few minutes to get our table ready and we were seated.

I need to mention this restaurant is tiny, minuscule even. In a converted Riverbend house with two rooms, space is at a premium; but it still feels comfortable. In fact the entire experience will make you feel like you went over to a friends house. Allow me to explain.

Cocktails, especially retro classics and new spins on old favorites, have made a strong comeback recently, although for some of us they never went away. Iris' barkeep is a delightful, only in New Orleans-esque character named Alan. His concoctions will blow you away. Lady had the honeydew melon and lemongrass daqiuri. Some egg white helped froth up this sublime toddy. I had the Parsely Julep (it was Derby Day after all). What sounds weird was actually incredibly refreshing, perfect after being in the heat at Jazz Fest all day. A bottle of Rioja and 2 vodka martinis and we all settled in.

First, a double order of the Washington State Oysters served with a classic mignonette sauce. The mignonette sauce is incredibly complex. Varying between black pepper and vinegar flavors and perfect not only oysters, but also to sop up with bread.

I was a little concerned that the food would suffer based on just how busy the place was. Luckily my fears were as baseless as an Eskimo's tan. An amuse bouche arrived. Duck Liver pate on a crostini topped with a hard-boiled quail egg. Ok, that was awesome. (Last time we went the amuse was a crabmeat stuffed Zucchini Blossom.)

Lady got the Lamb Meatball soup. A huge bowl of warm soup with 3 good size lamb meatballs arrived. The broth was sensual, the meatballs divine, and the tapenade smeared crust of bread added a delightful touch of salinity. Chef Ian loves using olives to add a sublime note of salt and remind one of simple pleasures.

An order of Gulf Shrimp, baked simply in garlic and tomato kept the bodegas occupied. Legend rocked some escargot and he refused to share so it must have been good. I got the gnocchi, good and light. But I should have gotten the Veal Cheek Ravioli, when I tried the ravioli on my first visit fireworks went off.

Two orders of Halibut for the Bodegas, they ooohed and ahhed. I should mention, they big New Yorkers who are used to eating in world class restaurants, were absolutely charmed and enchanted by Iris. Legend got the Lamb Loin. Cooked perfectly, I only tried the meat, but that could have been improved by the addition of nothing. Lady got the poussin. A young, tender chicken cooked and crisped with little more than butter, salt, and pepper. Served with simple summer vegetables, Lady was in her words stoked.

Two orders of what was essentially steak frites rounded out the table: perfectly cooked hangar steak topped with a marrow maitre'd butter and crisp house cut fries. The marrow in the butter instead of serving as a flavoring, functioned more as a textural device giving the butter, and hence the steak, a silken mouthfeel. I have stopped eating steak in fine dining restaurants recently (mostly, because whats the point, I can cook a steak), but this dish re-awakened my inner-carnivore.

Desserts: cheese plate, coconut creme brulee, and the best dessert in the city. Poached Pear filled with mascarpone, served with a caramel and sea salt ice cream. Remember when you were a kid and you came home to a snack of Potato Chips and Chips-Ahoy? Its like that only much better; the ying and the yang of snacking, salty and sweet.

Service is punctual, effectual, helpful, and very hip. Eric, our waiter, picked out an affordable, delicious Sonoma Pinot Noir for the table to compliment the variety of dishes. Laurie, the maitre' d/owner, and girlfriend of Chef Ian, keeps things moving along.

This description sums up Iris, in my view. A small gem of a restaurant; seriously good food and if you look at the Maitre'd close enough you will notice she makes no attempt to hide her ink. Iris knows what it is and is confident in its own skin. Go and feel welcome.