Guest Author: Lisa

New Orleans, of course, is not known only for its wonderful food, but for its superb jazz scene. Supposedly, visitors interested in jazz should not miss Preservation Hall. While jazz is great and all, I skipped Preservation Hall -- after all, they don't serve food or drink there! Mon dieu! I decided that the better option would be to combine the food, drink and jazz by attending the Jazz Brunch at Commander's Palace, a much lauded Big Easy restaurant.

Commander's Palace is located in large aqua-colored building in the Garden District, making it conveniently located for a pleasant pre- or post-brunch stroll around the gorgeous neighborhood and/or Lafayette Cemetery. A jazz trio, complete with a bass player with a Louis Armstrong voice, entertains the diners during the Sunday brunch. My mother appreciated that the jazz was "not too intrusive," but was not just background music either. Curiously, during one of the songs the New Orleanites began dancing around the dining room, waving their napkins in the air. This was quite a spectacle for a Northern girl like me, used to brunching at crowded restaurants packed too tight to allow for conga line, and I was a bit too shy to join the dancing.

The brunch price includes an appetizer, main dish and dessert. All of the food was spectacular, but there were a few highlights. My brother enjoyed the shrimp remoulade, which he described as tasting "like really good cole slaw, but with shrimp in it..." "....but with a kick!" my mother added.

All four members of my dining party enjoyed poached eggs for the main course, preferring to order breakfasty-food for Sunday brunch rather than the meat dishes that were also available on the brunch menu. This was a good choice, as the eggs melted in your mouth, but for good measure I ordered eggs that came atop pork chops, which were delectable as well.

For dessert, I took a chance and skipped the traditional and highly-recommended bread pudding for a trio of melon sorbets. I wasn't disappointed -- the sorbets tasted just like actual honeydew, cantaloupe and watermelon, but frozen. It was a perfect refreshing dessert for typical New Orleans summer day (i.e., oppressively hot and humid).

Posted by lisa at 03:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Guest Author: Lisa

You may have noticed that the humble proprietor of this weblog, Jeremy, has been a bit busy lately -- though perhaps by "busy" he really means "I'm in rehab". In any event, I agreed to guest blog on Frost Street for a few entries in order to fill up some of the dead air. However, I must warn you that if you're looking for the sophisticated food analysis you generally expect from Jeremy, you will not find it in my entries. I am culinarily challenged.

So, what these entries will lack in quality I hope to make up in quantity -- I eat a lot, and I'm proud to report that I just spent the weekend eating and drinking my way through New Orleans. To start, my hotel was conveniently located a mere two blocks from the inimitable Caféu Monde, and because the cafés open 24 hours a day, beignets and caf頡u lait made both a delicious breakfast and a great late night snack. Truth be told, beignets are basically nothing more than the zeppole you'll find at every New York City street fair, yet for some reason, beignets are better. Maybe it's just the romance of sitting in an outdoor cafén a lazy Southern city, powdered sugar swirling in the air around you. I certainly hope the atmosphere is part of it -- I prefer that beignets remain a New Orleans treat. If Caféu Monde could replicate its magic on the Upper West Side, it would do some major damage to my waistline.

Posted by lisa at 06:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

One of the reasons my posting has been so erratic of late is that I've been at work between 80 and 90 hours a week for the past two months. The other is that in what few free waking hours I have, I've been working on a new food blogging project that is now underway. Loyal readers, I present you with Gothamist Food.

Many of you will already know of Gothamist, one of the more popular New York City weblogs. Now my co-editor Laren Spirer and I are managing a new food blog for the sprawling Gothamist empire. It promises to be lots of fun, and probably more informative than my musings on these pages, so please pay us a visit sometime.

Posted by jeremy at 11:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

From the time I left my parents' house for college to the time I started my first job out of law school, I moved on average twice a year: sixteen times in the space of seven years. I swore I would never do it again. Now I remember why.

I got home from work just before midnight tonight, after a sixteen-hour day. And I realized that, although a half-full handle of Chivas is in one of the twenty or so boxes scattered around my apartment, I have no idea how to find it.

I did happen across some of my liquor stash, and was able to substitute some bourbon, but it just isn't the same. There's a line about scotch - which is probably applicable to acquired tastes in general - in Kicking and Screaming: "Affectations become habits". When I was in college it felt grown-up to wash off a long day with three fingers of highland malt, even though the taste was near unbearable to me then. Now I come home exhausted, and somewhere in the back of my brain I can smell the peat, smoke, and caramel of whiskey, even though I have no hope of tasting it tonight. It occurs to me that I need a drink. Over years of long hauls and late nights, the flavors that once made me wince have become dear to me by the sheer force of repetition. I don't know whether this is addiction or something entirely less romantic. But sitting here among anonymous boxes in a still alien apartment, I really wish I had a glass of scotch to sip on. It would make me feel more at home.

Posted by jeremy at 01:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (1)

I've discussed my family's Iraqi Jewish background before, in the context of recipes and more somber matters. I've heard my aunts and uncles tell stories of how, in the summer months, when the Tigris River shrinks from its banks in the scorching heat, previously submerged islands are revealed in midstream. At times like these, people would row out to the islands in the evening and enjoy the earthly pleasures of Mesopotamia: song, dance, and the flesh of the unique species of carp native to the Tigris. The meal of choice on nights like these was masgouf, a butterflied fresh-caught fish roasted gently over a smoky open fire. The fish would be split open along the spine rather than the belly and secured a safe distance over the fire by forked sticks stuck in the ground at an angle nearby. The finished dish was a communal meal, eaten right off the bone with no utensils but the fingers God gave you.

My Upper West Side Apartment is no place for an open fire, I don't have any pointed sticks handy, and anyway I'm a long way from the Tigris. But when summer rolls around I start thinking about the simple satisfaction of roasted fish, and I seek out ways of quieting my cravings. This time it began with a whole red snapper, cleaned and split -- unavoidably -- along the belly.

Lacking woodsmoke to impart flavor to the flesh of this generally bland fish, I decided to help it along by stuffing it with slices of onion and lemon, fresh parsley, coarse salt, and olive oil. I scored the flesh for even cooking and seasoning (just salt and olive oil on the outside) and set it on a metal rack to go into a hot (425 degree) oven.

Traditional garnishes for masgouf include chopped onions and tomatoes, as well as the clay-oven flatbreads common to Iraq and much of the Middle East. Since I had already thrown authenticity out the window, I replaced the flatbread with grilled polenta, boosted the onions and tomatoes with some fresh parsley, and paired my Manhattan Masgouf with a crisp white wine.

For all my tinkering with this centuries-old dish, I did manage to retain one small piece of tradition: I quickly abandoned my fork and dug into the roast snapper with my bare hands. I've got to say, it really does make for a more satisfying meal.

Posted by jeremy at 01:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Posted by jeremy at 02:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

Where has Frost Street been? Hard at work, of course. 80, 90 hours a week, again, since the last time I was here. My blog, after weeks of neglect, has gone stale.

When your food blog starts to turn, you have to fall back on provisions. No time to cook, no energy to dine out, you'd best throw together some ready-made, well-preserved nourishment.

This is an embellishment on antipasto all'Italiana, a collection of dried cured meats (prosciutto san daniele, domestic bresaola, genoa salami, and the salt-cured fatty pork cheek known as guanciale), marinated artichoke hearts, and olives, spruced up with some cheeses (bufala and locatelli romano), fresh basil, and tomatoes. Of course, you have to round the lot out with some extra virgin olive oil, good aged balsamic vinegar of Modena, and a bottle of chianti, slightly chilled. Have a good crusty bread at the ready, and you've got a soul-mending meal that takes more time to shop for than it does to prepare -- and fits snugly into a busy lawyer's schedule.

You can find just about all the ingredients you need for this simple but satisfying spread at Fairway.

Posted by jeremy at 01:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)