Off the menu in New Orleans

Off The Menu
By
Debbie Lindsey
I do not require food to enjoy a restaurant. A glass of wine or a cold beer will do. This pleasure is best enjoyed from a barstool were tip hungry waitresses can not arrest me with those sullen why are you taking up my tip producing table with your small to nothing order glares. And as a waitress/bartender myself I understand that table space is serious real estate. However I am Vegetarian and most dining establishments are designed to serve cuisine not quite friendly to vegans and even less sympathic to the creatures they plate. I trust through the years I have made myself clear to my fellow vegetarians and readers that I frown upon eating critters for so many reasons – but I have to admit to a love affair with the smell of pork.
I am the Vicarious Carnivore.
I was born a meat and potatoes kinda gal. Is this justifacation for meat eating? No, otherwise I’d be ordering a medium rare steak topped with one of those big fat battered and deep fried onion rings. And don’t come near me with a bag of fried chicken unless you want to see me stick my head inside the confines of that paper and inhale deeply. I lust in my heart but not on my plate.
As a waitress my customers have replied with cynicism whenever I tell them with honesty that I have never actually eaten a single thing on the menu – they were hoping I’d give them an insiders pick on the offerings. But then the carniviore of my youth, despite my reform, rears it’s flesh eating head and my customers see my tongue as it dabs at my mouth watering memory of the foods so forbidden to me; they note my eyes as they begin to glaze. And so they believe me as I tell them what I’d eat if all my personal ethics and beliefs were to dissolve. I have shared my dirty little secret with them as they snicker at thinking they have weakened my resolve – taken me down, corrupted a vegetarian.
You’d think working in food and beverage for as many years as I have been vegetarian (both since I was eighteen) I would not have such affection for restaurants and bars in my spare time as a civilian. But off duty, the immediate time spent in a bar is R&R and that beverage, anesthesia, for my battle weary body. Besides the commiseration over drinks with fellow workers, I have an affection for bars that go beyond libations.
I am fascinated by the customers, sometimes repulsed, but more often than not I meet wonderful folks and some turn into dear friends. Face it, churches and bars are two of the great meeting grounds for socializing – I prefer the latter.
New bars, especially those in hotel or restaurant lounges, can be a bit cookie-cutter in design and funkless. Yet sometimes those are just what I need to remove me from the messier details of everyday life and feel suspended in a vacation mode. They are cleaner than reality.
But as a rule I’ll take the smudgy glass in a tavern where the only garnish is the straw. And as for décor -- years of character, quirks, and funk are my decorations of choice. If it is a truly old establishment then I take on an acheological eye to the details of the past. And the same goes for restaurants of a certain age.
In New Orleans time seems to segue effortlessly from past to present, especially in our restaurants. Our food culture and its history play out daily, even in our brand new establishments where traditional dishes hold court with nouvelle cuisine. But for me the physical history that an old café or restaurant holds is what tweaks my anachronistic appetite. Rip out my taste buds, and I could still feast upon the aged ambience of an eatery that relishes its maturity and shows its years.
Drinking and dining in an atmosphere steeped in history, old-school rituals, and memories allows me to time travel and escape to another era. With just a smidgen of imagination I can vacation, for an hour or so, to a time not filled with cell phones, poor manners, and ugly fashion. And lucky for me I live in a city still flush with uniquely lost-in-time venues for food and drink -- from fine dining at the regal Antoine’s to the brash wham-bam-thank ya-ma’am (and worth it for the mammoth portions at 1980-like prices) at Café Maspero.
Tripping down the memory lane of past diners and reveling in the milieu of smoky old bars can be a bit tricky at times for a vegetarian and once a year Lenten teetotaler. But with the help of Boyfriend, who has no culinary hesitations or restrictions and is more than willing to drink my share of libations as I sip doggedly at an Odouls during those inconvenient annual forty-six days, I can visit all the restaurants and cocktail establishments that I fancy.
While there are many chefs more than willing to accommodate a vegetarian I rather doubt the oyster shuckers at Casamento’s could improvise with tofu. But this is where Boyfriend benefits from my being the Vicarious Carnivore. He doesn’t have to share his oysters with me, or his macaroni and cheese at Rocky and Carlos, or Galatoire’s sweetbreads. He is my perfect date -- ordering enough to satisfy the waiter and thereby allowing me to trespass into forbidden territory, indulging my senses and my heart with all the flavors that a venerable restaurant or seasoned tavern has to offer. Happy.