Head on down Bourbon Street. There's a historic place to eat. It's been worthy of the elite.
Start with fried eggplant, avec powdered sugar, it's worth a rant. Mix a drop of hot sauce to enchant.
The fabulous pistachioed duck crepe, with cherries instead of grape, will leave your mouth agape.
The bread is made crusty, so the table might get a little dusty, but the service here is trusty.
Sit back, as here comes the guy to scrape away the crumbs. It's fancier than dinner at your mum's.
The trout almondine is deliciously pristine, with nutty buttery citrus tastes that are crisp and clean.
It won't hurt to have sweet potato cheesecake for dessert. Don't spill port wine on your shirt!
I can't lie, I had many a fun night at the Alibi, but you might just want to kiss that place goodbye.
Drink til you feel like a czar, as in the future, not too far, it is scheduled to be turned into an oyster bar.
Who would do such a thing, dump countless money to bring the service worker bar on the upswing?
The same people that made 33, where Mike Anderson's used to be, and bought out a famous family.
There's no misunderstanding. Galatoire's is expanding, bringing service and food that's outstanding.
The original location is more than 100 years old. It's a place to behold, as many stories have been told.
It's in a number of books, not only because it has great cooks, but it's a restaurant that hooks
like the curse of Marie Laveau; once you have a meal and go, you'll want to return before you know.
It's in a book by Anne Rice, and Tennesee Williams thought it was so nice, he had a table for his vice.
Of course, there's a book by me, written longhand outside patiently with members of the family tree.
We had been paid to wait for Friday Lunch, more like a drinking brunch; I did not witness the punch.
After we had left and walked, the guy who paid us straight up knocked out a guy, cold-cocked.
I guess he got out of hand. At Galatoire's, things are never bland; spur of the moments are not planned.
It's not a place that's rowdy, more where people smile and say howdy, a cheer on days that are cloudy.
The Friday before Mardi Gras was as wild as I ever saw, but the tradition was exception, not law.
See, that was before Hurricane Katrina, a storm as powerful as Athena, who turned like a ballerina.
It spurred expansion to the Baton Rouge location, incited aberration, and shook up traditional sedation.
No longer is the restaurant family owned. It's now corporate zoned, but it is not exactly cloned.
Some things have changed, as ideas were exchanged, but only small things were rearranged.
Now, there's no lines, as reservations were added to designs, but they still serve a number of wines.
In the 80's, they did away with hand-chipped ice. Hiring female servers was nice. Orders are precise.
Dishes like Chicken Rochambeau are served to those in the know; it's only as good as the chef though.
They still ask your preferred server. I like the ones with fervor with suggestions like a life preserver.
Why bother to open a menu? Let the server walk you through whatever you desire to drink and chew.
At Galatoire's, you can nearly throw a dart and blindly get food that melts your heart; it's like fine art.
Everything they make is good. One thing should be understood, recipes for over 100 years stood
the test of time, as they are simply sublime. I ordered a vanilla kamikaze with a fresh cut lime,
and a lady approached my table. “Pardon, but if I am able, I would like to clear up a little food fable.
The cooking artillery does not include garlic, onions or celery; there's no peppers or tomfoolery.
The Holy Trinity is not green. It's dark, if you know what I mean: chocolate, bourbon and caffeine.”
She nodded at my cafe brulot. “Coffee, if you prefer though. Nice, black bottom instead of dough.”
She pointed to the black bottom pecan pie. “Isn't it just to die?” She excused herself, saying bye.
It's the ambiance in the air; much is celebrated there, singing Happy Birthday more than their share.
Go there for a special treat, for comfort after defeat, or to gather regularly with friends to eat.
For me, it's not just a place I adore, but it's much more. There's things I don't have an answer for.
The centerpiece swings, tick-tock, a Fournier Civil War era clock, there before restaurant took stock.
It was there before it was sold, and that's just over 100-years-old, yet it still sounds regularly bold.
Fournier was my mother's name; the furniture builders are one in the same. It's the family tree game.
Acting like a child, I stuck out my tongue and smiled, “we was here first,” trying to get him riled.
Clarisse Galatoire-Gooch's grandson is lots of fun with an artistic style that cannot be outdone.
He stayed in Michigan during the storm, luckily, when it was warm. New Orleans had to transform.
He went with me when I had to study in Florence, Italy, for my Johns Hopkins' Master's degree.
There's much Brad and I have been through, all sorts of hullabaloo, but he recently got his CSW.
He's well on his way to become a wine sommelier. Maybe he'll open a wine bar some day?
Still in school, it's still early, but you'll remember his mom, surely; she's by gates that are pearly.
Anne Gooch, may she be blessed as she lays in rest, helped with NOLA's Food and Wine Fest.
I remember looking up, as she held a measuring cup, explaining to me how to make simple syrup.
The old kitchen is still in my head, moment's vivid like a movie thread. Hard to believe she's dead.
Though it's sad that she's gone, some of her wine tasting lives on in her certified wine specialist spawn.
It's another star that shines from the Galatoire's storyline. They know their food and wine.
New Orleans is host to more than one ghost, but this restaurant is loved by more people than most.
On nights when it's foggy and blistery, ponder if there's a haunted mystery, keeping in mind history.
Do ghosts still frequent places they love, looking down from above or through the eyes of a dove?
On a night that's gusty, can Tennesee Williams see me, through a time warp with a skeleton key?
Take the Street Car Named Desire, dressed in sharp attire and order a cafe brulot for the show of fire.
Forget about the good old days, when men wanted a girl who plays, sneaking in from backdoor ways.
Who knows exactly what went on in an era that's foregone? Have you tried Crabmeat Yvonne?
Galatoire's has continually been cheered and even recognized by the revered James Beard.
Constantly winning awards and donating money towards community beneficiary boards,
it's regularly recognized as one of the best, so try everything is what I suggest, and you'll be impressed.
People fly in from far away - just to eat there, not to stay; they will private jet out on the same day.
Galatoire's has been there over a century, catering to the tastes of luxury; it's a gem in the treasury.
It's the setting of many a memory. As a momento mori, many happy customers live on in story.
Like words from regulars' toasts, being echoed as if by ghosts, from unsuspecting cheering hosts.
So, come celebrate at a place where the food is great, but there's not the famous line where people wait.
Reservations made it a thing of the past. Glad I wrote my book in that year last, as it was really a blast.
It's not ladylike, I know, but it was interesting though to be part of the Mardi Gras overflow.
That was the last year, then a storm would be so severe, they'd have a Baton Rouge premiere.
The storm rocked tradition, resulted in an expanding addition, securing their hospitality position.
In case you didn't see where Mike Anderson's used to be, it's now a steakhouse called 33.
It was named for the original address; the fact that it's my age is just a mess, but I'll try to not distress.
I remember what it was like when I worked there. It's a different vibe in the air. Can't help but stare.
I had mentioned before to buy the place next door, but we all knew it'd be a lot to restore.
It needed to come up to code, new bones in the abode, as its previously grandfathered in age showed.
The place was a total re-gut, down to the studs they cut; it's not the same, not even somewhat.
No more stained glass ceiling, but marble's tastefully appealing. It's a living room welcome feeling.
It's like sipping a drink in the study, chatting with a buddy, laughing and turning a bit ruddy.
Floor three is really the place for me, as it's like a small winery, with a different world on the balcony.
Of course, during Mardi Gras, sip on wine, or Stella Artois; throw some beads, and ooh la la!
Galatoire's 33 is everything I had hoped it would be, and I can hardly wait to see what Alibi will be.
Drink up there fast, as you don't know how long it'll last before it becomes another ghost from the past.
Galatoire's has planted roots to stay, so order up a bouquet and treat someone to a special day.
Devour oysters Rockefeller, even their spinach is stellar. Have your server probe the wine cellar.
Order up some Galatoire's hooch. Say hi to manager David Gooch and give his cheek a smooch.
Slurp on some turtle soup, share sides with people in your group, and become one who's in the loop.
See what all the fuss is about, try for yourself if it's worthy of clout, and add it to your regular route.
You'll see why people come out of their way to eat here during their stay or to celebrate a special day.
Still, the house account with a low number key, passed from generations, you see, so sip your chablis.
You can become a regular, too; dining regularly is all you have to do, and memories flood through.
Make it your favorite place, as the hospitality is ace, and sit in a time-warped space.
Sit where the famous sat, dine where movie stars dined at, and don't worry about the fat.
Forget about your diet at least long enough to enjoy a feast more opulent than Beauty and the Beast.
Only it's not magically refilling dishes, it's service knowing your wishes; stealthily refilling, swishes.
Enjoy the service of the French; sip a thirst quench and be able to taste the alcohol they drench.
A nice, stiff pour only ups the score on a restaurant you can't ignore. Galatoire's is the name to ask for.
For more information on Galatoire's, visit www.galatoires.com. The author of more than 100 books, Marisa Williams earned her Master's in Writing from the Johns Hopkins University. For more by Marisa, visit www.lulu.com/thorisaz and www.twitter.com/booksnbling.