quislet

OK, there's too much of my New Orleans trip to process all at once, so I'll settle for just one dinner, last Friday night at Irene's Cuisine.

Herself and I were wandering around the French Quarter, starting on Bourbon Street. It was a little too loud and obnoxious at the moment, so we cut down a side street, Orleans, I believe. We were drawn to the creepy shadows of the big statue of Jesus that were thrown onto the cathedral at night. I was getting a little hungry, and there was a cute little bistro and wine bar there. Right next door, though, was a vampire shop, so we stopped in to look around before getting a bite to eat. It's a fun little shop, and they had a gorgeous german shepherd that was just dying for some attention. I asked for a review on the place next door, and got a favorable response, but as we chatted a bit more, they let us in on the local secret: Irene's. It was one block down to Chartres, then three to St. Philip. Irene's is right on the corner, with a nondescript door onto St. Philip.

The door from the street opens directly upon the wait station, right by the kitchen entrance, so you are immediately swallowed by the bustle and activity of a busy local restaurant. Irene's is a converted house, so the dining areas are multiple mid-sized rooms in odd dimensions. The zealous young maitre' d escorted us to a tiny table for two, hidden behind the wine rack. Having overindulged quite a lot over the last few days, I was ready to go light on the meal, so we agreed to each get a different salad, share an appetizer, and maybe a dessert when we were done.

Herself settled on the mozarella caprese, and I had something with mesclun and goat cheese. It was good, but soon forgotten. The appetizer was an oyster panee with baby spinach salad in a raspberry vinaigrette. There were four oysters sitting in the curve of the plate, panee'd all quivering and vulnerable underneath, a carapace of crispy breadcrumbs on top. Perfect ovals, looking rather like Pepperidge Farm Geneva cookies, they sat atop a line of thin, creamy aioli. The contrast between the succulent oyster on the bottom and the toothsome crunch on top was nothing less than inspiring, a heaven-and-earth juxtaposition straight out of the Italian Renaissance. I cried. The salad was simple, just baby spinach and dressing, but the flavor of the dressing wound around the palate in complex spirals. There were bits of macerated raspberry, and the brightness of sherry vinegar, and then there were the herbs: complex hints of herb and spice rolling around in the mouth playfully, a note of sharp, a note of earth, a note of fruit, a note of woodsiness. I asked Helene, our waitress, to ask chef if he was actually using Angostura in the vinaigrette. He laughed and said I was probably tasting the rosemary and walnut.

For dessert, we split a slice of Irene's cheesecake, made with no less than four cheeses: cream cheese, ricotta, mascarpone and creole cream cheese. It was heaven itself, like taking a bite out of the Platonic ideal of cloud. It was light and bright, silky and just barely sweet. It brought tears to my eyes once more. The cheesecake was garnished simply with sliced strawberries and a sauce that Helene claimed was made from Grand Marnier, but I suspect it was really La Grande Passion, the Marnier company's discontinued passionfruit liqueur, which happens to be on sale at the very fine liquor store behind the courthouse, between NOLA and K-Paul's. The sauce was really just a tablespoon of simple syrup, probably besteeped with vanilla bean, and a little fine cognac liqueur. Edit: I forgot to mention the crust!! It was a graham cracker crust with subtle bits of toffee mixed in...

I know I haven't done these dishes justice, but they now occupy the appetizer and dessert slots on my "last meal" menu, should I ever get a chance to choose my last meal.

When you're next in the French Quarter, be sure to stop by Irene's. Tell Helene I sent you.