Off the Map: Feeling Crabby in NOLA

Creole Bread Pudding Souffle -- Commander's Palace, New Orleans, LA

Commander's Palace

For our final evening in the Big Easy, Vodka and Whiskey Sour set out for Commander's Palace, arguably the most "classic" (and famous) of New Orleans restaurants. 

And Also the Most Turquoise

As we had just heard on our afternoon walking tour of the Garden District, Commander's Palace is constantly praised for not only their food, but for their level of service.

Hence the Three Waiters Gathered Around a Table at Any Given Time

Let's just say this is going to be an interesting evening.

Let the Wining and Dining Begin... and the Whining

Things start out innocently enough: We are greeted by a genial gentlemen at the front desk, and then led through the maze of the restaurant: through the kitchen, across a patio, and finally to our table... which is directly next to red door brandished with the lettering EMERGENCY EXIT.

It's Like They Know We're Going to Be Trouble

The hostess runs off to find Whiskey Sour a black napkin to match her dress, while Vodka turns all of her attention to the cocktail menu. 

Priorities, People

Before she can blurt out, "TWO SAZERACS, AND STAT," our waiter descends upon us, and he is, to put it mildly, "a lot." He sways in place while speaking at full volume about the assortment of ordering options available to us (a la carte, three-course, seven course, twenty-eight course -- who knows, Vodka just wants a cocktail).

Let's Go, This New Orleans Night Isn't Getting Any Longer

While we await our booze, we settle on the gumbo and filet (Vodka) and the crawfish soup and shrimp (Whiskey Sour), plus Claire Robinson's Best Thing I Ever Ate NEW ORLEANS dish, the creole bread pudding souffle, for dessert.

Notably, We Are Not Getting the Dessert That Requires ACTUAL FIRE

After ordering, we sip our sazeracs and begin what will turn out to be quite the foreshadowing conversation on how ridiculous things tend to happen to us, both separately and when we are together. As we are regaling one another with past examples of such shenanigans, two servers approach and place a soup bowl before each of us. Then, with a flourish, they produce tin cups full of our piping-hot soups, and pour them into their respective bowls.

All Good, Nothing to See Here OH WAIT

Sorry, let me rephrase: Whiskey Sour's server pours her soup into the bowl; in contrast, Vodka's pours her gumbo ONTO VODKA.

Unfortunately, Photographic Evidence Was Not Captured, Save for the Dribble on the Rim

Instead of executing the swirling technique of his counterpart, Vodka's server merely DUMPS the gumbo in the direction of the bowl, causing one large piece of crab to splash over the side and land, with a great deal of accompanying drizzle, on Vodka's lap. 

Perhaps the Crab Was Making a Run for the Emergency Exit

So startled by his gaffe that he presumably loses all muscle control, the server then drops the tin cup INTO the gumbo, causing another tidal wave of soup to hit the table cloth.

We Really and Truly Could Not Make This Stuff Up

At this point, two things happen: Vodka and Whiskey Sour begin laughing hysterically, and the servers RUN AWAY.

They leave!

Moments later, as giggling-induced tears slide out the corners of our eyes, a manager appears and immediately begins profusely apologizing for the blunder, explaining that "Marvin" has only been a server for two days and is so embarrassed by what happened. She offers to pay for any needed dry cleaning, and we, still in good humor, laugh off the incident as another example of our collective ridiculousness come to life.

More on This Circumstance Later

After she leaves, we see that garlic bread has somehow made it to our table ("I didn't notice this appearing." "They snuck it in while you were being attacked.") 

A Small Consolation After the Soup Monsoon

The bread is tasty enough -- it's garlic bread, after all, and fairly difficult to screw up. Similarly, our soups are good, but rather beside the point at this juncture (and Vodka is confused as to why her gumbo doesn't feature rice, unless Marvin dumped that somewhere else in the dining room.)

Our 57th New Orleans Loaf of Bread

A different waiter approaches and, pointing to Vodka's empty sazerac glass, asks if she'd care for a glass of wine.

"I'd care for a Tide pen," she quips under her breath, while settling for a glass of rose. 

Thankfully, Marvin Does Not Serve Our Entrees

It's important to know that throughout these proceedings, a portion of our general cheeriness is stemming from the fact that we are downright certain our bill is about to be discounted. After all, Vodka got doused in gumbo at a place that we have been told repeatedly is "renowned for their service" -- they're at least going to throw in this glass of rose for free.

Or at the Very Least, a Tide Pen

Therefore, we remain in fine spirits through our entrees, which are okay, but not overwhelmingly stellar. Vodka ends up leaving half of her filet behind, and not only because this is our fourth meal of the day. 

Just Not That Into It

Now, it is finally time for the main event: the bread pudding souffle that is apparently such an ordeal that customers are required to order it at the beginning of their meals so that the kitchen has ample time to prepare it.

Ordeal in a Ramekin

The bread pudding souffle arrives, and a new server cracks the surface and pours in a portion of the accompanying sauce.

It Seems Marvin's Pouring Privileges Have Been Revoked for the Evening

We dig in our spoons eagerly and wait for the magic to hit our taste buds.

And we keep right on waiting.

Any Day Now, the Majesty Will Hit

The souffle is, well, it is not great. It's not even remotely good. The bread pudding portion itself has very little flavor, while the accompanying sauce reeks, both in taste and in smell, of alcohol. Like, of straight, rubbing alcohol. It is off-putting to say the least.

From Now On, Keep the Booze in Our Cocktail Glasses, Thanks

There are also unidentifiable crunchy bits throughout the concoction, or at least Vodka finds one.

"Does it have pecans?"

"What, there's nothing crunchy."

"I got something crunchy."

"Maybe you lost a tooth."

Talk About a Rough Night at Commander's Palace

We are unimpressed by the souffle but not hostile about it. No, the hostility does not strike until we receive our bill, and find that nothing -- NOTHING -- has been comped. Not a cocktail, not the dessert, NOT EVEN THE GUMBO THAT GOT POURED ON VODKA'S LAP.

WHAT IS THIS INJUSTICE?

Renowned for your service indeed, Commander's Palace!

Not wishing to end our final hours in New Orleans engaged in an epic battle, Vodka sets her mouth into a firm line but keeps it closed, and we pay the bill without (public) complaint. Overall, for us, Commander's Palace had the distinct honor of feeling like a restaurant that is trying too hard with too little results. But our time in the Big Easy is dwindling and we don't want to waste it away belaboring the place's faults.

There Is Only One Solution to This Problem, and Its Name is Gnocchi

So instead, we set off for a return trip to Restaurant August, where the gnocchi is scrumptious, the desserts are free, and no one is throwing gumbo at us. And once we dive back into the pasta whose crab mercifully remains in its bowl, all is once again right in the world of New Orleans.

Commander's Palace Creole Bread Pudding Souffle: 2 stars

Off the Map: Bread Pudding with a Side of Rum(my)

Bread Pudding -- Mother's Restaurant, New Orleans, LA

Mother's Restaurant

If you need a surefire sign that you look like a tourist who does not know the ways of the local sandwich shop, it is when you enter the place and immediately get a menu thrust in your hand and a pointing finger indicating where you should order.

Thank You, Yes, We Are In Fact Idiots

This is how we are greeted, not unkindly, when we arrive at Mother's Restaurant for Sunny Anderson's Best Thing I Ever Ate GUILTY PLEASURE, the bread pudding. 

Wall of... "Fame"?

Along with the dessert, we are also each buying a po boy to consume during our early morning flights the next day: shrimp for Whiskey Sour (to properly compare to the Domilise variety) and roast beef for Vodka.

Because Nothing Say "Bon Voyage" Like the TSA Patting Down Your Sandwich

While we arrive to a relatively empty restaurant, a sizable crowd enters right after us, making us even more pleased to skedaddle out clutching our po boys and bread pudding in the direction of the nearest bar.

No Offense, Mother's, but We Only Have a Few Hours of Day Drinking Left

We settle down in the lobby of a hotel and, after grabbing some afternoon cocktails, hoist the bread pudding out of the bag in an attempt to at least try it while it's still warm. 

Instagram-Worthy Plating?

In truth, we are not optimistic about this enterprise, as neither of us are overly fond of bread pudding, and Mother's version does not look particularly appetizing. 

Bread Pudding Is the Snaggletooth of Desserts

Reluctantly, we stick our utensils into the plastic container and raise them unenthusiastically into our mouths.

"Hmph. It's not bad," Whiskey Sour notes with a distinct tone of surprise.

It, at the Very Least, Is Better Than It Looks

Indeed, of the (very few) bread puddings we have tried in our lives, this is some of the best: the bread is light, the sauce isn't too sweet, and the whole conglomeration isn't very sticky. After expecting to toss the majority of it in the trash, we end up polishing off the entire container.

A Spoonful of Bread Pudding Makes the Sazeracs Go Down

In contrast, we do not find the po boys anywhere near the level of those found at Domilise's. But the bread pudding, while enjoyed with a side of sazerac and a game of rummy, is an unexpected delight.

Come for the Rum, Stay for the Rummy

Not a delight we feel the need to ever consume again, but a delight nonetheless.

Mother's Restaurant's Bread Pudding: 3 stars