Creole Bread Pudding Souffle -- Commander's Palace, New Orleans, LA
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment