ROAD TRIP USA 2010: ARRIVING IN THE BIG EASY

"New Orleans food is as delicious as the less criminal forms of sin."
— Mark Twain


Just in case anyone is wondering, the first picture is of the world’s largest rocking chair and was taken in Gulfport, Mississippi. So now you know.

Thankfully there were relatively few bleats about the last road trip post. Even so, those who were tempted to complain that there was not enough about food in it will be surely be happy with this latest post as our final stop of the extraordinary Road Trip USA 2010 was in the best eatin’ city in the whole of the USA, New Orleans, Louisiana.

New Orleans may not have the variety of its two northern siblings, Chicago and New York, but when it comes to offering delicious things to eat and drink on every corner, few cities even come close to The Crescent City. Much of this, of course, is because of the influence of its original Spanish and then French owners, who left a legacy of energy in the city, which is still tangible today. The people of New Orleans strive to have a good time all the time and it is almost impossible for the visitor not to get caught up in the spirit of the place and join in.

After the long drive from Montgomery, we handed over our keys to the valet and headed straight out for our first drink of the day. One of the real pleasures of my recently adopted mantra “Go Everywhere, Eat Everything” is that I have met some amazing people along the way, many of whom have become good friends.

On my last visit to NOLA, I was lucky enough to be shown around the city by Chris McMillian and his lovely wife, Laura. The few hours I spent with him eating, drinking his incomparable Sazeracs and visiting districts blighted by Katrina were some of the most memorable of my whole year long trip and stayed with me so much that I based my chapter on the city around him.

He is a fourth generation New Orleans bartender and is now managing Bar Uncommon at The Pere Marquette Hotel, a few short blocks from where we were staying. No sooner were we propping up the bar than Chris was pouring his latest creation for us to sample. He is well know for his take on “New Orleans in a glass” the Sazerac, and has taken it one step further by combining it with the classic Kir Royale, this time replacing the cassis with rye whiskey, sugar, Peychaud bitters and Herbsaint.

It is a delicious drink, but a wickedly powerful one and it took a long stroll around the French quarter to clear my head in time for supper at Dickie Brennan’s Steakhouse. We had been craving a decent slab of beef for the whole trip and while this was by no means the best steak I have tried in the US, it was certainly not the worst saw us off to sleep after our first night in one of my favourite US cities.

The Sazerac Royal added to the wine we poured down our throats with supper meant that the journey along the winding roads to Baton Rouge the next morning was an interesting one. Meaning that I almost had ask Neal on more than one occasion to stop the car so I could bring up all of Mr. McMillians hard work all over the reconstructed levy. Fortunately, by the time we had reached our destination, The Oak Leaf Plantation, I was feeling a little recovered and was able to join Neal on the tour without fear of any unfortunate “middle aged man hurls vomit over college girl dressed as plantation mistress” scenarios taking place.

Oak Leaf Plantation was one of thousands of farms that lined the Mississippi in the 18th and 19th Century and had only been owned by three families since it the main house was first constructed. Despite the beauty of the grounds and the house, there was something morally repelling about the fact it was all constructed on the misery of the 93 field and 25 house slaves and we spent little time wandering the grounds, preferring instead to go in search of a quick lunch at Baton Rouge institution, Mike’s Seafood. Like the meal the previous night, that too was adequate rather than memorable, but at least Neal got to try his first taste of deep fried ‘gator.

We returned to New Orleans in time to freshen up and head off to one of my favourite restaurants in the whole wide world. There are few places that make me genuinely happy when I eat there. Upper Line is one of them. I posted about it after my first visit back in 2007 and I have been craving a return ever since. It was not just the food that I wanted to experience again, but also the force of nature that is owner, Joanne Clevenger. During my first visit, I had been astonished at the energy this amazing woman displayed as she greeted every guest as they entered, waved them goodbye as they left and kept them entertained as they ate. I was thrilled to see she had lost none of her stamina as she worked the room like Sinatra in Vegas.

I am glad to say that the food was just as good as I remember it. Sweetbreads in Sherry, fried green tomatoes with shrimp remoulade, Oysters "St. Claude", roast duck with two sauces, pan seared drum with lump crabmeat and rib sticking desserts of Pecan pie and Bread Pudding. It was easily the best meal of the trip so far. I had written about Joanne and Upper Line in my New Orleans chapter of Eat My Globe and, in return, she refused any offer of payment, only agreeing when I handed her over the equivalent of the cost of our meal to put in the tip jar.

It was a typical gesture of a true New Orleans one off and confirmed my fondness for her. We rolled back to the hotel knowing had two more days of great food ahead of us.

I love this city.

GOODMAN CITY: BENNY AND (EVEN) MORE BEEF

As far back as I can remember my answer to one of those “what would your last meal be?” type of question has always been the same: oysters to start; a big steak, cooked rare; chips; a big bowl of ice cream to finish. There would probably be some red (red) wine and a strong double espresso in there as well.

Some oh-so-witty readers seem to think I eat steak at every other meal. These people obviously don’t read the blog regularly as I eat at least as much fish as meat and of the times I do order something carnivorous it’s very rarely a steak.

There’s a simple reason for this. Many places don’t do steak very well. They’re either not cooked properly or the meat isn’t of decent quality. They might be stupidly thin or not rested enough. I’m more likely to wander along to O’Sheas in Knightsbridge to buy a hunk of beef and take it home to prepare myself. The advantage is that it’s cheaper and I can cook it just so. The downside is that it’s a faff to do all the side dishes that are good to have with a steak, like proper chips and a wobbly Béarnaise.

Lucky, then that a new branch of one our favourite steakhouses, Goodman, has opened in the City not ten minutes walk away. It’s roughly the same distance to our other favourite, Hawksmoor, who are also opening a new gaff later in the year.

I’m not really in favour of chains, but that’s more to with most of them being money-grabbing rip-offs. I’ll make an exception in the case of Goodman and that’s because of the main men there, FOH David Strauss and Head Chef John Cadieux - two people who actually care about what they do.

Ever since our first visit almost two years ago they have always looked to improve Goodman with the result that its Mayfair branch is packed every night. This new venture feels something like a culmination of all the effort they’ve put in. When I visited it had only just come out of a few days of soft opening but pretty much seemed the finished article to me and dare I say it even better than it’s elder sister.

It’s a pretty large, cavenernous place and I wondered at first if the back of the restaurant where I was seated was a bit of a Siberia. In fact it turned out to be a much better location given that the front section by the bar is quite noisy and I is quite old, innit? Let the kids have their fun while they can, eh? Little gits.

Service was very on the ball so not long after sitting down I was sipping a glass of prosecco and deciding what steak to have, which is the only really important decision you should need to make in a steak restaurant. The rest is just small talk.

I decided straight away to go off-piste with 1kg of O’Shea Porterhouse, aged for 45 days. I then had a little discussion with my waiter about how I wanted it cooked. My (slightly) alcohol-fuelled cooking directions didn’t seem to phase him at all and off he went to translate my ramblings for the kitchen.

Goodman’s starter list has expanded quite impressively since my last visit and you could probably construct a decent meal from those alone. The Beechwood Smoked Salmon from Frank Hederman though is the one to go for. It’s not cheap but it is of excellent quality. Thick cut and served with little discs of pickled beetroot, a splurge of cream cheese and a sprinkling of dill, it’s rich but has quite a subtle smoke taste. A little goes a long way.

I was somewhat nervous before my steak arrived. Thoughts like “what if they’ve ballsed it up?” flashed through my head. Of course I needn’t have worried. It was cooked perfectly. How I cook my own steaks, in fact.

This behemoth had a beautiful char on it (Note. this does not mean burnt) and had been rested so that it was an even colour within. The great thing about the meat from O’Shea, I’ve always found, is that it has a very clean taste. It’s beefy, sure, and the ageing is evident too but nothing dominates.

I know when a steak is good because I don’t need anything to complement it - the petit pot of Dijon mustard remained untouched throughout the meal. Almost a kilo of beef later and I didn’t feel unpleasantly stuffed and more crucially didn’t suffer from my usual bout of meat-induced indigestion later on.

Wanting to make decent inroads into the Porterhouse I only had a small sampling of the sides but enough to note some great chips. They were a little on the lardy side but had been cooked to give a good, proper crunch. Even better when dunked greedily into an exemplary Béarnaise sauce.

After a suitable break and I went for the HP pudding du jour – of every jour – a selection of Ice Creams, which were pretty good as well. I even had room for a little digestif.

As I drained the last of my Grappa I pondered upon life, the universe and everything and thought that if I was to be struck by lightning on my way home I would die a very happy man indeed. If Goodman can keep the standard up – and there’s no reason to think they can’t – then this will be my go-to place when I want that classic last meal.

Anyway, I now look forward to rivals Hawksmoor’s new offering. The gauntlet has been thrown down, guys. Now it’s your turn.

ROAD TRIP USA 2010: ALABAMY BOUND (VIA ARKANSAS & MISSISSIPPI)

One of the more odd aspects of writing a blog, particularly one that has been going for a while, is the sense of entitlement that many of the readers seem to develop.

“Why aren’t your pictures bigger” They squeal?

“Why don’t you have a search function?” They implore.

And on and on and on and on.

Our usual response is a gentle but firm suggestion that they should go and insert their heads up their own rectums and, that if they are so concerned by the failings of DH, they should stop reading and set up their own blogs. For the record, we have never, don’t now and never will care what anyone else thinks about the blog.

The clue’s in the strap line.

“It’s not much, but it’s ours”

Why am I banging on about this now? Because, some of the most regular comments I receive are when post about my travels and people feel the need to complain that there are not enough food shots and too much of the other stuff I see along the way.

“This is supposed to be a food blog” they helpfully remind me.

Well, they are going to kittens over this particular post, because, there are precious few mentions of good food contained within. There’s a very good reason for that and that's because, during our journey from Tennessee through Arkansas to Alabama, there was precious good food to be found.

There was plenty of “Q, of course with inviting looking shacks littering the highways and byways as we drove over a thousand miles. But (and I may never use these words ever, ever again) a man can only eat so much BBQ, and after our double dosage in Memphis, I was all ‘Q’d out. Thankfully, if there was not much good food to be found, there were plenty of other things to keep me occupied while I wondered about the source of the next half decent meal.

We left Memphis and headed south towards Arkansas. After a three or so hour drive we pulled up in the small town of Hot Springs, which is famous for two things. One is being the former home of President Billy Jeff Clinton. The other is for being the source of the restorative natural hot springs, which give the town its name. It reminded us of a British seaside resort which has fallen out of favour. It was obvious that it had once been a fairly prosperous town, but now most of the hotels looked worn and shabby and most of the famed bathhouses on Bathhouse Row had been turned into museums. Fortunately, a few remained and Neal and I spent a couple of hours soaking in tubs of increasingly hot mineral water until we resembled California prunes.

We had made a decision at the start of the trip to try and find some more unusual places to spend the night. Which is why, as the sun began to sink over the Arkansas horizon, we pulled into the Bar Fifty Ranch near Bismarck. For the princely sum of $45 for the two of us, the owners allowed us to stay in one of a row of rooms used by the cowboys, which had communal bathing facilities and a stunning view over the two thousand acre ranch.

Not that we had much chance to enjoy it as we had set our sights on an early start and by 7.30am the next morning, Bar Fifty was little but a fond memory and a view in the rear view mirror of our Chevy Malibu.

Next stop was the poorest state of The Union and the home of the Delta Blues, Mississippi. To be more exact, Clarksdale Mississippi, the town that John Lee Hooker, Ike & Tina Turner and Robert Johnson called home and also the town where the aforementioned Mr. J is reputed to have sold his soul to “he who walks backwards in return for some serious skills on the guitar.

En route from Arkansas to Mississippi, we pulled off the highway for breakfast (“hurrah” shout the food blog fans) Southern breakfasts are a quirky affair. Some aspects, the eggs and bacon, make perfect sense. Others, like grits, are quite frankly some crazy mixed up shit to be serving a normal person in the morning. I know that they are akin to polenta, but I wouldn’t want to eat that at 7am either and certainly not mixed with butter and sugar. Much more to my liking were plates of biscuits (very much like a UK scone) topped with sausage gravy. In any event, along with some juice and pots of good coffee for Neal and at $7 a pop, it was filling enough to make sure we were not going to thnk about food until supper time.

Which gave us plenty of chance to concentrate on Clarksdale’s main attraction, The Delta Blues Museum, which featured lots of portraits of the men who invented The Blues and lots of pictures of men who claim to have invented the blues. There is another huge prize for the person who can identify the song from which the lyrics in picture #12 are taken.

Our accommodation for the night was organised by Neal. The Shack Up Inn is an old plantation that has become a destination for travellers who want to skip the usual motels and stay in its battered old shacks fashioned from the homes of former sharecroppers. It was air conditioned, at least and certainly made a difference from the XX INN, with their thin sheets and equally thin walls. However, I am still bearing the scars of all the huge bites a variety of interesting insects took out of my so sweet flesh that evening.

Dinner that evening was in what appeared to be the only decent restaurant in town. Madida is part owned by Hollywood star and Allenesque philanderer, Morgan Freeman. The menu is an odd mix of southern staples along with French influenced dishes that showcase the chef’s time spent at restaurants in Avignon. Madida provided a very decent meal indeed, including a particularly memorable plate of frogs legs, but at prices that would be more suitable to Manhattan than to a town where they appear to be still saving to buy the one horse.

After dinner we headed up the street to the Ground Zero Blues Bar, also, I think co-owned by Mr Freeman. It was a night where local “talent” could take the stage and show us what they could or couldn’t do. One woman who styled her self as “Heavy Sugar” thought she was Janis Joplin. She wasn’t, so after two gassy beers, we headed back to the Shack Up Inn to compare insect bites.

Another early start the next morning saw us leave Mississippi and hit the road for Alabama. We had chosen as our destination, Montgomery, for one reason only. In 1955, a 42 year old woman, Rosa Parks declined to give up her seat on a segregated bus when requested to do so by a white bus driver. She was arrested and taken to jail. It was a minor, peaceful action which had enormous consequences and which led to this unassuming woman becoming “The Mother of The Civil Rights Movement”.

On the sight where she was arrested, Troy University have worked with local donors to build a library and a small but moving exhibition. The forty minutes we spent in there reading the story of the Montgomery Bus boycott that followed Rosa Park’s actions were some of the most enjoyable of the trip and we both admitted to wiping more than one tear away when we walked back out into the sunshine of the empty downtown streets.

So, as I threatened, there was not much food in this post. But, I make no apologies as there was not much food to be had. However, the trip through the deep south was definitely worth the effort for the sights, the people and to pay homage to the actions of one small, brave African American woman who changed the world.

I can promise all the bleaters that there is plenty more good food to come in the next few posts because, we are off to the best eatin’ city in the whole of the USA.

New Orleans here we come.