Saint-Germain

Disclaimer: I am a coastal elite. I do not claim to be an expert on anything except being a little foofy bitch.

I don't know shit about New Orleans, and I never will (see disclaimer), but, according to Doug, our Voodoo tour guide, Congo Square is where enslaved Africans congregated on their "days off" (Sundays and holidays) to practice the rituals they brought with them. They did so right under their enslaver’s noses, and their music, food, and art spread like blood pumping through the heart of this country, giving us our culture we take for granted today.

**It is also a place where people talk.**

"Whatever you do, don't drink the tap water," my Uber told me unprompted on the way back to The Roosevelt.

"What if I already did?" I said.

"Well..." he said with the inflection one gives after your mom calls gives a scammer her social security number. "Not much you can do about it now."

I had drunk the tap water at Saint-Germain, a Michelin-starred restaurant I chose to patronize for my first night here on my bachelor party. I wanted to start my trip off with a cannonball into the rich, cultural pool this city has to offer.

"More like cesspool," later said my Uber driver. "Yeah we have good food and music and stuff, but we're basically a third-world country."

I wouldn't have thought that sitting at the bar, taking my first sips of Parmesan broth.

It must have simmered over low heat for a long, gentle time to be as velvety as it was – or maybe Parm was gradually added to a roux in the beginning, which was then thinned out with stock bit by bit. My vesper is garnished with lemon, lime, and orange peel. The champagne I'm drinking is minerally and dry.

I'm not sure how much time I have at the bar, but if time is a river it's one that moves slowly. The idea here behind this converted old house is to start off at the bar for a few bites (eaten in one bite literally) and then "progress” into the dining room for a series of courses (like 2-4 bites I would say). Fäviken (RIP) comes to mind, which fascinated me for a time. Savory honey and goat cheese ice cream is served in a tiny ice cream cone with a drop of caviar on top – a not-so-subtle nod to Keller. A trio of "Tacos" in quotes functions as elevated Tex-Mex, hard-shell crunch with nasturtium garnish.

I don’t remember what the other ones were tbh…

I’m here alone on my bachelor party. Not permanently, the friends are coming tomorrow, but I got to New Orleans early to have more time for this.

The bartender, who Chris and I would affectionally brand a “Big-Titty Goth Girl” (has nothing to do with breast size or Goth appearance), refills my first pour of champagne. I wasn't going to do the wine pairing until she told me it was about 4-5 glasses – which I only realized later is an entire bottle of wine. I wanted to joke with her about it, her demeanor pleasant and lipstick bright red. Not too long ago when I was making the same motions and feigning sparkles in my eyes, perhaps I would have bummed her for cigarettes after polishing the last of her coupe glasses – we would have gotten hammered at Saturn across the street where we’d always swear we’d never go to but always end up anyway. But alas, I’m on the other side of the bar now, and I must respect the sacred barrier.

A man slides down the bar with a dramatic box of truffles, repeating his spiel verbatim for each guest. They are summer truffles, he explains. They are generally less desirable than the more robust varieties available in the fall, but in this case they are "unique for their milder flavor." I opt for them of course; they shall reappear some time later in the meal. After tare-dressed crudo and flatbread with foie, I'm railroaded into the next room, my cute little table awaiting in the corner.

Performative cookbooks adorn the walls. A staff member flips records on the working record player. Biscuit-y bread is served with a dollop of butter and the truffles are shaved on Béarnaise-covered fish. The dish's beigeness is unburdened by a small side of peas and Iberico, perky in a pool of orange aioli. It’s widely known that Louisiana has a French colonial history, but the ham is no doubt a reference to Louisiana’s brief time as a Spanish colony. Both dishes presented side by side have unique flavors on their own, but when eaten together each one brings something out in the other – the fish’s sweetness, local Atlantic tripletail just as delicate as turbot, is cut by the salty, crispy Iberico; aioli blends harmoniously with the augmented hollandaise. They create something new while being true to themselves.

A large sliding door reveals hints of a well-oiled kitchen, brightly-lit with daylight fluorescents. The somm arrives with my next white. Surprisingly, it’s from Broc Cellars, he recites, a short drive away from my Oakland home. While I know that Michelin wine programs are judged harshly and Louisiana isn’t a “celebrated wine-region,” I can’t help but notice that all the wine and food is a harkening to somewhere else.

"Oh it's become a tourist town," said the Uber driver who took me to Saint-Germain. "I don't mind the changes, but a lot of people do."

The heartier courses arrive: duck schnitzel served with a side of cold potato salad; textbook, preternaturally-grilled squab served with a "normal" Caesar. I don't remember what dessert tasted like because I was already a bottle plus a vesper in, but I remember a orchid-root ice cream sandwich, a hearty cheese soufflé, and smashing a graham cracker crust of an upside-down key lime pie. After paying, I asked the somm where one might find cigarettes nearby. He looked at me for the first time and told me to walk to a liquor store a block away. I passed a buzzy cocktail bar that was giving Logan Square or the Mission or Bed-Stuy – don't get me wrong I'd have gone in in a heartbeat if I hadn't had my fill (I have my limits believe it or not). I plopped down on my bed in one of NOLA's most storied hotels, now part of the premiere line of a mega-corporate brand, my belly full of French and Spanish and Japanese “influences” that are also found in other Michelin-starred restaurants, without a greater understanding of what New Orleans cuisine is like.

In bed, I stumble on my phone to look up the namesake of Saint-Germain: a 6th century bishop of Paris known as the “father of the poor,” he was also pivotal in squashing pagan practices like tree-worship in then Celtic Gaul. Jaques St. Germain was also an early twentieth-century NOLA aristocrat and alleged vampire who kept a trove of wine bottles filled with blood. He would draw this blood from women’s necks, taking their livelihoods along with it.

Perhaps I do have a greater understanding of what New Orleans cuisine is actually like. New Orleans tastes like the rest of the world.

Disclaimer: I am a coastal elite. I do not claim to be an expert on anything except being a little foofy bitch.

Dooky Chase