dining with bacchus

Brian Landry of Galatoire's

Brian Landry may just be the boldest chef in America.  I don't mean bold in the sense that he challenges his diners to eat unconventional dishes like butterscotch-coated bacon or passion fruit sponge between swirls of dehydrated prosciutto. Those foods have actually been served at American restaurants, but they won't be found on the menu at Galatoire's, the famous New Orleans establishment that first opened its doors on Bourbon Street over 100 years ago.

In 2006, the not yet thirty-year-old Landry took up the reins as Executive Chef at this venerable institution with its established menu and many long-time patrons whose expectations were set long before Landry even began cooking. That's a pretty bold career move.  There is no sign that the young chef feels any pressure, however, as I pepper him with questions from my perch in one of the better people-watching seats in Galatoire's main dining room.  He clearly knows his stuff and has confidence in the support he gets from his colleagues and staff. I ask him if this is a job he always aspired to.

Not at all, he tells me.  After graduating from Jesuit High School in New Orleans, he accepted a full scholarship to the University of Alabama where he earned degrees in biology and philosophy.  The biology courses were part of his pre-med curriculum, and he got interested in deductive logic and then in more advanced subfields like the philosophy of science, philosophy of mind, and neurophilosophy.  I remember enough of my own education in logic to embarrass myself if given an opening, and it's clear that the chef still has a passion for the subject.  Mercifully, my starter arrives before I demonstrate just how much I've forgotten about deductive reasoning.

The appetizer is the Galatoire Gouté—samples of three popular cold dishes: Shrimp Remoulade, Crabmeat Maison, and Crawfish Maison.  I ordinarily prefer one appetizer to such a sampler and, left on my own, I probably would have dedicated my attention to the restaurant's famous Shrimp Remoulade.  But the crabmeat and crawfish dishes are at least as good as the shrimp, and I'm glad the chef introduced me to them.

Landry trained with highly-regarded chefs in New Orleans, including René Bajeaux, Gerard Maras, and Kevin Vizard, and he worked under Bob Waggoner at the famous Charleston Grill.  He also earned an associates degree in culinary arts from Johnson & Wales University.  I ask him what he learned in school that he wasn't learning on the job.  He says he had picked up great cooking techniques from very talented chefs, but that the great value in culinary school was learning why things happened to food when it was subjected to different processes.

Galatoire's was temporarily shuttered after Katrina hit New Orleans in 2005.  The owners soon opened Galatoire's Bistro in Baton Rouge, and Landry, who had been working at other New Orleans restaurants before the storm, went to work at the new restaurant upriver.  The flagship restaurant reopened at New Years and within six months Landry was appointed Executive Chef for both restaurants. He spends 3-4 days each week at both restaurants, usually covering lunch at one and dinner at the other.  On Fridays he can usually be found in New Orleans where the lunch service is very busy, sometimes even rolling seamlessly into the dinner service.

When Landry took the helm at Galatoire's he already knew most of the staff.  In fact, when he started at Galatoire's Bistro he had enjoyed having many of the same professionals along for the ride.  It was a new restaurant but with some very experienced employees: many had come from the New Orleans restaurant.  (And, like Landry, many of them were dealing with the same post-Katrina hassles of relocating and rebuilding.)  Galatoire's Bistro had even adopted all of the original restaurants signature dishes. Perhaps because change was in the air, the new menu also added a number of innovations as well.

It's my turn to try out a Landry dish that debuted in Baton Rouge: the Duck Crepe, a savory crepe of roasted duck and homemade boursin cheese with a port-cherry reduction and pistachios.  It's a delicious dish, especially coming behind the cold Gouté.  I need a question that requires a lengthy answer so the chef can talk while I concentrate on polishing off the last of the sauce with the last bite of crepe, so I ask Landry about one challenge of leading the kitchen of such a venerable restaurant: how does he get to exercise his creative impulses?

The chef says he has ample opportunity to innovate.  For one thing, he gets to try out new dishes, like my duck crepe, in Baton Rouge. Also, while Galatoire's serves escargot in garlic and butter, the new restaurant introduced escargot in a garlic-herbsaint cream with herbs, served in a puff pastry shell. Other dishes that first appeared on the Galatoire's Bistro menu—like the Roasted Duck and the Foie Gras appetizer—proved so popular that they were added to the repertoire in New Orleans. Yet even the innovations have to fit in with Galatoire's customary themes.  And some foods that the chef likes to cook—or eat, as is the case with one of his favorite dishes, duck confit—will probably not make it on to the Galatoire's menu because they depart too much from the restaurant's traditions.

Landry can also innovate and cook food that diverges from the restaurant menu because his team participates in so many special events.  On many of these occasions, he writes a menu built around slow-cooking techniques because he knows how many people he's cooking for and when the food will be served.  Two or three days before an event, he'll start cooking pork ribs or veal cheeks and other dishes that take a lot of time.  Interestingly, he says that the difference in styles—Galatoire's a la minute menu vs. slow-cooking recipes on the event menus—wasn't something he consciously pursued: he realized that he had been emphasizing slow-cooking only after looking back at what he had been serving.

The chef's experience with Galatoire's a la minute cooking served him well at the recent Louisiana Seafood Cook-Off. Landry and sous chef Heather Young took the first place prize for their Sautéed Cobia with Louisiana Crab Butter. Contestants had to use Louisiana seafood, and they had only one hour to do all preparations.

Landry is fan of cobia, which is frequently a fresh fish featured at both of his restaurants, so that element was easy.  The sauce is the inspired part.  It starts with using a mallet to crush several Louisiana whole gumbo crabs—good food isn't all subtle techniques: sometimes brute force is necessary, too. That's the last step in the recipe that the lay-cook will have no trouble with: after that, it's all talent, technique, and timing.

As reigning King of Louisiana Seafood, Landry will represent the state at the Great American Seafood Cook-Off (GASCO) in August.  He tells me he might again cook the dish that won the Louisiana Seafood Cook-Off.  (Why mess with success?)

While we're on the subject of seafood, Landry tells a story on himself about learning to order it for Galatoire's.  He had been ordering the seafood for the Baton Rouge restaurant for months, so it was only a matter of finding out the quantities required at the Bourbon Street restaurant.  He got together with his sous chef on the first day and asked him about the typical order of crabmeat.  His colleague told him that 90 pounds ought to do it.  Landry asked: How long will that last?  The reply: Oh, that'll get us through the first day and into lunch.  The chef is now laughing as he tells me that he had no idea that the one restaurant could serve that much crabmeat.  He asked about the shrimp order.  Again, after the reply, he asked how long that would last. One day, the sous chef told him. More laughter: he's still amazed at these quantities.

And that's when I get my own lesson in Galatoire's seafood: I'm served the biggest soft-shell crab I've ever eaten ... and I've eaten quite a few of them.  It's fried and served in a meunière amandine sauce.  The crab is not only the biggest one I've eaten but also the best.  (When I play back the interview, there's a long stretch at this point with only my silverware clicking against the plate.  I hope that this silence is when the chef momentarily turned away to chat with one of his fish purveyors who happened to be dining in the restaurant, but I worry that I might have just stopped asking questions to concentrate on my crab.) Amazingly, the normal serving size for this dish is two crabs.

I'm so thoroughly satisfied with my meal that I decline dessert.  Both waiter and chef shoot me a brief look of incredulity for passing on something sweet to cap off this excellent meal.  I flash back to Landry's earlier comment about how he's rarely hungry while he's working and tasting soups and sauces, but that he can be ravenous moments after walking out into the fresh air.  Maybe talking so much about food while eating has the same effect.

Chef Landry is due at the Baton Rouge restaurant soon, so I say my thanks, wish him well in the GASCO competition, and bid my good-byes.  I step out on to Bourbon Street wondering how soon I'll regret having passed on that dessert.

For menus, hours of service, and reservations contact information, visit the websites for Galatoire's and Galatoire's Bistro.

© Marshal Zeringue

Thomas Wolfe of Peristyle

When he was still a student in the Delgado Culinary Arts program, Chef Thomas Wolfe applied for a job in the kitchen of Mr. B's Bistro in New Orleans' French Quarter.  And he did so with what he now admits was an inflated résumé. He got the job and, impressed with his background, Mr. B's put him on the front sauté station.  That's not a leap from the frying pan into the fire: it's more like, "Young man, here's the fire—you  and your frying can hop right into it."

Wolfe didn't realize how busy Mr. B's could get, and he says they "wore the green off me pretty quickly." He frequently found himself doing "the one foot chicken dance"—standing on one leg and going around in circles looking for what he had just cooked.  He learned a lot...and learned it fast.  And he praises his Mr. B's boss, Chef Gerard Maras, who is "fantastic with his knowledge of cooking."

Wolfe is now Executive Chef and Proprietor of the restaurants Wolfe's in the Warehouse and the famous Peristyle, where he and I meet a few hours before the dinner crowd arrives.  Wolfe bought Peristyle from award-winning chef Anne Kearney in May 2004; a year later he opened Wolfe's in the Warehouse in the New Orleans Marriott at the Convention Center.

The anecdote about his early experience at Mr. B's reveals one of the chef's very agreeable traits: while he evinces no lack of confidence in his talent, he is always quick to credit those from whom he has learned—and borrowed.

Wolfe cooked at Mr. B's from 1989 until he left for a job at Emeril's in 1992. It was "an amazing experience working at Emeril's...you learned every day in the kitchen."  He stayed at Emeril's for eight years and worked every single station, including pastry (because the pastry chef worked Monday through Friday only and the other cooks had to cover for him).  He says he doesn't consider himself a pastry chef and thinks it's one of his weaker areas.  That admission surprises me: Peristyle is well-known for the White Chocolate Butter Bars, a dessert that Wolfe developed using his mother's recipe.

At Emeril's "the competition in the kitchen was genuine and the friendships were genuine."  He worked with a number of line cooks who would go on to become nationally-recognized chefs.  The roster includes: Michael Jordan, now one of the hottest chefs in Las Vegas; John Neal, who went on to open Peristyle; Anne Kearney, who took over Peristyle when Neal died; and Joel Dondis, who eventually became sous chef at Emeril's and now runs his own fine dining catering and event-planning firm in New Orleans.

When I ask Wolfe about his favorite station, he doesn't hesitate: "Sauté," he says, "because it allows for more finesse and 'a la minute' cooking, and more opportunity to work with pan sauces."  His preference for sauté is reflected in his menu, and he tells me that all chefs tend to write their menus to emphasize a favored station.  He likes to offer dishes that call for more intricate technique at sauté.  And he says the sauté chefs at Peristyle know they "have to put their seatbelts on...they have to be ready"—they need to know "a lot about the temperature of the pans, control of the heat, what kind of oil they're using, and things like how hot you can heat extra virgin olive oil."

Perhaps it is modesty, but Wolfe quickly adds that these challenges at sauté don't mean that other stations are any easier. For example, although pantry chefs don't deal with heat as much, they have to prepare both salads and desserts. Therefore their hands are always "dirty" with oil and vinegar, and yet it's a station that calls for clean hands and a clean work area.

I mention that the Peristyle menu struck me for its many interesting combinations of ingredients.  Wolfe laughs a little and admits that while he used to have a tendency to put too many components together in one dish, he has long since "learned [his] lesson and calmed down a bit." He explains that it is more challenging to find a unified flavor from many ingredients than from just a couple—the more you add on, the more you have to know to bring them together—and then, rapid-fire, offers an example of his point:

"We know that mushrooms and celery go together...and that scallops and mushrooms and celery go together.  We know that if we add veal stock to the scallops, mushrooms and celery, then all of that will go well together.  You can finish that up with a little butter to tone down the veal stock...and if you add a little truffle oil, you bridge the gap between the sauce and the mushrooms."  It sounds so simple when he puts it like that, yet it is a revelation to me.

What doesn't sound simple at all is his famous Slow Roasted Cane Syrup Duck (pictured, right), and I ask for the story behind it.  The idea for the dish came from Emeril's where they served a similar version which "was good, like all the food over there," Wolfe says, "but I always disagreed with how they did it." So he took the idea and developed it when he had his own restaurant.  He explains that his duck preparation is akin to the Peking method "adapted to a Louisiana contemporary creole style."  It takes four days to prepare.

On the first day a kind of pastrami cure is applied to the duck: the bird is treated with seasonings including black pepper, juniper berries, and cayenne, and the cavity is packed with herbs like tarragon.  Then it's packed in a salt and sugar mixture.  On day two, all those seasonings are brushed off and the duck gets a brief bath in white vinegar—just until the goose pimples come out on the skin. After a turn in the hot poaching liquid, the duck is put in a cold Steen cane syrup brine where it sits for 24 hours.  The bird is pulled out of the brine on the third day and the herbs are removed from the cavity.  The duck is patted dry and put in the walk-in cooler where it is exposed to the air and dried for 24 hours. On the fourth day the duck gets roasted.

Wolfe says it is difficult to time and track the process and make sure the ducks are ready every week, but that his crew knows better than to run out of such a popular menu item.  "Major trouble," he laughs.  I remark on the time and energy that goes into this one dish.  "Great food takes time," says the chef with a little shrug.

Of all the people you have worked with, I ask, who is your favorite chef?  Wolfe pauses thoughtfully, so I throw in—"Or you can tell me your least favorite chef...that might well make for an even more interesting story."  He doesn't take the bait. Instead he tells me that Chef Bernard Carmouche, the first chef de cuisine he worked under at Emeril's, is probably his favorite.  Carmouche's story is the stuff of legend: he was washing dishes when Emeril was still cooking at Commander's Palace, and he told the chef he wanted to learn the trade.  Emeril took him under his wing, and eventually moved him from station to station. Over the years he rose through the ranks to the top of the hierarchy in Emeril's organization.

Wolfe says of Carmouche: "I knew where he came from and how hard he worked.  I learned a good bit from him and his knowledge was very good.  And he treated people with respect.  He had a special way: he'd lead the whole team into the fire...and you'd follow him.  It's a gift.  He's a phenomenal gentleman, and I have a very high respect for him."

At one point in our conversation Wolfe also points out that the sautéed southern greens he serves with the four day duck is something he learned from Carmouche.  "He taught me how to cook down the mustard and collard greens when I worked in his kitchen and I told him I was going to steal the recipe," he laughs, adding, "and I always give him credit."

Wolfe has come a long way and achieved quite a bit in the relatively short time since leaving Emeril's.  Actually, it's a long way only figuratively: Wolfe's in the Warehouse is only about three blocks from Emeril's, and the chef tells me that he drops in on his famous neighbor every now and then.

For menus, hours of service, and reservations contact information, visit the Peristyle website and the Wolfe's in the Warehouse website.

© Marshal Zeringue

Matt Murphy of The Ritz-Carlton, New Orleans (II)

(This column is Part II of my interview with Chef Murphy.  Click here to read Part I.)

The courses keep coming.

Chef Murphy has not been matching me on every course but he doesn't pass on this one: a veal beggar's purse with cippolini onions in a red wine sauce.  I enjoy the irony of a dish this rich and flavorful going by the name of "beggar's purse."  While the proverb is that "a beggar's purse is never full," no one tucking into this entrée would complain that it's empty. The veal is tender and tasty and the cippolinis are an especially nice touch.  We're drinking a Buena Vista Pinot Noir with this course.

Murphy tells me a story about when he was in Marco Pierre White's kitchen.  (White is as famous for his temper as for his food: he once published a photo of his protégé Gordon Ramsey crying after a particularly tough night in the kitchen.) Murphy recalls that White would say that "all food had to be in the pass in 30 seconds or 60 seconds or 3 minutes, and guys on the stations would have timers to keep track."  With the kitchen a floor below, the cooks were aware of exactly how long it took to make it up the stairs. It could get hectic.  "You came up a minute late and you were out the door." What makes the situation especially demanding is that in restaurants of that reputation, there's always someone ready to step in for the cook who fails to beat the clock.

One interesting thing I notice about the kitchen we're in right now is that, while it's not so chaotic, there never seems to be an idle moment.  No one is ever standing still, arms crossed waiting for the next order: it seems that there's always something to be done.

The chef starts to tell me a story about one time when it was this kitchen under pressure, when another course arrives: we're served plates of pan-seared duck on a bed of cornbread and fresh Roma tomato topped by St. André cheese. (The accompanying wine is a Villa Antinori Tuscana.)  Katie Couric was the scheduled guest at the Chef's Table one evening last year and the kitchen was abuzz with anticipation.  Then Murphy got a call from home that his pregnant wife had a medical emergency.  It turned out that the kitchen handled Couric just fine in Murphy's absence, as did the doctors who treated his wife's emergency.  In December she delivered quadruplets.

I'm not sure I hear him correctly.  "Quadruplets?"

I think he's used to the reaction.  First, he and his wife were told that they'd be having twins.  A week later, it was triplets.  And then, quadruplets.  The four girls' six-month birthday falls just about a week before Father's Day this month.

Jazz trumpetist Jeremy Davenport, Mélange's headline entertainer, makes an appearance in the kitchen.  I imagine he's disappointed to find me instead of someone like Couric or Dustin Hoffman—both of whom have dined at this very table—but he doesn't show it.  We have a brief chat but I'm telepathically urging him to get back to the stage.  It's possible that Salma Hayek is done with filming for the day and is at the bar, waiting to hear him play; if so, I don't want her to get impatient and leave.

Another course arrives: succulent lamb chops, served rare, with fried goat cheese in a port wine reduction.  I had enough to eat about an hour ago but this is one of my favorite dishes.  And it comes with a cooking lesson.

I learn that the term for removing the excess fat from the bones is called "frenching," and that the skillful way to do so is by running a very sharp knife along the bone.  Lesser chefs will consume a lot of time shaving away the membrane, but the professionals know how to easily peel it away.  Murphy also tells me that these chops should always be served with the bones curving upward; that presentation invites the perfectly acceptable practice of holding the  "joint" in one's hands when eating the meat.

I'm happy to know the etiquette, but I'm already flirting with gluttony; at this point, I feel as if I'll shade into full-blown Henry the Eighth mode if I start eating chops with my hands.  We stick with the Tuscana for this course.

I'm so thoroughly sated that I forget to ask Murphy a question I had about the fried scorpion he was telling me he ate when he was in Thailand.  I've turned into an indolent interviewer at this point.  Great—first, gluttony, now sloth.  At this pace I'm sure to commit the five remaining deadly sins by midnight.

(Come to think of it, I suppose I can also check off "lust" from the list, what with my musings about Salma Hayek.  The tally: three sins down, four to go.)

And then dessert arrives.  In stages.  First up, fig samosas with a fruity chutney on the side.  I have just about finished my plate when the second dessert hits the table.  We're treated to wontons filled with dark chocolate accompanied by a cherry compote.  Chopsticks come with the dish but, at this stage of the evening, they seem like too much trouble to maneuver.  I follow the chef's lead and treat the wontons as finger food.  That settles it: I, Henry the Eighth, I am.

Finally, the third plate of delights arrives from the pastry kitchen: it includes a few clusters of very fancy caramel corn, orange meringues, a chocolate-toffee construction, and another chocolate thingy that I don't catch the name of.  I start to ask the pastry server to explain it to me but I've already started on the chocolate-toffee treat and my teeth are stuck together.

We've reached the end of a glorious meal.  Truly, squire, I couldn't eat another wafer.

I say my thanks and my good-byes, and I wish Chef Murphy a slightly early Happy Father's Day...four times over.  As I leave, I notice that Miss Hayek is not at the bar.

It's well after ten when I step out into the warm evening; the French Quarter nightlife is now in full swing.  Turn left, and a two minute walk down memory lane will put me in the midst of all that revelry; turn right, and I'll be on my way home and have time to cool out and do a bit of reading before bedtime.  In my youth, I would not have thought twice about the options.  And tonight?  One can probably guess which path I took.

For menus, hours of service, and reservations contact information, visit The Ritz-Carlton, New Orleans website.

© Marshal Zeringue

Matt Murphy of The Ritz-Carlton, New Orleans (I)

I spent a significant part of my late teens and early twenties in the French Quarter.  Almost all of that time involved great fun in the bars and restaurants for which New Orleans is famous, so when I arrive at The Ritz-Carlton an hour early for my appointment I consider slipping over to The Napoleon House for a drink. I'll probably even have time for a cocktail at the Main Bar at Pat O'Brien's if I don't dawdle too long at the first stop. In my youth, the only further thought I might have given this opportunity would have been to make sure I didn't lose track of the time.

This evening I decide that discretion is the better part of nostalgia, however, and I pick out a quiet corner of the hotel lobby for a bit of tourist watching.  It's not as much fun as actually engaging visitors at a bar, yet there's also no hangover later.

Anyway, I want to be clear-headed for my appointment with Matt Murphy, the Executive Chef at The Ritz-Carlton, who has invited me to join him at the Chef's Table this evening.  I'm not sure what that honor entails but I present myself to the hostess at Mélange, the hotel's flagship restaurant, eager to find out.

I'm escorted through the restaurant and past the adjoining bar, a well-known watering hole for actors when they're shooting a film in the city. Forest Whitaker and Lil’ Wayne are apparently making a movie called Patriots here, and Universal is shooting Cirque du Freak starring Salma Hayek and John C. Reilly.  With all due respect to Whitaker and Reilly, I'd be happiest to run into Ms. Hayek tonight. I have no such luck at the moment, but it's still early.

In the kitchen, the Chef's Table is flanked by two enormous, well-cushioned chairs arranged with a perfect view of the cooking stations just steps away.  Unbidden, the champagne arrives as I'm settling in.  I soon realize that I won't be ordering anything tonight: the courses will arrive before I realize that I want them.  The first treat: cream of cauliflower soup, served in a shot glass.  I'm not really a fan of cauliflower and I probably would not have ordered this soup...which would have been a mistake: it's delicious, and the shot-sized serving is just right.

Just then, the first tickets of the evening print out on the line.  Norman the sous chef calls out: "Alright ...walking in ... First order is fried oyster, creole crab.  Second order is shrimp creole, redfish, cornbread pudding...." The cooks shift into action.  As have I, because the sushi chef arrives with an artfully presented plate of tuna with a spicy grilled shrimp.  I'm told that I may even eat the carved vegetable garnish.  It's almost too pretty to eat.  Almost.

And, yes, I even eat the sculpted garnish. The staff have matched a Chardonnay to complement the tuna and shrimp.

Chef Matt Murphy arrives in the kitchen.  I'm caught up in watching the kitchen at work and enjoying my food, so I don't think to apologize for arriving early and starting without him. He doesn't seem to mind.

Murphy joined the Ritz-Carlton in 2002 as the Chef de Cuisine; four years later he rose to Executive Sous Chef, and today he is the hotel's Executive Chef with oversight over all culinary operations for Mélange as well as the Garde Manger, Banquet, In-Room Dining and Pastry kitchens.

It's a long way from Dublin where he first starting cooking as a teenager.

And yet, in some ways it's not so far: the chef says New Orleans is "more like Ireland than any place in the States."  For one thing, in both places there's a long tradition of "pot cooking"—Irish stew on the Emerald Isle, dishes like jambalaya and gumbo in Louisiana.  For another, in both places there are active social scenes with galas and the like, a lingering class-system, and a strong Catholic presence. Another similarity between Murphy's adopted home and his birthplace is the proximity of the countryside and rural areas to metropolitan New Orleans and Dublin.  In both cases, you don't have to travel very long or far to escape city-life.

Murphy came to the Ritz-Carlton after a five-year stint in the kitchen of Commander's Palace, the venerable Garden District restaurant.  There's scarcely a better place in the city to learn about New Orleans society, yet Murphy says it was at least a year before he had even the slightest grasp of such matters.  He was much quicker on the uptake about the local angles of his trade.  He calls Jaime Shannon, the Commander's chef he worked under, "one of the most knowledgeable cooks I've seen."  When Shannon died—killed by cancer when he was only 40 years old—Murphy saw it as the "end of an era," and he soon thereafter took his knives to the Ritz-Carlton downtown.

I'm served a saffron and mushroom risotto with sautéed Chilean sea bass.  It's wonderful stuff.

There is a vast difference between the demands of Commander's kitchen and the Ritz-Carlton's.  The hotel has over 500 guest rooms and the kitchen never closes.  In addition to restaurant and bar, there's room service and catering for events; the kitchen can go—unexpectedly, the chef tells me—"from nought to 160 in seconds."  At a restaurant like Commander's the flow is expected: it may get hectic in the kitchen, but you usually know when the rush is coming and when there will be more breathing space.

We take a break from the table to tour the rest of the kitchen.  It's pretty impressive, with more cold lockers and prep areas than I would have expected.  We also stop by and meet Simone, the pastry chef.  I'm looking forward to what we'll see later from her department.

Back at the table I ask Murphy about the recent New Orleans Wine & Food Experience at which he was named Best-in-Show, and we're soon engaged in what some locals regard as peculiarly New Orleanian practice: sitting down to a grand meal and talking about food eaten, or in this case, prepared, elsewhere.  The chef enthusiastically tells me about the dishes he offered up. 

There was seared tuna with wasabi cream, a tropical fruit salad with papaya, pineapple, and watermelon—and a creative flourish that I don't really understand...but I don't want to stop eating to ask the chef to repeat himself.  And that was just the first day.  The next day he served a foie gras tourchon with toasted brioche.  Again, there are some complicated aspects to the dish that I don't completely understand...but I can't ask for clarification with my mouth full, now can I?  Obviously, it was a great success: there was a line out of the door.

I ask if cooking for the foodies who attend events like NOWFE is very different from cooking for the restaurant patrons.  Sure, Murphy says, it's like dining at the Chef's Table—but here it's "even better than first class: you're up with pilot."   And we're not eating dishes tonight exactly as they appear on the Mélange menu: some of the items are inspired by what was fresh at the produce market this morning; others follow from ideas the kitchen wants to try out.  It's working very well for me, but I am curious about the menu.

Much of the regular menu features dishes offered by other prominent local restaurants. Among the appetizers:  “Jacques Imo's” Alligator Sausage and Shrimp Cheesecake, “Upperline” Fried Green Tomatoes with shrimp remoulade, and “Brigtsen’s” Shrimp Thermidor (fresh Gulf shrimp in a thermidor sauce). Entrées include “Arnaud's” Shrimp Creole (Gulf shrimp simmered in a spicy tomato sauce with Creole vegetables and rice pilaf) and “Palace Café” Pepper Crusted Duck (duck confit, frizze, and foie gras). I know that mélange is the French word for "mixture," and I ask for the story behind this particular assembly of other restaurants' dishes.

The chef explains that after Katrina—it took The Ritz-Carlton nearly a year to re-open—the hotel decided that it was incumbent on them to not only let potential tourists know that the luxury hotel had returned and would like their business, but that it should help spread the word about other restaurants in the city.  After all, the chef explains, we know our guests may dine with us one night but that they're also interested in sampling more of the city's culinary offerings.  The menu is a great way to encourage the trade.

I want to ask more about that menu but I'm distracted by the roasted pear and blood orange plate that appears before me.  The contrast is striking: match a subtle, warm pear with the explosive flavor of the blood orange.  That blood orange does something to the taste buds that flashes a "Do it again!" signal to my brain.  I realize that this is how addictions take hold.

I tell Murphy that I spent a weekend with a vegetarian in this hotel a few years ago.  She was a good sport about it, but I was surprised to learn how difficult it was to get a good vegetarian meal at the restaurants we visited.  I ask, what does the Ritz-Carlton kitchen do to accommodate vegetarians?  I know from the chef's smile that this is not merely a hypothetical situation.  The kitchen can be rocking along, he says, pointing to the tickets on the line, and a vegetarian order comes in and it just throws a wrench into the whole thing.  (I have mental picture of one of those debit card commercials where the customers and staff spin around a store like they're in a Busby Berkeley musical...until someone tries to pay with cash.)  Murphy says his team usually tries to offer something that's expected, like pasta primavera, but he challenges his team to come up with a fresh twist to the old standard.

I doubt that vegetarians figured very large in the picture when the chef was starting out. At 14, he was prepping kitchens and ladling soup for 400 at hotel functions.  One summer his brother took a couple of weeks off from his kitchen job and the owner allowed the younger Murphy to sub for him.  He stayed on when his brother returned, then worked weekends in kitchens when the school term started.  This work evolved into a position as a commis chef, and from there Murphy won a European Community scholarship to the prestigious culinary school, Cathal Brugha College. Then came the Celtic Tiger, the period of rapid economic growth in the 1990s that vaulted Ireland from one of the poorest countries in Europe to one with a rapidly rising standard of living. More wealth meant more demand for quality cuisine which meant greater demand for people dedicated to the food arts.

After a day at cooking school, Murphy would run over to La Stampa, then the restaurant in Dublin, which was run by Paul Flynn.  Murphy was put in charge of proteins—the meat and fish—and says that while he was not well paid, "to work there, under those pressures and with those chefs, was a privilege...what I learned there was amazing."  Flynn was friends with star chefs in London like Gordon Ramsey and Marco Pierre White, and Murphy would go over to work in their kitchens.  He'd show up and announce, "I'm here to trail."  Someone would point to ten boxes of zucchini and say "peel 'em."  Looking back, he smiles and shrugs...and says he learned quality and high standards.

He tells his staff to never stop learning, and it's clear that he's followed his own advice.  When he was at Commander's he would still visit New York and trail in the kitchens of Chef Boulud's celebrated restaurant Daniel and the like.

Devin Burns of the hotel's food and beverage management team stops by our table to say hello, and soon there's some speculative talk of a post-prandial drink.  I don't encourage this plan, what with a glass of champagne as well as two (or is it three?) glasses of wine behind me and a strong suspicion that there's more to come.  Stereotypes can be unfair, but I think one is fairly warned when a Dubliner named Murphy and his pal Devin start talking about "a drink" later in the evening. The only surer guarantee of a hangover the next day is if they have a buddy named Declan who shows up and passes you the Bushmills.

Anyway, we have more food—and dessert—to deal with.

(Read Part II of the interview.)

© Marshal Zeringue