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Started By
Message
TulaneLSU's Top 10 memories and dishes at Impastato's
Posted on 1/12/20 at 3:14 pm
Posted on 1/12/20 at 3:14 pm
Dear Friends,
I write to you while preparing for this evening’s Lucy’s gathering. As is my custom, I will forego the event because it is being hosted in a bar. But I will be watching you, probably from the balcony of the orange building across the street. Wave to me if you see me.
Do you remember the first restaurant in which you dined? The first I recollect was Commander’s Palace. It’s possible I was four, but I think I was three. It was Easter Sunday and we were returning from Christ Church Cathedral. What is certain is that the Very Revd. Lowry preached that morning on our Lord’s Resurrection. What is reprehensible is that when we were seated at Commander’s the waiter asked my parents if I wanted champagne. I couldn’t even tie my shoes! Mother admonished the rummy in the same tone that Ti Adelaide Martin warned me about the dress code when I briefly visited in 2008, only to make a reservation, wearing blue jeans. As if I were not aware.
What is foggy is Emeril Lagasse making the rounds and introducing himself to me. Mother insists it happened. The hippocampus affords no projection to me. This was of course long before Emeril made it big. He was at the time executive chef at the restaurant in a time before cooking food made you worthy of celebrity. He probably wasn’t a top five chef in New Orleans at that time either. What is funny is, according to family lore, he asked me how I liked my omelet. I gave my first restaurant critique: “It chews like a piece of Play-Doh.”
Thus began my dining out life. I calculate I’ve eaten in 2000 different restaurants in the last three decades, 75% of them in New Orleans. The first were Commander’s, Brennan’s, Napoleon House, and la Madeleine, all of which had a decidedly French outlook. It wouldn’t be for another two years that I was introduced to Metairie restaurants.
It was the Friday before Christmas. My cousin had a dance recital or a theatrical performance at St. Martin’s School. It was the first time I had ever been on Airline Highway, which was a macabre corridor, dotted with the Sugar Bowl Courts and Rainbow Motel, pimps and pill pushers, and Time Saver. Who can forget their commercials: “Get a light in the night. Pour a drink in a wink. Pack some fun on the run. What a deal!” Time Saver’s commercials contain some of the most impressive and unappreciated commercial poetry of 20th century America.
Grandfather had given me his copy of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol that week. Dickens’ words enraptured me during the recital. It was that book, an obscurely Thomist book, which teaches that both subjects and objects are known by acts, which show us potentials, which show us the subject/object’s nature, that birthed in me a love of Christmas and Thomas Aquinas. More profitable was my time spent in that book than with my attention to the stage, but nonetheless, it was, in retrospect, quite graceless of me.
My cousin’s parents had booked a large table for Augie’s Glass Garden near the recently finished Galleria. “Houston’s Anne Boleyn in Metairie,” Grandfather called the building. I never understood what he meant by that. Its meaning will likely forever escape us. When we arrived, Uncle became enraged when the table was not ready. “We had this table booked for a month!” and he stormed out.
The next thing I know, we are in nondescript parking lot in what felt like the middle of nowhere. And no, I did not think this was the “no place” Thomas More had in mind. Little did I realize at that time that this poorly paved parking lot and minimalist, northeast-facing, L-shaped, windowless strip of a building would become my Utopia.
To be of Christ Church Cathedral stock comes with certain expectations. Attending services weekly, much to my chagrin, is not one of them. Giving your waiter at Galatoire’s less than 20% would earn you a scarlet letter before missing a year’s worth of services would.
You are limited in your child’s school selection. Jesuit, Newman, Sacred Heart, and McGehee ensure no feathers are ruffled. Country Day and Ben Franklin exist in limbo on an ambiguous scale whose gravitational destiny is ultimately determined by the parents’ social club membership.
Fashion matters too. If your Mardi Gras polo has a breasted horse rather than a crawfish, you are treading waters as choppy as the Pontchartrain in a summer squall. But if you are a male of age, you shouldn’t be wearing a polo that day anyway. Instead, you should be riding, standing above Canal, or preparing for the evening’s balls, now hosted in the inelegant Marriott and Sheraton hotels. Are you no better than Hermes now? I was raised to wear Perlis on casual occasions, Goldberg’s for business occasions, and Rubenstein’s for formal occasions, although I did rent a tux from Perlis once.
My catechesis classes started when I was 12. These classes lead to Confirmation, which at that time, the church, or at least Mother, required before we could fully participate in the Eucharist. The theology of such a requisite is shaky and unbiblical. Nonetheless, the topic of eating entered our religious instruction.
The teacher asked the class, “And what is your favorite restaurant?” That this was a question in a confirmation class only makes sense to those who were born in New Orleans.
The conformist responses were present: Arnaud’s Antoine’s, Clancy’s, Upperline, Commander’s, and Galatoire’s. One poor sap, Edward I believe, responded with Cannon’s, which was greeted with sneers and jeers. When came my turn, I stood up, as I was taught whenever speaking one should. With the same fortitude of Martin Luther at the Diet of Worms, I confidently proclaimed, “Impastato’s.”
My fellow students did not react because they had never heard of such a place. My teacher, on the other hand, gasped and looked at me as if I had blasphemed the Holy One. It’s one thing to question the Virgin Birth; an entirely different thing is to suggest the best restaurant in New Orleans is in Metairie. It was obvious she had never before been dealt such an intractable hand.
“Impastato’s? That place by Lakeside Shopping Center? The Italian one?" her intonation, rapidly descended following the long I. Her expression shared with that of a mother once realizing the family is standing next to a flasher at Mardi Gras.
“Are you sure?” Her voice, as with Charles V, filled with an unsteady hope for a recantation.
“Yes. It is the best restaurant in Metairie. It is the best restaurant in New Orleans. It is the best restaurant in the world!” Teacher’s facial expression transformed from shock to dread, as though my conscience and eternal soul were captive, not to the Word of God, but to evil.
Young TulaneLSU’s words were correct then and they are correct today.
I write to you while preparing for this evening’s Lucy’s gathering. As is my custom, I will forego the event because it is being hosted in a bar. But I will be watching you, probably from the balcony of the orange building across the street. Wave to me if you see me.
Do you remember the first restaurant in which you dined? The first I recollect was Commander’s Palace. It’s possible I was four, but I think I was three. It was Easter Sunday and we were returning from Christ Church Cathedral. What is certain is that the Very Revd. Lowry preached that morning on our Lord’s Resurrection. What is reprehensible is that when we were seated at Commander’s the waiter asked my parents if I wanted champagne. I couldn’t even tie my shoes! Mother admonished the rummy in the same tone that Ti Adelaide Martin warned me about the dress code when I briefly visited in 2008, only to make a reservation, wearing blue jeans. As if I were not aware.
What is foggy is Emeril Lagasse making the rounds and introducing himself to me. Mother insists it happened. The hippocampus affords no projection to me. This was of course long before Emeril made it big. He was at the time executive chef at the restaurant in a time before cooking food made you worthy of celebrity. He probably wasn’t a top five chef in New Orleans at that time either. What is funny is, according to family lore, he asked me how I liked my omelet. I gave my first restaurant critique: “It chews like a piece of Play-Doh.”
Thus began my dining out life. I calculate I’ve eaten in 2000 different restaurants in the last three decades, 75% of them in New Orleans. The first were Commander’s, Brennan’s, Napoleon House, and la Madeleine, all of which had a decidedly French outlook. It wouldn’t be for another two years that I was introduced to Metairie restaurants.
It was the Friday before Christmas. My cousin had a dance recital or a theatrical performance at St. Martin’s School. It was the first time I had ever been on Airline Highway, which was a macabre corridor, dotted with the Sugar Bowl Courts and Rainbow Motel, pimps and pill pushers, and Time Saver. Who can forget their commercials: “Get a light in the night. Pour a drink in a wink. Pack some fun on the run. What a deal!” Time Saver’s commercials contain some of the most impressive and unappreciated commercial poetry of 20th century America.
Grandfather had given me his copy of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol that week. Dickens’ words enraptured me during the recital. It was that book, an obscurely Thomist book, which teaches that both subjects and objects are known by acts, which show us potentials, which show us the subject/object’s nature, that birthed in me a love of Christmas and Thomas Aquinas. More profitable was my time spent in that book than with my attention to the stage, but nonetheless, it was, in retrospect, quite graceless of me.
My cousin’s parents had booked a large table for Augie’s Glass Garden near the recently finished Galleria. “Houston’s Anne Boleyn in Metairie,” Grandfather called the building. I never understood what he meant by that. Its meaning will likely forever escape us. When we arrived, Uncle became enraged when the table was not ready. “We had this table booked for a month!” and he stormed out.
The next thing I know, we are in nondescript parking lot in what felt like the middle of nowhere. And no, I did not think this was the “no place” Thomas More had in mind. Little did I realize at that time that this poorly paved parking lot and minimalist, northeast-facing, L-shaped, windowless strip of a building would become my Utopia.
To be of Christ Church Cathedral stock comes with certain expectations. Attending services weekly, much to my chagrin, is not one of them. Giving your waiter at Galatoire’s less than 20% would earn you a scarlet letter before missing a year’s worth of services would.
You are limited in your child’s school selection. Jesuit, Newman, Sacred Heart, and McGehee ensure no feathers are ruffled. Country Day and Ben Franklin exist in limbo on an ambiguous scale whose gravitational destiny is ultimately determined by the parents’ social club membership.
Fashion matters too. If your Mardi Gras polo has a breasted horse rather than a crawfish, you are treading waters as choppy as the Pontchartrain in a summer squall. But if you are a male of age, you shouldn’t be wearing a polo that day anyway. Instead, you should be riding, standing above Canal, or preparing for the evening’s balls, now hosted in the inelegant Marriott and Sheraton hotels. Are you no better than Hermes now? I was raised to wear Perlis on casual occasions, Goldberg’s for business occasions, and Rubenstein’s for formal occasions, although I did rent a tux from Perlis once.
My catechesis classes started when I was 12. These classes lead to Confirmation, which at that time, the church, or at least Mother, required before we could fully participate in the Eucharist. The theology of such a requisite is shaky and unbiblical. Nonetheless, the topic of eating entered our religious instruction.
The teacher asked the class, “And what is your favorite restaurant?” That this was a question in a confirmation class only makes sense to those who were born in New Orleans.
The conformist responses were present: Arnaud’s Antoine’s, Clancy’s, Upperline, Commander’s, and Galatoire’s. One poor sap, Edward I believe, responded with Cannon’s, which was greeted with sneers and jeers. When came my turn, I stood up, as I was taught whenever speaking one should. With the same fortitude of Martin Luther at the Diet of Worms, I confidently proclaimed, “Impastato’s.”
My fellow students did not react because they had never heard of such a place. My teacher, on the other hand, gasped and looked at me as if I had blasphemed the Holy One. It’s one thing to question the Virgin Birth; an entirely different thing is to suggest the best restaurant in New Orleans is in Metairie. It was obvious she had never before been dealt such an intractable hand.
“Impastato’s? That place by Lakeside Shopping Center? The Italian one?" her intonation, rapidly descended following the long I. Her expression shared with that of a mother once realizing the family is standing next to a flasher at Mardi Gras.
“Are you sure?” Her voice, as with Charles V, filled with an unsteady hope for a recantation.
“Yes. It is the best restaurant in Metairie. It is the best restaurant in New Orleans. It is the best restaurant in the world!” Teacher’s facial expression transformed from shock to dread, as though my conscience and eternal soul were captive, not to the Word of God, but to evil.
Young TulaneLSU’s words were correct then and they are correct today.
This post was edited on 4/24/20 at 9:39 am
12
Posted on 1/12/20 at 3:15 pm to TulaneLSU
Impastato’s Restaurant opened on April 30, 1979, three days and 22 years after Mr. Joe had arrived in the States from Sicily. The restaurant’s location on 16th St. was a no-man’s land between Causeway Blvd. and the burgeoning Fat City, which was overtaking the French Quarter as the center of the city’s nightlife and dining. New Orleans’ oldest beignets stand, Morning Call hid it from the masses at Lakeside. No fewer than three restaurants had already failed in that location.
“Little Joe” and his wife Mica rarely advertised in the first three decades of business. They didn’t need to, as the family already had deep social tentacles in the restaurant business and the food was a showstopper. “Little Joe,” of course, was so known because his uncle, Giuseppe, patriarch of The Napoleon House, was “Mr. Joe.” Over the years, Little Joe became Mr. Joe. He’s now 81 and as active as ever in the restaurant.
Little Joe started in the kitchen of The Napoleon House, before finding his way to the nearby kitchen of Moran’s La Louisiane. “Diamond Jim” Moran, whose birth name was James Brocato, bought out Segreto’s Italian Restaurant, which had previously been Masero’s. Segreto’s, as my faithful readers will recall, was where the first documented pizza was sold in New Orleans (1945).
Moran transformed La Louisiane’s cuisine from French Creole to Italian Creole before dying in 1958. Although it was not the first of Italian Creole restaurants, it was the one that popularized the fare, leading to New Orleans’ role as America’s greatest city for Italian food.
Dyad of deliciousness
The list of Creole Italian restaurants, any of which would thrive on Arthur Avenue, Mulberry Street,or 9th Street in Philadelphia, is enormous. Many are lost to the winds of history, but I include a few of note in chronological opening order: Compagno’s (1909), Pascal’s Manale (1913), Turci’s (1917), Napoleon House (1920), Broussard’s (1920), Mandina’s (1932), Sclafani’s (1945; the owner’s grandson now runs Ruffino’s), Mosca’s (1946), Liuzza’s (1947), Venezia’s (1957), Messina’s (1961), Elmwood Plantation (1963), Rocky & Carlo’s (1965), Tony Angello’s (1973), Sal & Judy’s (1974), Agostino Ristorante Italiano (1975), Smilie’s (1985), II Tony’s (1987), Vincent’s (1989), Irene’s (1992), Kenner Seafood (1997), Fausto’s (1989), Eleven79 (2010), and Gendusa’s Italian Market (2015). Connecting the familial and apprenticeship lines of the players in these restaurants would result in a Jackson Pollock-like canvas of curves and lines, thicker than red gravy.
What makes Italian food Italian Creole, a term which was first introduced to the New Orleans lexicon in 1975 by Richard Collins? That tricky word Creole has been a thorn in the side of many historians. The Portugese word criollo, from which we get creole, simply means locally grown. I will only say that the term Creole Italian signifies Italian food cooked in the NOLA Metro that incorporates some local ingredients, like soft shell crab, redfish, and speckled trout. It’s not a complicated definition and any attempts to refine it are foolhardy. Do not let a newcomer who does not have deep roots in New Orleans attempt to define it.
Impastato’s is the quintessential Creole Italian restaurant. When you enter the doors, you know you are among family and friends. Mr. Joe is usually there to greet you, and if he’s not, the maitre’d, Mr. Fontanille, or “Billy,” as regulars know him, is. Mr. Fontanille celebrated his 40th year at the restaurant this year. Mark, his brother, is head chef and has been there 38 years. I’ve never met Mark, but his food introduced me to culinary mysticism.
Impastato’s meals begin with Melba toast and braided Italian rolls from Angelo’s bakery
That continuity has crafted a restaurant that years from now will be mourned when it is no longer. What passes as great food today in New Orleans at places like GW Fins, Shaya, August, Peche, Maypop, and that nationally popular sandwich shop whose name I cannot remember is completely forgettable once the flavor passes the palate.
What three things do I require of food? First, it must sustain me. Second, it must taste good. Third, and perhaps most important, it must tell a good story. These newly popular restaurants don’t have a good story to tell, and I doubt they ever will.
No restaurant in the world has higher marks in these three categories than Impastato’s. One need only walk the rooms to appreciate its story. The stories are plastered on the walls, in cheaply framed pictures of family and friends, smiles stuffed with spaghetti and softshells. If only I could fly back to the 80s and 90s when one would have to box out a member of the Dome Patrol to get a table.
I wonder if any restaurant in New Orleans in the last 40 years has hosted more celebrities than quaint, forgotten Impastato’s. I cannot count on ten hands how many Hollywood and gridiron celebrites I’ve seen there over the years. It’s certainly more than the number of jerseys and helmets on the walls.
Our visit that crisp December night changed hearts. My parents had previously, like good Uptown snobs, shunned all things Metairie. The provincialism of that neighborhood’s residents is owed to a trickle down effect of white supremacy. I had to move to Mid-City to appreciate it, a thing I call Uptown geographic supremacy. As if in a cave looking at shadows, suddenly freed to ascend to true light, that night, nearly 30 years ago, we became converts. No longer would we let the chains of the parochialism of our ancestors bind us. I can only imagine the profound displeasure of my great grandparents if they knew of my adoration of Italian food in Metairie.
“Little Joe” and his wife Mica rarely advertised in the first three decades of business. They didn’t need to, as the family already had deep social tentacles in the restaurant business and the food was a showstopper. “Little Joe,” of course, was so known because his uncle, Giuseppe, patriarch of The Napoleon House, was “Mr. Joe.” Over the years, Little Joe became Mr. Joe. He’s now 81 and as active as ever in the restaurant.
Little Joe started in the kitchen of The Napoleon House, before finding his way to the nearby kitchen of Moran’s La Louisiane. “Diamond Jim” Moran, whose birth name was James Brocato, bought out Segreto’s Italian Restaurant, which had previously been Masero’s. Segreto’s, as my faithful readers will recall, was where the first documented pizza was sold in New Orleans (1945).
Moran transformed La Louisiane’s cuisine from French Creole to Italian Creole before dying in 1958. Although it was not the first of Italian Creole restaurants, it was the one that popularized the fare, leading to New Orleans’ role as America’s greatest city for Italian food.
Dyad of deliciousness
The list of Creole Italian restaurants, any of which would thrive on Arthur Avenue, Mulberry Street,or 9th Street in Philadelphia, is enormous. Many are lost to the winds of history, but I include a few of note in chronological opening order: Compagno’s (1909), Pascal’s Manale (1913), Turci’s (1917), Napoleon House (1920), Broussard’s (1920), Mandina’s (1932), Sclafani’s (1945; the owner’s grandson now runs Ruffino’s), Mosca’s (1946), Liuzza’s (1947), Venezia’s (1957), Messina’s (1961), Elmwood Plantation (1963), Rocky & Carlo’s (1965), Tony Angello’s (1973), Sal & Judy’s (1974), Agostino Ristorante Italiano (1975), Smilie’s (1985), II Tony’s (1987), Vincent’s (1989), Irene’s (1992), Kenner Seafood (1997), Fausto’s (1989), Eleven79 (2010), and Gendusa’s Italian Market (2015). Connecting the familial and apprenticeship lines of the players in these restaurants would result in a Jackson Pollock-like canvas of curves and lines, thicker than red gravy.
What makes Italian food Italian Creole, a term which was first introduced to the New Orleans lexicon in 1975 by Richard Collins? That tricky word Creole has been a thorn in the side of many historians. The Portugese word criollo, from which we get creole, simply means locally grown. I will only say that the term Creole Italian signifies Italian food cooked in the NOLA Metro that incorporates some local ingredients, like soft shell crab, redfish, and speckled trout. It’s not a complicated definition and any attempts to refine it are foolhardy. Do not let a newcomer who does not have deep roots in New Orleans attempt to define it.
Impastato’s is the quintessential Creole Italian restaurant. When you enter the doors, you know you are among family and friends. Mr. Joe is usually there to greet you, and if he’s not, the maitre’d, Mr. Fontanille, or “Billy,” as regulars know him, is. Mr. Fontanille celebrated his 40th year at the restaurant this year. Mark, his brother, is head chef and has been there 38 years. I’ve never met Mark, but his food introduced me to culinary mysticism.
Impastato’s meals begin with Melba toast and braided Italian rolls from Angelo’s bakery
That continuity has crafted a restaurant that years from now will be mourned when it is no longer. What passes as great food today in New Orleans at places like GW Fins, Shaya, August, Peche, Maypop, and that nationally popular sandwich shop whose name I cannot remember is completely forgettable once the flavor passes the palate.
What three things do I require of food? First, it must sustain me. Second, it must taste good. Third, and perhaps most important, it must tell a good story. These newly popular restaurants don’t have a good story to tell, and I doubt they ever will.
No restaurant in the world has higher marks in these three categories than Impastato’s. One need only walk the rooms to appreciate its story. The stories are plastered on the walls, in cheaply framed pictures of family and friends, smiles stuffed with spaghetti and softshells. If only I could fly back to the 80s and 90s when one would have to box out a member of the Dome Patrol to get a table.
I wonder if any restaurant in New Orleans in the last 40 years has hosted more celebrities than quaint, forgotten Impastato’s. I cannot count on ten hands how many Hollywood and gridiron celebrites I’ve seen there over the years. It’s certainly more than the number of jerseys and helmets on the walls.
Our visit that crisp December night changed hearts. My parents had previously, like good Uptown snobs, shunned all things Metairie. The provincialism of that neighborhood’s residents is owed to a trickle down effect of white supremacy. I had to move to Mid-City to appreciate it, a thing I call Uptown geographic supremacy. As if in a cave looking at shadows, suddenly freed to ascend to true light, that night, nearly 30 years ago, we became converts. No longer would we let the chains of the parochialism of our ancestors bind us. I can only imagine the profound displeasure of my great grandparents if they knew of my adoration of Italian food in Metairie.
This post was edited on 4/24/20 at 9:50 am
Posted on 1/12/20 at 3:16 pm to TulaneLSU
quote:
I write to you while preparing for this evening’s Lucy’s gathering. As is my custom, I will forego the event because it is being hosted in a bar. But I will be watching you, probably from the balcony of the orange building across the street. Wave to me if you see me.
Posted on 1/12/20 at 3:17 pm to TulaneLSU
I shot someone execution style in the parking lot
Posted on 1/12/20 at 3:28 pm to TulaneLSU
I assume you put this on the OT because you won’t quite the attention you need on the Food board. fricking sad
Posted on 1/12/20 at 3:35 pm to TulaneLSU
Are we going to see you at Lucy’s tonight? You owe me a book you son of a bitch.
Posted on 1/12/20 at 3:48 pm to TulaneLSU
I don't, as usual, agree with your ultimate premise; but I love the journey.
Posted on 1/12/20 at 9:39 pm to TulaneLSU
I waved but only got a response from your mother. Very attractive Asian women. Congrats.
Posted on 1/12/20 at 11:09 pm to TulaneLSU
I’ve dined at that place dozens of times and probably with a table less than 8 once. Unfortunately but it’s been awhile. The last time, my toddler aged kid was not having a good time so I took one for the team and me and the kid waited in the truck. I got my steak to-go.
With that said, their filet is great and rarely mentioned.
With that said, their filet is great and rarely mentioned.
Posted on 1/15/20 at 9:27 am to TulaneLSU
Am I the only person who feels like Impastato's exists in some sort of weird, circa 1975-1985 time bubble? Decor, food, old guy who sings, people in the lounge: the whole thing is a set piece from when Fat City was an "entertainment district" rather than a sea of cheap apartments.
Have been to any number of special events/private parties, and I always leave with the same impression: did I just fall through a wormhole in time?
Have been to any number of special events/private parties, and I always leave with the same impression: did I just fall through a wormhole in time?
Posted on 1/15/20 at 3:37 pm to TulaneLSU
Thanks for the well though out post about my uncle
Posted on 1/15/20 at 9:43 pm to TulaneLSU
quote:
But I will be watching you, probably from the balcony of the orange building across the street... with a high powered rifle, a fixed with a telescopic site. I was too young to have been in that book depository window with Oswald, but I like to thing I know how he felt... to see so much fornication and drunkenness in the world. They laugh at me now, but one day, I’ll be the one laughing. Oh wait... did I just type this on Tiger Droppings? Mother! The voices are getting so loud, Mother! Why don’t you respond to me anymore, Mother?
FIFY
Posted on 1/22/20 at 4:30 pm to TulaneLSU
Since you know so much about Impastato’s. What is the dressing used on the crab salad do you have the recipe.
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