Circuit Court New Orleans
R&O Restaurant
216 Hammond Hwy., Metairie, LA
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This Restaurant
2/16/02
Severe
hunger and lack of funds took my companion and I to R&O's restaurant in
Bucktown, USA, 100 yards outside of New Orleans proper. Over a hundred
years ago, Bucktown was nothing more than a string of hunting and fishing
camps lining Lake Pontchartrain, but is now considered by many the modern
Mecca of simple, casual seafood dining. My companion, unfortunately, was
Vito "The Legcrusher" Pistonetti, my onetime friend and now bookie, whom
I was treating to lunch in hopes that he would lower the vig on my superbowl
wager (damn those Patriots). Luckily, R&O's has both seafood and Italian
fare.
No surprises
here: shrimp, oysters, catfish, either fried or broiled. Big, steaming
piles of boiled crawfish. Chicken or veal parmesan, pizza, muffelettas,
spaghetti and meatballs. This is roll up your shirt-sleeves eating. The
waitresses call you "dawlin'. Environs sparse, yet comfortable. There
must be some imaginary line bisecting smoking and non-smoking, since at
the very next table in my non-smoking section a large, bespectacled man
in a tanktop puffed a large stogie.
After
perusing the too large menu we decided on bowls of gumbo and a dozen raw
oysters to start, fried oyster poboy, and large pepperoni and mushroom
pizza. Mystery draught beer. The waitress disappeared and almost immediately
reappeared with our oysters.
There
are two types of raw oysters eaters, which I characterize as: The eaters
and the pretenders. The pretenders always mix up some gloppy mess to dip
the oysters in, usually some amalgamation of ketchup, horseradish, and
hot sauce. Even worse, they will place the oyster on a cracker before
eating it. The eaters, on the other hand, believe that anything masking
the subtle, wonderful flavor of the oyster is a gustatory travesty. The
oyster should go from the shell to the mouth with as little delay as possible.
I am happy to report that Vito and I fall squarely in the latter camp.
At any
rate, the fat, beautiful oysters were magnificent. Big, cold, silvery
bivalves that rolled around in our mouths like salty little pillows. We
devoured them almost as fast as they came out.
Next
came the gumbo. The gumbo at R&O's is, quite simply, some of the finest
in the city. A thick, spicy, dark-roux concoction chock full of shrimp
and oysters, with just enough rice to bind the flavors together. For neophyte
readers, gumbo is divided into two camps. First is seafood gumbo featuring,
as one might guess, seafood. Sometimes crab and usually some okra. Next
is chicken and andouille gumbo. For the purpose of this review, I refer
to the former. There was no bread offered to sop up the last of the gumbo,
so we settled for the small wicker boat of saltine crackers.
Almost
on cue the waitress brought our entrees.
The poboy
looked and smelled fabulous. Plump, meaty oysters stuffed between toasted
French bread, filled out with fresh tomato, shredded lettuce, pickles,
and mayo. Toasted French bread is, to me, the defining characteristic
of a great poboy, and it's a technique practiced far too infrequently.
The oysters were fried perfectly, retaining much of their juicy, salty
goodness.
I was
enjoying my second bite when I heard Vito grumbling. "Ahh, da pizza, it's-a
no good!" he pronounced. Alas, after sampling it, I found he was right.
The crust was far too thin, and the overwhelming amount of cheese had
soaked through the crust, making it soggy. The sauce was also too sweet,
the result, I imagine, of sitting in a large pot overcooking. I offered
him half of my poboy, which was far too large for me to finish alone.
He happily accepted, and we finished our meal as the half-eaten pizza
sat and mocked us for having ordered it. Pizza should probably be the
focus of a meal, at a restaurant that specializes in it, not slapped on
the menu as an afterthought.
Then
the bill came. For all that largesse, the total was under $35, not including
the beers, and I was overwhelmed to get away for such a small price. As
we walked out, Vito looked at me and asked, "So, when is-a your next payment?"
I shrugged,
smiled sheepishly and said, "What do you say I take you out for pizza
next week?"
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