TIME IS A SEASONING AT ANTOINE'S
That evening the director and his wife took a local Democratic official and his wife and Aura May and me to Antoine's for dinner. Antoine's is an institution. Established in 1840, it has served food uninterruptedly, and is now owned and operated by a grandson of its founder.
The building, tableware and linen are severely plain. The waiters are noiseless and speak many languages. No bands, orchestras or entertainers—"You go to Antoine's to give your palate an undisturbed treat." No bar—"It is people who drink without eating who become paralyzed by alcohol." Yet it has a narrow wine cellar a block long, containing well over 5,000 bottles. The oldest wines date back to 1884, the oldest brandy to 1811.
Its gallery of celebrities contains over 2,000 autographs and pictures of distinguished visitors. Besides the main dining room, it has 15 others. One room's floor, the Mystery Room, is covered with sawdust. Guests have included Marshall Foch, Sarah Bernhardt, Will Rogers, Jenny Lind, Caruso, Edwin Booth, "Gentleman Jim" Corbett, General Pershing, down to enough U.S. Senators and Congressmen to ruin anybody's country.
The present head waiter has been there 40 years, his predecessor 50 years. Bus boys must serve an apprenticeship of 10 years. Time is a necessary element in the proper preparation of food at Antoine's. If you are in a hurry, Antoine's recommends you go to the corner drug store.
But let's get back to dinner before it gets cold. We started off with a cocktail of something. I think our host said it contained applejack, champagne and some other ingredient. It had a white collar like the beaten white of an egg. Then came "Oysters Rockefeller," so named because of the richness of the sauce . . . The recipe for this sauce is a closely guarded family secret. The dish consists of six oysters on the half shell. A much used pie tin is filled with rock salt to hold the heat indefinitely. The oysters covered with the sauce are imbedded in this salt and baked. The concoction, pie tin and all, is served on a plate.
Due to the salt, the oysters and sauce will remain hot for perhaps a half hour. Many a worthy brother's and sister's tongues have been blistered. Since 1899, the management has given with each order a post card showing the number of your order. Mine was 1301744. And so, figuring six oysters to each order, we find that the actual number of oysters used to date has been near eight million.
I had fish—Pompano en papillote—pompano served in paper bags (rumor hath it that the paper bag retains all the flavor), with Pommes Soufflees, or a glorified branch of fry or potato chips blown up like large flat pea pods with peas removed.
Dessert consisted mostly of Cherry Jubilee. Large, fat cherries are put in a metal bowl and covered with brandy. The lights are turned off over your table. The brandy is lighted with a match. The waiter stirs the cherries, flames and all, until thoroughly hot and the alcohol in the brandy is exhausted. Then he takes them to the kitchen, pours them over ice cream and something and brings back the portions, hot and cold. A Presbyterian deacon could eat Cherry Jubilee without a twinge of conscience.
All this took from 8 to 12 p.m., followed by a ride around the old French section, listening to the music of jazz bands as we passed the dance halls, winding up the evening's entertainment about 1 a.m. at the Morning Call—another New Orleans institution in a class of its own. Here rich and poor, young and old, meet on a common level and eat delicious doughnuts and drink cups of combined hot milk and hot coffee poured together simultaneously.
Nov. 24th, we sailed on the Del Mar. The ship's management distributed brightly assorted paper tape to the passengers gathered at the rails of the different decks and the farewells and bon voyages began. A Negro jazz band assembled on the wharf. One dancer was as nimble at catching coins tossed from the decks in an old plug hat as he was on his feet. The ship sailed at 4:20 p.m.