Liquor by Poppy Z. Brite

Author:Poppy Z. Brite [Brite, Poppy Z.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-53772-0
Publisher: Crown/Archetype
Published: 2010-05-05T04:00:00+00:00

chapter 16

In the time it took to renovate the building at North Broad and Toulouse, a veritable alphabet soup of restaurants opened and closed in New Orleans.

There was African Bounty, whose menu seemed a cruel vegetarian parody of East African food. Instead of rice or cornmeal porridge, either of which would have been reasonably authentic, most of the dishes were served over whole wheat pasta. The building had no air conditioning, only one portable fan directed at the kitchen door. When diners in imminent danger of heatstroke attempted to direct the fan’s weak current toward their tables, the waitresses would rebuke them as if they had attempted to walk out without paying the bill.

There was China Bayou, an attempt to mesh the cuisines of Louisiana and Canton. Alligator-and-cream-cheese wontons were the least of the horrors. The dish generally thought to have heralded the restaurant’s downfall was the chef’s specialty, kung pao crawfish. Nothing was inherently wrong with this dish, but there had recently been a big media flap about Louisiana restaurants buying cheap Chinese crawfish instead of local ones. Everyone seemed to assume China Bayou’s crawfish were card-carrying Communists, and nobody wanted to be a pinko.

There was Durum, a multi-culti pasta place reviewed by Chase Haricot, who found a ladybug in his house salad. He called this to the attention of the waiter, who blithely told him, “Oh, that happens a lot. Good thing you didn’t come in the winter—we find earwigs then!” The exchange was repeated verbatim in Haricot’s review.

There was Eau, a French Quarter café backed by and decorated with pictures of three supermodels. The menu, heavily loaded with salads, was dull but not actively offensive. Bulimia jokes were believed to have rung the death knell for this one.

There was Iko Iko, a tiny, musty space decorated like the living room of a thrift-shopping addict, which enjoyed a brief spell of trendiness before repeat diners finally noticed that the “famous” fried chicken had approximately the same effect on their digestive tracts as those fat-free potato chips that had been all the rage a few years back.

There was Iafrate’s, a Creole-Italian place that seemed like a sure bet until an outbreak of salmonella swept through its customers. When tested, the undercooked lasagna contained enough organisms to kill the entire crowd at a New Orleans Brass hockey game.

There was the Krazy Kajun, a Bourbon Street tourist mill whose Liquid Smoke-flavored red beans and rice, scorched etouffee, and eraserlike fried alligator nuggets proved too vile even for tourists with a few of those colorful yard-long daiquiris inside them.

There was Lhasa, a Tibetan restaurant whose owner took great pleasure in entertaining diners by playing his violin and singing medieval ballads. Sadly for him, the diners did not share his pleasure, and the charbroiled mutton and butter tea failed to keep them coming in.

There was Maman’s, a po-boy place that frightened people away by hanging big, inexplicable photographs of the Stealth bomber in the dining area.

There was Riesling, a would-be Alsatian restaurant that offered no mustard with its limp choucroute garnie.

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