In New Orleans for the first or second time about 15 years ago, I was walking down a street in the Quarter when I saw a line of people on the sidewalk. It took a second to realize they were waiting at the door of a restaurant. This was still mid-afternoon, but the line was longish already.
Then I recognized the third person in line: Billy Payne, the piano player from Little Feat — a man who is an idol of mine. I doubled back and said hello to him and garbled out some fan talk, just thinking “wow, Billy Payne.” I said something that made him smile, and that was sweet. All that day I was overcome by the encounter itself… but then later, I got to thinking: what the heck was that restaurant? Evidently so good that even somebody of Bill Payne’s caliber of awesomeness is patiently waiting in line to get in.
It was K-Paul’s. I hunted it down later — it’s hard to find, just another storefront on Chartres St, half obscured under the wrought iron. The inside is also fairly anonymous, just checkered cloth-covered tables and a big brick wall, ending at a kitchen with a huge window where you can see the chefs at work. There’s no fuss about anything, absolutely no sense that you’re anyplace special.
But oh, holy god, the food. Gumbo, etouffee, bread pudding, and a blazing hot cajun martini, that’s what I had. Everything perfectly proportioned, everything incredibly simple. And every single bite was mind-blowingly delicious. All the attention that other restaurants put into the decor and fancy menu and waitstaff performances, K Paul’s puts into the food. I’ve had some great meals in a lot of cities over the years… but that was the greatest dinner of my life.
Read Paul Prudhomme’s obituary and know the reasons why: not just his inventiveness and skill, his generosity and openness, but his commitment to the basics of good cooking. Think about that window into the kitchen: something you see in pizza parlors but never, ever in a fine restaurant. It’s indicative of the man’s whole attitude of transparency and inclusion. This sentence of the obit hit me hardest: “In keeping with Mr. Prudhomme’s gospel of fresh ingredients, the restaurant had no freezers.” I mean, what restaurant has no freezers?
The same restaurant that Billy Payne would line up for at 3:30 in the afternoon. The best damn restaurant in America.
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