Brandy Milk Punch

My foodie heart comes from the city where I was born, raised and lived for over fifty years. In New Orleans, it is always about the restaurants. My parents and my maternal grandmother Memére most enjoyed the seafood places that diced Lake Pontchartrain. These were popular, unique, crowded on Friday nights, and all independently run. But Lenfant’s was my most favorite, close to our home in Lakeview, an upper middle class New Orleans neighborhood that changed drastically post Hurricane Katrina. There were starched white table cloths in the old pink building at Lenfant’s, and it was located next to a noisy railroad track. Demolished completely in later years, my visual memory still holds a clear, unforgettable picture of us sitting and enjoying the best ever seafood.

On the lake there was Fitzgerald’s sitting on a wharf, a well known local establishment, always packed with visitors from everywhere. We seemed to frequent a more simple place called Bart's, and there were others less often visited whose names I seemed to have forgotten, but always these places were dependable, affordable, close by and scrumptious, with calming views of white sails dotting the denim blue lake.

All of the seafood places had a fried smell, as fried oil is a powerful odor to captivate and stimulate hunger even when not hungry. My preferences were baked or broiled fish, much lighter, though most often smothered in lemon butter sauces that upped the caloric intake, not to mention the fried sides, hot french bread with unending pats of butter and luscious desserts. My favorite choices are still the same but also include seafood salads full of white, lump crabmeat and eggs over lettuce drowned in Remoulaude sauce, catfish po-boys covered in lettuce and tomato with a squirt of lemon and hot sauce, and crunchy trout almandine. My number one favorite in youth was trout, a fish that seems to have almost disappeared, or if it is offered on the menu it is quite expensive. Fishermen do admit that is is now a rare catch, and it never seems to taste the same as it used to.

The lakefront restaurants are mostly gone, as it is not the same as it was in my youth. Restaurants are different, and the limited originals are mostly located in the French Quarter. Aside from the famous expensive historic ones, the more affordable but also historic places include Don’s Seafood, the Gumbo Shop, Maspero's and Mandina’s. That unique, New Orleans restaurant odor exists in all of the places that are known for seafood. I suppose it is because of the fried fish oil that is non existent in other restaurants.

Brennan’s, a pink building near the historic Wildlife and Fisheries, is famous for tasty egg dishes that include Eggs Benedict, Eggs Sardou and more with French sauces, also known for the family’s unending family disputes. There was Galatoire’s, very French, and very crowded. The Court of Two Sisters was another family favorite, and Arnaud’s and Maspero’s were visited a few times. More recently came Restaurant Revolution, offering a modern day, fancy menu based on Old New Orleans flavor favorites with creative twists by new, innovative chefs. The Royal Orleans and the Royal Sonesta, were Hotels where I spent many lunch dates with Memére sitting in the windows watching people from all lands, people of all colors, colorful clothing of all designs, walking past looking in, looking out.

Antoine’s is known for the many old photos of famous actors and politicians who have enjoyed the all-French cuisine decorated in maroon red with a darkened wine cellar that is not a real cellar because New Orleans can’t have cellars as its sits on water deep below. Antoine’s is known for the mysterious, ghost like picture in a room called the Mystery room. I am happy that the menu is still in French. Some things stay the same. Eating there is a great joy as three plus jazz players will play almost anything requested on double bass, piano, and trumpet while the morning sun dances through white laced French doors. And morning coffee? The best thing ever for a slightly dizzy hangover headache. I still love to request St. James Infirmary, as though I am still 17 or 18 asking to hear this same song, as these men seem like ghosts from the past, looking at me as if they know me with a silent smile that only musicians share.

Beautiful Broussard’s was another family favorite where my mother loved to tell her story of her wedding breakfast with my father. Decorated in pink with tiny dull lit lamps on each laced table sets the mood. Why is everything pink in the French Quarter? Some of the buildings are pink. It even smells pink.

The Gumbo Shop is a great daytime brunch stop, where I have unsuccessfully tried to imitate the gumbo but cannot get the recipe to taste or look as dark as their extra thick roux with a strong distinctive odor that permeates the whole, indoor/outdoor restaurant and permeates your clothes for the rest of the day. I have successfully been able to imitate their Calas - pecan covered rice cakes with rich, dark syrup - in my current farm kitchen. Gumbo Shop is near Pat O’ Brien’s where the famous Hurricane gets many drunk fast because they don’t know what’s in it - yet it is so very well known to the world.

Everywhere, there were, and still are Flambe desserts and various southern sweets followed by strong coffee that is not the same as Cafe Du Monde coffee but it has its own dark tasty chicory flavor added. There seems to be a secret in the beans of a New Orleans restaurant coffee unmatchable in any other bean. And of course, there are always the infamous white powdered beignets. Pralines and praline sauces. Pecan Pie, now laced with hot butter sauces. There is the unforgettable infamous tasty Turtle soup dotted with drops of Cream Sherry. Oyster Po Boys. Shrimp everything. Omelettes stuffed with every kind of seafood but mostly white chunks of fresh caught crabmeat. Crepes, sweet or wrapped around shrimp or lump crabmeat. Icy Mint Juleps in the hot summer. What could be better?

I brought my husband on a French Quarter date before moving to Texas to get a free drink with a rare Antoine’s coupon so that I could introduce him to the world I lived in for over 50 years. Born in Alabama, like most visitors, he had “been to the French Quarter a couple of times” when young. I looked at the drink menu, a connoisseur of French - wines - only, as I am no longer familiar with much else. But then I saw it: Brandy Milk Punch! $12.00. Coupon not accepted. Oh, my. It was my most favorite drink that I ordered for every jazz brunch ever attended, from the age of 16 to the late teens and early 20s till I decided that the Hurricane was better until it sickened me and I gave up alcohol altogether. However once I discovered French wines: Bordeaux Spéciales, St. Emilion, Gris Blanc Rose, I forgot about my beloved Brandy Milk Punch. I was about to order it as I stared at the menu almost aghast. And then I realized that I couldn’t have it. After many visits to France, my stomach told me that I couldn’t have too much milk or cheese! Soy, almond, other milk types would never be good substitutes to re-create that brandy drink. The original drink consists of rich milk and cream, nutmeg, brandy, sugar, orange liqueur, crushed ice and vanilla. Some things one must give up for life like a diabetic and sugar. In my minds mouth, I can still taste it. Sometimes a soy iced mocha or coconut Chai Latte from Starbucks will satisfy. But the luscious milk punch is imbedded in my memory, like the odors of the restaurants and the lakefront and the dim lit pink atmospheres and the white table cloths with waiters in tuxes, and the pungent dark roux’s, and the pink buildings and bluesy tunes of the jazzmen who made eye contact with a young flutist. Perhaps these musicians are ghosts. The white punch seems a ghost in my mouth. In the place of my youth that I am so proud to recall and have as my heritage, these tastes are what I will always know. It is a moveable feast from historic NOLA to our little farm in Texas with antiques and French collectibles that tell the story of our lives in our large kitchen with notable cookbooks and simple Bordeaux wines, where we bake and cook just about anything tasty, put on or play jazz, open up a good Rose, take out the white napkins, and enjoy. But we cannot re-create that restaurant smell. Or that rich restaurant coffee. One holiday morning I should try and re-create that Brandy Milk Punch with a milk substitute. Or maybe not. Some things are better left in the nostalgic memory that holds not only a place but an odor, a song, a particular, indescribable taste, a happy feeling.