A Little Piece of Home

It's funny how when you grow up eating something, whether it's good or bad, it becomes forever associated with a comfortable feeling. It doesn't necessarily have to be delicious, made a certain way, or by a certain person, but remembered flavors can bring you back to a simpler time, where eating the item in question was a highlight and a treat.

When you grow older and move away, you start to truly appreciate the way things were done "back when" or "at home," regardless of the fact that the said "home" hasn't actually been "home" for quite some time. It becomes something to get really excited about when you're able to replicate a recipe that smacks of familiarity or find a restaurant that is able to do the same.

Here in New Orleans, I've had my fair share of amazing food. Actually, more than fair, since as a food editor, I'm privileged and honored to have been a guest at many of the world-famous dining destinations this amazing city has to offer. But sometimes, when times are rough and you're feeling down, it's not a medium-rare ribeye in a red wine reduction or a seared duck breast with pecans and an orange au jus that you want. It's the comfort food of your childhood that you crave--a paper container of chicken and broccoli in a brown sauce, greasy pizza with a sweet marinara, a moist-in-the-middle bagel, liberally covered in dehydrated onion pieces, poppy and sesame seeds.

It took me five years to find suitable substitutes for the tastes of "home" here (since a few places were good for one thing or another, but not for everything overall) ... but it has been done. Unfortunately, we may only be able to enjoy these substitutes for one more year before having to embark on the same mission elsewhere, no thanks to the tanking economy and job shortages, but the point is, that for the time being, those warm/safe/fuzzy feelings in the belly are available to us.

When Boy's friend unfolded a long, white menu with red and black print on it in front of us, our hearts jumped into our throats with excitement and nervous anticipation. Where did this foreign-looking object come from? Why were there pint and quart options on a New Orleans menu? Why was the layout exactly the same as what we grew up with? These were all questions that flew through our heads at rapid speed when we saw the New York style menu of Chinese take-out Green Tea on Louisiana and Magazine, in the little shopping center that Blockbuster's in.

This little restaurant didn't disappoint. Authentic bastardized (or, "Westernized" -- but the irony is intended, since there is an extreme disconnect between the true and American versions) Chinese food, made Long Island style! What glory! What wonder of wonders! Fried rice -- yellow! Shrimp with lobster sauce -- white, eggy, and with no pesky vegetables! Brown sauce -- sauce, and not just watered down thin soy! Egg rolls in thick, crispy wraps with cabbage and pork! And lo mein was lo mein and chow mein was chow mein!

This was a happy day.

Another great day was the one that I found New York style pizza, thin crust, sweet sauce, stringy cheese and all. This was an experience long coming, since in my stubborn obstinancy, I refused to eat pizza during my undergraduate years at Tulane, believing that I'd only be setting myself up for disappointment. Therefore, I boycotted all things pizza that didn't have TM after the place name (i.e. Pizza Hut, Papa John's, and the like ilk).

But I grew curious. As I became more a part of real life with office pizza thrust upon me, I became more interested in finding quality pizza even as the other shops let me down. Finally, due to some urging from the more open-minded Boy, I checked out the pizza place down the block from where I used to live, right on the edge of campus: The Dough Bowl; or, affectionately known as Boot pizza, due to its proximity and affiliation with the notorious bar of under-21 popularity.

The slices were generous, the grease provided a lovely thin sheen of golden gloss, the crust was crisp but foldable without breaking, and the cheese came off in thin strands. Heaven.

Now, I know it sounds silly after all of my experiences at culinary heavyweights like August, Cochon, Commander's Palace, and Brennan's, but when I'm wading around "in the Doldrums" (ahh, The Phantom Tollbooth, my old friend), it's cheapo Italian and Chinese I crave. To me, it's not that my tastes are still yet unrefined, but it's essentially that the pleasure these flavors and textures provide for me will never be ruined for me the way cheap steak has, since they're connected to memories so deep inside me that whatever the taste in my mouth is, it will be enhanced with memory like so many granules of MSG.