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NEW NEW ORLEANS FOOD

When I travel to New Orleans, I clamor for New Orleans food. I want roast beef poor boys from Parkway Tavern. I crave beans and rice from Willie Mae’s Scotch House. My mouth waters at the mention of green gumbo from Leah Chas’s Treme restaurant, Dooky Chase.

But my friends in New Orleans donâ??t always want the same. Their palates are more expansive, less provincial.

My friend Brett Anderson, restaurant critic for the Times-Picayune, was the first person to steer me to La Boca, co-owned by Adolfo Garcia, the man behind Rio Mar, the brilliant Latin seafood restaurant in the Warehouse District. His outside skirt steak puts most hunks of red meat to shame. And he makes a mean morcilla, a blood sausage that, to an eater craving Louisiana eats, bears a comforting resemblance to boudin noir.

On this trip, Lolis Elie, metro columnist for the paper, suggested Stella, Scott Boswell’s vest-pocket restaurant in the French Quarter. At first blush, I was not keen on foie gras and duck pâtè BLTs or veal-and-kobayaki gyoza with tempura shiso leaves.

I was looking for a riff on shrimp remoulade or a new take on trout menuire, but Boswell’s cooking–and the smart pairings of the sommelier–knocked me into the ditch. On the way out, I got a glimpse of the kitchen where a brigade of well-scrubbed youngsters was plating playful riffs on fish and chips, featuring wagon-wheel rounds of taro chips and trails of red chile caramel.

I’m not saying I like Stella! better than the city’s more tradition-bound restaurants. No way. All I’m saying is Stella! is worth a try when, after a few days of gumbo travels, you aim to shuck the provincial coil.

WHAT TO DO WITH A RIPE TOMATO
(A QUICK RECIPE, OF SORTS)

I just bought my first tomato of the year. I am goddamned excited.

I’m not a dogmatic local-seasonal-sustainable eater. But, in life, there are certain things I believe in waiting for: tomatoes, peaches. . . I’m sure there are more. Well, maybe there are more.

But anyway, tomatoes. I have one. It’s gorgeous and I waited a long time for it, because I love a ripe tomato so much I can’t bring myself to eat anything but. Around this time every year, I start keeping a bowl of them on my counter, red and green and yellow and purple, sweet and sour and salty and umamilicious. For two months I’ll keep replenishing it as they keep disappearing, pressed into service. Sometimes I’ll puree them to make a base for ratatouille, sometimes I’ll eat them right out of the bowl, but most often they will command me to make my favorite summer dish, a spectacle of the season ready in minutes. I waited this long already, and I’m not going to wait much longer.

I get some spaghetti boiling in salty water while I dice up a bunch of tomatoes and throw them–with their juices–in a mixing bowl with plenty of salt, pepper, and a couple glugs of olive oil. If I’m feeling sassy, and if the tomatoes are particularly sweet, I’ll give it a splash of nice, light vinegar.

I cover everything with a handful of arugula, and a few thin shavings of shallot on top. This is where it gets hard. The layering is important, so I have to fight myself not to dig into the bowl. Usually there’s some meditation involved, but I suck at yoga, so basically this is when I start screaming obscenities at the pasta to finish cooking.

When it’s finally done, I drain it and throw it on top of everything in the bowl and let it sit there, exercising patience for another two minutes. The reward is that the heat from the pasta will take off the shallots’ raw onion edge and wilt the arugula. Meanwhile, I keep myself busy by shaving long, fabulous strips of good Parmigiano on top.

After those interminable minutes, I stir. I stir like the possessed, mixing it all up, stretching and pulling melting strands of cheese, coating the pasta in juice and oil.

And then I go out to my balcony, seven stories above the beautiful grime of Queens, where the hot air blows around me and I can hear kids below screaming at Mister Softee to finish pulling their soft serve. Bowl resting on my knees and ice melting too fast in my glass, I sit there and slurp away my summer.

SEVEN REASONS TO FALL FOR HARBOUR ISLAND IN THE BAHAMAS

1. It’s a fabulous summer destination. With dependable Atlantic breezes, tiny Harbour island–a tropical Nantucket, just a few miles from Eleuthra. And it’s low season until mid-December, which means not only uncrowded beaches but also house-rentals prices and hotel rates are much lower than they are during the winter.

2. It’s bling-free. Almost alone among the best islands in the Caribbean–Saint Bart’s, Anguilla, the Turks and Caicos–tiny Harbour Island is not the place to go if your idea of a great vacation is shopping duty-free Rolexes. The day’s big buying moment comes when picking up fresh rock lobster tails at the dock–10 pounds for about $75.

3. Everyone’s invited to the party. Who say’s anyone over 40 doesn’t dance? On Harbour Island, everyone plays together, hitting the same bars and clubs–Gusty’s, with a sand dance floor; funky Vic-Hum’s, where the dance floor doubles as an open-air basketball court; and the Sea Grapes, where no stands still when the junkaroo bands get going.

4. The pink sand beach. Made from coral, it’s one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. The turquoise waters of the Atlantic are dive-right-in warm, too.

5. Jalepeño bread and other delicacies. Folks head to Arthur’s bakery in the morning for coconut bread, sticky rolls, and cheese-and-jalapeño bread that’s perfect with barbecued fish. Other great things to eat on the island include the fresh conch salad at the Queen Conch stand near the harbor, the epic cheeseburger at Sip Sip (where the crowds goes for lunch) the grilled tuna steak at The Landing, and the cappellini with rock shrimp at The Rock House.

6. No traffic. Harbour Island is car-free; everyone gets around on electric golf carts.

7. It’s a peaceable kingdom. Founded by British Loyalists fleeing the American Revolution and African slaves who once worked on Eleuthra’s pineapple plantations, Harbour Island is that rare Caribbean island where everyone’s lived together harmoniously for centuries.