Canned Foods in French Restaurants?! What Would Escoffier Say? Let's See...

A law should stipulate

that in a restaurant

food that has been cooked

on site with fresh ingredients

is served to customers.

Didier Chenet

President of French restaurant union, Synhorcat

Yesterday in the online edition of the German magazine Spiegel, Stefan Simons wrote that French restaurateurs are rankling under an onslaught of prepared meals and ingredients in places that serve food. With shorter lunch breaks, a greater emphasis on healthy eating, and a tighter economy, fast food joints and kitchen shortcuts are becoming increasingly common in the land known for boeuf Bourguignon and cassoulet. A slice of pizza for lunch might not at first blush seem "healthy," but compared to the traditional options at the long, drawn-out lunches of old, it's quicker, cheaper, and may have fewer calories.

What specifically upsets restaurateurs, though, is the crush of canned, bagged, bottled, and otherwise preserved or pre-made dishes and ingredients in so-called restaurants. Many argue that places that serve such food ought not be called "restaurants" at all. Simons writes:

A recent poll of culinary professionals in France by restaurant union Synhorcat found that 31 percent of French eateries are now often looking to the can for their culinary inspiration. Increasingly, this means salads out of bags, industrially produced French fries and potato wedges, canned vegetables, flavor concentrates, vacuum-packed fish as well as sauces and dressings out of the bucket. One-quarter of meals are no longer cooked -- they are simply stirred together or warmed up with nary a mention on the menu that what the customer is getting isn't fresh. As a result, half of customers no longer trust the restaurants that serve them.

Horrible. Simply horrible. Sauces from buckets! Canned produce! Such degradation of French cuisine. Can you imagine what the sainted Auguste Escoffier — the king of chefs and the chef of kings — would say if he weren't so busy turning in his grave? What sputtered indignation could he offer us?

We don't have to imagine. Escoffier actually wrote about such things. From Auguste Escoffier: Memories of My Life:

Since I created Pêche Melba, which now enjoys world wide renown, demand for tender peaches, both fresh and preserved whole, has increased considerably. To ensure the high quality of such peaches, the fruit must not be too fragile. Montreuil peaches were excellent, but in recent years that quality of peach became difficult to find. I noticed that in the Rhone valley there grew a peach that was very similar to the Montreuil peach. I tested it and was very happy with the results. The next year, in 1911, 15,000 of these peaches were canned. The year after, 30,000 peaches were canned, and the third year the figure had reached 60,000. The producer was planning to can 100,000 of these peaches when the war broke out. This kind of incontestable success would never had [sic] existed without the creation of Pêche Melba.

Escoffier did not merely tolerate canned and bottled goods cooked off-site, he embraced them. He encouraged producers to bottle, can, and ship overseas produce and sauces. He even later owned a company to manufacture canned and bottled goods. Although the codifier of haute French cuisine developed an improved tomato purée around 1874 (when the custom among cooks was to pour the purée in Champagne bottles and sterilize them), he could not convince a manufacturer to can the product until about 1892, when he took the entire 2,000 can run for his kitchens at the Savoy. The year after that, the manufacturer canned 60,000 kilos of crushed tomatoes. Today, some of the best restaurants in the world use canned tomato products.

From truffles to tomatoes, Escoffier knew that seasonality and adverse local growing conditions could make certain foodstuffs occasionally unavailable. Granted, he maintained high standards, but there was — and remains — no reason that high-quality preserved foods shouldn't be in anyone's kitchen larder. Do you truly want to mill your own grains, make your own pasta, pickle your own capers, grown your own cotton, stitch every bit of your clothing, build your own bike, forge your own knives — and create by your own hands every single thing you want to eat, drink, wear, or use every single day? There comes a point when we must rely on others who do good work so that we can get on with doing our own good work.

So, yeah. Despite some pretty schlocky examples on the market, canned, bottled, and jarred products don't bother me in and of themselves. I know how to make whiskey and homemade butter couldn't be easier, but frankly, it's a lot more expedient to buy those things from others who know what they're doing.

I sympathize with their frustrations, but clinging to notions of authenticity centered on fresh ingredients cooked in-house is going to be a slippery prospect for France's restaurateurs.

Goes well with:

• Auguste Escoffier (1997) Auguste Escoffier: Memories of My Life. Van Nostrand Reinhold, New York.
• Escoffier isn't the only French chef we like around here. Henri Charpentier — who worked with Escoffier at the Savoy — credibly claimed to have invented Crêpes Suzette...and Eggs, William S. Burroughs.
• Stefan Simons' Spiegel article, Foodies Fight to Protect the Term 'Restaurant'
• Speaking of food that's not prepared to order, here are a few recipes I like: House Pickles with Pimento Dram, Pickled Shrimp with Blood Orange, Watermelon Pickles, and the ever-popular Mexican Pickled Carrots.

Bananas Foster French Toast. To Start.

"We have salmon, lettuce, simple syrup, beer, key lime cheesecake, a tri-tip, and...erm...butter." Pause. Blink. "Or would you rather go out?" After the usual uncertainty of what to eat on a weekend morning, we headed to Fig Tree Cafe, a local joint with a typical Southern California menu: omelettes, Benedict variations, hash, French toast, burritos and tacos, fresh fruit and salads, plus the sort of sugar-and-spice-lacquered bacon one finds on brunch menus these days. At Fig Tree, it's called Man Candy. Sure. Why not? Bring on the man candy — but that's not why I was there.

Appetizer (n): what you eat before you eat so you'll be more hungry

I was there for the French Toast: four thick slices of bread, batter-dipped, skillet-fried, and dolled up bananas Foster style with sautéed banana slices, brown sugar, and rum. When I asked our waiter to bring a plate of that, he nodded agreeably and asked "To start?"

Yes. To start.

After that, I'd like three pork chops, a pitcher of orange juice, a five-egg Denver omelette, a bowl of yogurt with honey and granola, a mango and arugula salad (check; make that two), two breakfast burritos, an English muffin with butter and marmalade, one of those crab cakes with avocado slices, some sausage, a chicken sandwich, six shrimp tacos, an order of breakfast sushi, and a slice of meatloaf. Oysters if they're good today. And biscuits. Do you have biscuits?

Oh, and don't forget the man candy. I'll take, like, a pound.

French toast to start. Pfft. Who am I, Diamond Jim Brady?

Grousing aside, breakfast was great.

Fig Tree Cafe
416 University Avenue
San Diego, California
(619) 298-2010
The menu

Goes well with:

• While we're on the topic of bacon, sugar, and spices, but certain to make a batch of homemade bacon jam with apple cider. At its most simple use, just spread it on toast. But once you start folding it into macaroni and cheese, potato gratins, waffles, bread dough, and the like...well, then you're onto something quite good indeed. I might just use some in the next batch of bacon dumplings. 
• Fig Tree isn't the only place I like to hit for breakfast in San Diego. The Tractor Room is always a solid choice. The full bar may have something to do with that. 
• Tri tip is a cut we see a lot in California, but less so in other parts of the country. If you get your hands on some, do as I do: grill it. 
• Diamond Jim Who? James Buchanan "Diamond Jim" Brady was a Gilded Age railroad supply salesmen known for expensive swag and an expansive gut, a contemporary of Mark Twain. David Kamp looks into the truth of his supposed and infamous gluttony for the New York Times. 

Preservationists and Historians Rally to Save 19th Century Bar Tujague's

Tujague's is one of the most authentic, unspoiled examples 
of a nineteenth-century bar left in America. 
To lose it would be to not only lose an important link 
with the history of New Orleans 
(a city whose reputation as a place to visit was largely built
 on the character of its old bars and restaurants) 
but with America's history as well. 
I know that with a little patience this historic place 
can be saved, and I pray that that patience is found.

~ David Wondrich
cocktail historian

It's hard to spend much time in New Orleans without, at some point, ending up at Tujague's. The restaurant, built on the site of an old Spanish armory in 1827, is just around the corner from Jackson Square and, although I've never ended a night there, I have begun quite a few days in the cool embrace of its bar. Nursed along several afternoons as well with a Sazerac or a Angostura phosphate in hand. I don't know how old the long cypress bar itself is, but the mirror behind it came from Paris in the decade before Lincoln was elected president. The bar is far older than I and — or so I thought until this week — was destined to survive me.

That prospect is now in doubt.

Errol Laborde, editor of New Orleans magazine, writes about troubling rumors concerning the historic restaurant after its long-time owner, Steven Latter, recently died:

According to the rumors, the building on Decatur Street that houses the last of the original Creole Restaurants and the second oldest (after Antoine’s) restaurant in the city will be sold to businessman Mike Motwani who is known for converting businesses into tacky, touristy T-shirt and gift shops. Motwani supposedly will do the same, though the front part of the building, according to my source, might be used to serve fried chicken.

Laborde pulls no punches. "Preservationists and those who care about urban style and character," he explains, "have long despised Motwani’s businesses." He goes on with a plea to Mr Latter's surviving brother, Stanford, who owns the building itself: "Please Mr. Latter, keep the legacy of your brother’s restaurant alive. At the very least, don't let the builiding fall into the hands of those who don't give a damn about the character of the city."

Ann Tuennerman, founder of Tales of the Cocktail, wrote an open letter to Stanford Latter bemoaning the potential dismantling of such an historical New Orleans restaurant where, it's asserted, the grasshopper cocktail was invented. She writes:

Dear Mr. Latter, 

Let me start by saying how sorry I am about the recent loss of your brother, Steve. In the time I got to know him through my work with Tales of the Cocktail and the New Orleans Cocktail Tour two things always stood out-- his dry wit and his love for New Orleans. He clearly had a deep respect for the history and culture of our great city with the way he ran Tujague’s for more than 30 years 

Now, I don’t claim to be a real estate expert so I can’t speak to getting the most out of your investment. But as the founder of New Orleans Culinary and Cocktail Preservation Society, I do know about our city’s rich history of dining and drinks. Tujaque’s is the place that continued the legacy of Madame Begue’s legendary brunches and where the Grasshopper cocktail was invented. It’s the home of brisket and horseradish and the beautiful long standup bar that takes you back in time when you order a drink. It breaks my heart to picture the doorway of this landmark littered with Drunk 1 and Drunk 2 t-shirts. 

This city is in the midst of a renaissance — one that’s met with both excitement and fear. Every day brings progress that New Orleans hasn’t seen in decades. But the great fear, one that’s generations old, is that with progress comes a cleansing of the culture that makes this place not a just a great place to visit but, more importantly, a great place to live. Culture doesn’t just disappear in a day. Here one day, gone tomorrow. It erodes slowly as people put the bottom line ahead of everything else. But it doesn’t have to be that way. With what you choose to do with the Tujague’s building, you can stand for the peaceful coexistence between progress and culture. 

I know business is business. But sometimes selling to the highest bidder comes with costs that can’t be counted in dollars and cents. Like losing yet another of our beloved restaurants and a piece of the living history that makes New Orleans so special. If you sell the Tujague’s building to the wrong person, the rest of us will be the ones paying for it. So please, Mr. Latter, respect our history, respect our culture and respect the legacy your brother worked his life to build. 

Sincerely,
Ann Tuennerman, Founder of Tales of the Cocktail 

Thank you in advance.

Allow me to add my voice to those who decry the potential loss of such an historic place. If a restaurant must fail, then fail it must. But to sell the building to a businessman who has shown time and again his disdain for the culture and history of one of America's most treasured cities is a gut-wrenching prospect.

New Orleans needs another t-shirt tourist trap like it needs another hurricane.

Goes well with:

• Laborde's piece Save Tujague's — Please is here. 
• A visit to Tujague's while you still can.
• My review of Sara Roahen's Gumbo Tales. In 2008, I wrote "Those of us interested in the drinking and food cultures of New Orleans savor classic cookbooks such as Lafcadio Hearn’s 1885 La Cuisine Creole for shedding light on the origins of creole cooking. Others help explain the growth of both creole and Cajun cookery, such as Paul Prudhomme’s 1984 Chef Paul Prudhomme’s Louisiana Kitchen or John Folse’s recent encyclopedic tomes on South Louisiana cookery (all of which, by the way, contain an abundance of recipes for alcoholic beverages, sips, and nips from absinthe drips to brandy milk punches)." Roahen's book belongs on that same shelf.
• Another rumor circulating is that New Orleans chef John Besh is interested in purchasing the building. For what it's worth, I'm interested in purchasing the building. I'm interested in a lot of things I can't do. If you can't make it to Tujague's for a drink, grab a copy of Besh's 2010 cookbook, My New Orleans. Click for my review.

If You Do This...

I would not be amused. 

The kind of not being amused 

that gets a motherfucker 

banned for life 

from my bar.

~ David Wondrich

Tipping waitstaff is expected in America — but there are right and wrong ways to drop a little something extra on those who mix our drinks and serve our food.

"If you do this then fuck you"

There's the normal way to leave a tip; leave some cash, maybe 20% of the total, or put the same on your credit card. Then there are the dick moves, spiteful hate tips. Leaving a lone penny, for example. A penny? Really? If the service was that bad, get a manager, you coward.

Until yesterday, I hadn't seen the cash in glass of water manoeuvre. I found a picture titled "If you do this then fuck you," on one of my favorite time-wasting sites, Imgur. The photo got my immediate attention.

At first glance, the photo taker appears to have put two $20 bills in a glass of water, covered it with a napkin and a plate, then inverted the whole, left as a condescending tip. Alternately — and even worse — perhaps the entire check is being covered by the soaking Andrew Jacksons and the bartender is expected to make change from this sodden mass. I linked to the image on Twitter, writing "Can't determine if customer is utter tool. Hinges on whether this is leaving bartender a tip or paying the bill."

Drinks writer (and author of Punch) David Wondrich got a little, well, punchy at subsequent remarks by others."Why not," he tweeted, "just give the bartender your tip as if he or she were a normal human being?"

When I posited that perhaps there might be more to the picture, that perhaps this was the result of a talk about bar tricks, his ire was plain: "I would not be amused. The kind of not being amused that gets a motherfucker banned for life from my bar."

Wondrich is absolutely correct. Some comments on Imgur run along the lines of "$40 tip? I'll take it." And I can understand the sentiment; after all, what bartender hasn't handled wet cash at one time or another? But if this is a tip, it reeks of arrogance, the kind exhibited by privileged tourists throwing pennies off the pier for local diving boys to retrieve. It's as if the douchbags of Bret Easton Ellis' American Psycho were alive and well.

Of course, I don't know the backstory here. Was the bartender a tool? Doesn't matter. Even if the bartender is a dick, as @JustinCoz suggests, Wondrich retorts, "If the bartender is a dick, does that mean you should be one, too?"

The problem with photos (even non 'shopped ones) is that we don't know the context. Was this a collaboration between bartender and patron? The result of a bar bet that never even involved the bartender? After all, the pen in the background suggests that a credit card had been run — perhaps the cash was never meant for the bartender in the first place. Just because we don't see the photographer doesn't mean he's gone; this photo could simply be proof that this little physics trick could be done and everything will go back to normal after the photo's taken — the bartender's been tipped by credit card and the soggy bills leave with the photographer. Maybe.

It feels like a tip, though. And a dick move. And if you do this when we're out together, then, yes, fuck you.

Goes well with:

• I've seen patrons leave all kinds of noteworthy tips. A double fistful of pennies in a cheese tub was lowbrow, but to be fair it was in a Philadelphia basement bar we'd hit after work called 12 Steps Down; the whole scene was lowbrow.
• At a West Virginia diner, I once absentmindedly folded a paper place mat into an origami box and slipped our waitresses' tip inside. It's not something I usually do. I was preoccupied. Folding and refolding paper gave my hands something to do. But when she saw what I had done, the waitress seemed genuinely delighted. I probably wouldn't fold cash into a crane, though; (1) a box is a lot easier than a crane (2) waitstaff generally want cash, not paper playthings.
• The Zero Tip and How to Pull it Off. I hate leaving a zero tip when I'm out eating or drinking. It's the end result of something that's gone seriously wrong. But there's a right way and a wrong way to do it. Here's the solution I've come up with for those almost-never times when I just can't bring myself to tip at all.

Pok Pok's Chicken Wings

I've lost my goddamned mind: 

just conducted an interview 
of the chicken wings I'm frying at home. 

Surprisingly, they have a voice a lot like mine, 
only higher.

~ Facebook post from me last night,

an increasingly rare occurrence

Last month, I spent the better part of a week in Portland, Oregon. Like so many before me, I was smitten. Can you blame me? I’m from San Diego, a desert town on the coast. It’s hard not to be taken with Portland’s lush greenery and air so moist you can feel it even on a sunny day (or, rather, during sunny parts of most days). Add to that the breweries, the distilleries, the Bookstore, hiking out in the gorge, the cocktails, and the food…oh, sweet Jesus, the food.

We ate. When someone asks me what we did in Portland, my answer is simply: we ate. Bacon macaroni and cheese from a food truck, sour cherry water ice, bulgogi tacos, truffled popcorn, pickles, ice cream sandwiches, fried-to-order chocolate donuts, pork ribs, chicken fried steak, boar, an amazing red pork stew, cured meats, cheeses, biscuits, fried chicken, berries, cherries, lefse, blue cheese burgers. I didn’t feel right for a week afterward. It was glorious.

A plate of spicy chicken wings at Andy Ricker’s restaurant Pok Pok, though, was so good that we ordered another round even though there wasn’t one single hungry person at the table. I’m not the first to write about the wings. I won’t be the last. The have a fame of their own. When my friend Barry sent directions for making them from a 2008 Food & Wine recipe, I bought three kilos of flappers and broke out the fryer.

It was too much. None was left.

Ike’s Vietnamese Fish Sauce Wings
(aka Pok Pok Wings)

The menu calls them Ike’s Vietnamese Fish Sauce Wings. No disrespect to Ike, but most everyone I spoke to in Portland called these crispy glazed chicken wings Pok Pok wings. In brackets are my adjustments and notes. You’ll notice that I like garlic and heat. To add some spice to the glaze, I added a healthy dollop of sambal oelek, an Indonesian crushed chile paste that’s widely available even in whitebread grocery stores.

½ cup Asian fish sauce [Viet Huong brand nuoc mam]
½ cup superfine sugar
4 garlic cloves, 2 crushed and 2 minced [8-10, 4-5 and 4-5]
3 pounds [whole] chicken wings
2 tablespoons vegetable oil, plus more for frying
1 cup cornstarch
1 Tbl chopped fresh cilantro
1 Tbl chopped fresh mint [chiffonade]
[2 Tbl sambal oelek, Huy Fong brand]

In a bowl, whisk the fish sauce, sugar, [sambal oelek, if using], and crushed garlic. Add the wings and toss to coat. Refrigerate for 3 hours [more than that and they become oversalted from the fish sauce], tossing the wings occasionally.

Heat the 2 tablespoons of oil in a small skillet. Add the minced garlic; cook over moderate heat until golden, 3 minutes. Drain on paper towels.

In a large pot, heat 2 inches of oil to 350°F. Pat the wings dry on paper towels; reserve the marinade. Put the cornstarch in a shallow bowl, add the wings and turn to coat. Fry the wings in batches until golden and cooked through, about 10 minutes. Drain on paper towels and transfer to a bowl.

In a small saucepan, simmer the marinade over moderately high heat until syrupy, 5 minutes. Strain over the wings and toss. Top with the cilantro, mint and fried garlic and serve.

Salty? Yes. But not too much so as long as you don’t overdo the marinating time. Cook a pot of plain white rice, crack open a beer, and make sure you've got plenty of napkins.

The Zero Tip and How to Pull it off

JOE: All right, ramblers, let's get ramblin'. Wait a minute. Who didn't throw in?

MR. ORANGE: Mr. Pink.

JOE: Mr. Pink? Why not?

MR. ORANGE: He don't tip.

JOE: He don't tip? What do you mean you don't tip?

MR. ORANGE: He don't believe in it.

JOE: Shut up. What do you mean you don't believe in it? Come on, you, cough up a buck, you cheap bastard.

~ Reservoir Dogs

The first time I didn’t tip a bartender, I flubbed it. San Diego is giving me practice, though, and the next three times, I did it right. Here’s what prompts me to zero tip a waiter or bartender — and how to pull it off.

My rule of thumb for tipping at a restaurant is that 20% gets added to the bill unless there’s a problem with the service. Exceptional service gets more — though not much more. If the owner comps something, that’s fine, but I tip on what the total would have been with that included. If I’m at an open bar for several hours, I tip heavy right when I arrive. When the line gets to be five people deep later, guess whose drinks are ready with no waiting every time?

But what if the service is so bad, so neglectful, so willfully incompetent, that you can’t bring yourself to leave anything at all for the waitstaff?

Until I moved to San Diego, I’d never encountered service that bad. Leaving nothing for a server or bartender simply had never occurred to me. I don’t mean a harried waitress on a busy shift or a newbie bartender fumbling a complicated drink. These are understandable. I’m talking about the silent “fuck you” of a waiter or bartender who pointedly ignores you.

Serving food and drinks is hard work that comes with more than its share of injuries and truly awful clientele. Leaving nothing goes against everything I believe waitstaff and bartenders deserve. But more than once since moving to Southern California, I’ve been flat-out ignored after being served an initial round of drinks.

The first time it happened, we waited forty minutes for a second round of beers and food that never came because the bartender at the Escondido beer garden had never placed our lunch order. “Don’t worry” he assured me when I finally got him to pay attention, “I didn’t charge you for it” (he had been busy serving other guests, joking with bar backs, and even tickling a giggling busser; he had had dozens of opportunities to serve us).

I can’t bring myself to leave the grandiose insult of a single penny; I’m just not that big of a prick. Instead, I tracked down a manager, paid the exact amount of the check, and left. I was angry at being ignored and angry that I’d been forced into reconsidering my 20% policy.

But leaving no tip doesn’t punish just the bartender or waiter. Waitstaff rely on support networks that span the front and back of the house and may include bar backs, runners, bussers, hosts, cooks, and others. Waiters, even bad ones, usually tip out; that is, at the end of their shift, they dole out a portion of their tips to those who help them do their jobs. I was so angry that I wasn’t thinking of the clearing staff and the cut they can get from a waiter’s tips.

The next time a waiter inexplicitly stopped coming by the table — even though he was clearly still working others in the section — I finally had to get the bill from a manager. I paid the exact amount of the check, then handed the manager $5 in cash. “Please give this to the busser,” I asked. It was more than the guy would have made from the waiter, but much less than what the tip should have been. Very briefly, I explained why I was leaving nothing for the waiter and that this not an oversight. Bad behavior is a management issue and management needs to know.

As a customer, I don’t ever want to be put in the position of leaving a zero tip. But there’s a right way to do it. When a busser brings you water, napkins, and condiments, refills your tea or coffee, and also clears your dishes, he’s doing his job. It’s not his fault that the waiter is a tool; he shouldn’t be punished for it. Make sure he gets something. It’s the right thing to do. And make sure the management knows. No fighting, no arguing, no raised voices, no exaggerating. Describe the situation truthfully, succinctly, and politely. Then leave.

And if the waiter is bussing his own table or the bartender has no bar back?

Well, fuck that guy.

Goes well with:

• Larry Fox delivers restaurant food as a side job in Brooklyn. He got so fed up with cheapskates (take, for instance, the 68-cent tip on a $72.32 bill) that he recently launched the site ≤15% documenting who’s giving the worst tips around town. Subtitled “A Bunch of Shitty Tips,” the blog is at turns funny and appalling. Ever had the feeling your delivery guy hated you? Fox may be able to shed some light on that.
• The Yelp Elite, a Tumblr blog that culls snippets of the most ridiculous, pretentious review copy from Yelp reviewers. Worth a read. UPDATE 5/3/11: Wow, that was fast. Less than 24 hours later and the site seems to have been compelled to rename and relocate. The new site, The ____ Elite, is up now with no reference to the Yelpers in its title.

Stanley — Breakfast all Day on Jackson Square

Stanley on Jackson Square in New Orleans is one of my new favorite breakfast joints. Yeah, they’ve got sandwiches—good ones like chicken clubs—but I’m a whore for solid breakfast and Stanley delivers.

The high ceilings, tile floors, and marble table tops give the feel of an old ice cream parlor, but the food is upscale diner: eggs, pancakes, corned beef hash, bananas Foster French toast, and plenty of ice cream sundaes. Most dishes go for about $12. A predilection for hollandaise sauce, though, is what keeps me coming back.

Among the egg dishes, benedict variations take the fore—Eggs Stanley (cornmeal-crusted local oysters, Canadian bacon, hollandaise, on an English muffin); Eggs Stella (cornmeal-crusted softshell crab) and the Eggs Benedict poor boy (yeah, the usual ingredients done as a poor boy sandwich). But for me, the standout was the Breaux Bridge Benedict. With the coarse South Louisiana sausage boudin, poached eggs, smoked ham, American cheese, and thin “Creole” hollandaise, the dish is rich enough to be completely satisfying and small enough not to slow you down in the sometimes oppressive heat.

For Tales of the Cocktails attendees, you all are in good luck: Stanley is a mere six blocks from the Hotel Monteleone and opens at 7am. Breakfast and lunch are served all day.

See you there.

Stanley
547 St. Ann
New Orleans LA 70116
504-587-0093