Dedicated to the Crew at Acme Oyster House

People often ask me about the best food, or the best meal I've ever had and I'm always at a loss. There's no real answer that can stand the test of time. Food has so many emotional ties to me that my mood at any moment would have way too much influence over any "best" choice I would come up with. That being said...there is one recent memory that will stand out for quite some time, particularly in light of the glorious victory achieved by the New Orleans Saints in Super Bowl XLIV.

The meal took place on the night the Saints won the NFC Division Title game against Minnesota. My dear friend Ben Goren was in New Orleans for some business appointments we had set earlier in the month and we were staying in the penthouse suite of the Ritz Carlton. I had been in town since Friday and was feeling really good about an audition I had participated in for a cooking show. We could have stayed in that night and watched the game on a 150" Hi-Def projector screen in the media room of the penthouse, but we really wanted to be with the people of New Orleans. Ben Suggested Acme Oyster House and I agreed wholeheartedly.

As a kid, growing up with a second home in the French Quarter, I had spent many days and evening at Acme. It was one of my father's favorite spots in New Orleans and the last time he was well enough to make the trip, we sat in Acme for hours, eating oysters at the bar and drinking beer. It was just the two of us and we had a great visit. He told me stories that I had heard over and over and I sat there with rapt attention as if I was hearing them for the first time. After he died, it took a while before I could go back to New Orleans and not feel as if something was terribly wrong. His death almost took the joy out of the Crescent City for me, but slowly I felt the sadness drift away like some loaded grain barge drifting around the bend past the Riverwalk.

When Ben and I got to the Acme, there was a short line and a group in front of us in full Viking regalia. The hostess shuffled them to a table in the back 40 and gave us a prime spot (at a 4-top) in the corner, with full views of just about every TV in the room. My mind was on nothing but Saints, beer and oysters (in that order), but Ben can't go anywhere in NOLA without ordering Shrimp or Crawfish Etouffee. Funny thing is, he never finishes it. He takes a few bites, smiles like a kid with a big-ass lollipop, and talks about how he just can't get that taste anywhere else in the world. Lucky for me, Ben's light eating habits allow me to get etouffee with every meal while he is in town.

Our table was right next to the oyster grill in the front room. The guys at the grill were sporting the black and gold "home" jerseys of Bush and Brees. There was a cameraman from Cox Cable wandering around catching all of the action and the pre-game excitement. When the waitress came to get our initial order, Ben's eyes lit up as he ordered his etouffee, one dozen raw and one dozen grilled. I took care of the beer selection and got a pair of brews from down the road at Abita, Turbodog for me and an Amber for Ben. The first beers and the etouffee arrived just at kickoff. Ben took his three bites, flashed his "only in New Orleans" smile and slid the bowl to me. If you've never had Acme's etouffee, get in the car and drive there now. This rich, savory concoction is why crawfish are born in the first place. As I was mopping up the bowl with French bread, the oysters arrived. People can talk all they want about little necks and blue points, but for my money fresh Gulf oysters can't be beat. They are plump, briny and firm. At Acme, they come out quick and keep coming until you say "uncle." The grilled oysters are truly decadent. The guys at the grill start with a fresh Gulf oyster, add a shot of melted butter, some fresh garlic and parsley and top it with a bit of Romano cheese. When the butter starts to bubble and the cheese melts, the grill masters pull the oysters off and put a baker's dozen on platter filled with rock salt. They come to the table still bubbly and wafting a heavenly aroma that dares you to even think about dieting.

I really have no idea how many oysters Ben and I went through that night. I stopped counting at around "oh my god, these are so good we have to get more." What I am sure of is the feeling of communal joy that shrouded that little corner of the world for three or so hours while the game was on. Every big hit, every first down, every defensive victory was greeted with shouts to the rafters and hugs exchanged between strangers at the next table over. There were no color barriers, no class barriers and really no distinction between servers and guests. We were all just Saints fans. One densely populated county in the Who Dat Nation collectively hoding our breath on every third down. Ben and I were constantly exchanging happy banter with the grill crew and the waitresses, when we weren't stuffing our faces with buttery hot oysters and chilly raw ones. When Favre was intercepted in overtimes, the whole joint was a jumping, hugging, high-fiving sea of black and gold, but when the kicking team came on the field the roar turned to reverent silence. People actually whispered. No orders were taken or served. The grills and oyster shucking stations were unmanned and the kitchen could have caught on fire and no one would have taken their eyes off the screens. A young waitress, who was not our server, came up beside me and grabbed my pinky with hers. As soon as the ball left Hartley's toe and headed right down the middle like it was on greased rails, the whole room (which had been holding its collective breath) erupted in roar that was heard across Lake Ponchartrain. My pinky-friend jumped up in my arms with both feet off the ground. We were both crying with exquisite joy. Even Ben was misty-eyed.


We ordered another round of beer and just sat back watching the whole scene. No one wanted to leave. Everyone will remember where they were that night.
The next time someone asked me about my best meal ever, I may have an answer for them. There was no Premier Cru Bordeaux, no starched white table cloth, no fifteen course tasting menu with infused foams and desserts cooked in liquid nitrogen. But there was bold flavor and a makeshift family and more than all of that, there was love.