And are we to forget where Andrew Jackson was entertained before and after the Battle of New Orleans—­where General Beauregard, military idol of the Creoles, resided—­where Paul Morphy the “chess king” lived—­where General Butler took up his quarters when, in 1862, under the guns of Farragut’s fleet, the city surrendered—?  Shall we fail to visit the curious old tenements and stables surrounding the barnyard which once was the remise of the old Orleans Hotel?  Shall we neglect old Metaire cemetery, with its graves built above ground in the days when drainage was less perfect?  Shall we fail to go to the levee (pronounced “levvy”) and see the savage flood of the muddy Mississippi coursing toward the gulf behind the embankment which alone saves the city from inundation?  Shall we ignore the French Market with its clean stalls piled with fresh vegetables, sea food, and all manner of comestibles, including file for the glorious Creole gombo.  Shall we not view the picturesque if sinister old Absinthe House, dating from 1799, with its court and stairway so full of mysterious suggestion, and its misty paregoric-flavored beverage, containing opalescent dreams?  Shall we not go to Sazerac’s for a cocktail, or to Ramos’ for one of those delectable gin-fizzes suggesting an Olympian soda-fountain drink?  Are we to ignore all these wonders of the city?

Yes, for it is time to go to luncheon at Antoine’s!

CHAPTER LIX

ANTOINE’S AND MARDI GRAS

Antoine’s is to me one of the four or five most satisfactory restaurants in the United States,—­two of the others being the Louisiane and Galatoire’s.  But one has one’s slight preferences in these things; and just as I have a feeling that the cuisine of the Hotel St. Regis in New York surpasses, just a little bit, that of any other eating place in the city, I have a feeling about Antoine’s in New Orleans.  This is not, perhaps, with me, altogether a culinary matter, for whereas I remember delightful meals at the Louisiane and Galatoire’s—­meals which, indeed, could hardly be surpassed—­I lived for a week at Antoine’s, and felt at home there, and became peculiarly attached to the quaint, rambling old restaurant, up stairs and down.

Antoine’s has never been “fixed up.”  The cafe makes one think of such old Parisian restaurants as the Boeuf a la Mode, or the Tour d’Argent.  Far from being a showy place, it is utterly simple in its decorations and equipment, but if there is in this country a restaurant more French than Antoine’s, I do not know where that restaurant is.

Antoine Alciatore, founder of the establishment, departed nearly forty years ago to the realms to which great chefs are ultimately taken.  Coming from France as a young man he established himself in a small cafe opposite the slave market, where he proceeded to cook and let his cooking speak for him.  His dinde a la Talleyrand soon made him famous, and he prospered, moving before long to the present building.  His sons, Jules and Fernand, were sent to Paris to learn at headquarters the best traditions of the haute cuisine, doing service as apprentices in such establishments as the Maison d’Or and Brabant’s.  Jules is now proprietor of Antoine’s, while Fernand is master of the Louisiane.