Review of P&G Breakfast and Lunch

The only early mornings I know of in New Orleans are the ones where you have lost your way home in search of a late night meal and spend the first few hours of golden dawn stumbling between the trash strewn streets and trying to sort through that cacophony of sensations of sight and sound that produce a cocktail more punishing than anything served at the cheap daiquiri bars that long ago closed their doors to you. If you find your way back to your hotel and into a bed, a feat which escapes many of New Orleans weekeneder homeless crowd, you should not sleep too long or you may miss a special opportunity. At the corner of Union and Barrone Street in New Orleans hides P&G Breakfast and lunch, a restaurant that delivers on nothing more or less than what its name promises. But as the name implies, P&G keeps tight hours and closes at the obscenely early hour of one in the afternoon.

I made it in bed the night before, but the Mardi-Gras music blaring trombone in my head shows that I had pushed the limits of my personal consumption the night before. Despite many years of life lessons with alcohol, the prospect of tasting drinks more colored than flavored with fruit and with that subtle taste of paint thinner was too much to resist. I awoke in a cold sweat cursing my failure to properly seal the blackout curtains. The sun sliced through my window, cutting a narrow ray of sunlight right across my face. I stood up, celebrated this minor accomplishment, and used my remaining energy to fly to the bathroom. Now made thoroughly aware by the burning in my stomach and pounding in my skull I saw no alternative but to take to the streets in search of a remedy.

There is something gray and unappealing about the daytime in New Orleans. Seen through alcohol fogged lenses, the office buildings and apartments down Union Street become grey monolithic relics of soviet construction that should have never been built. We did win that war right? The empty looking buildings down this street tell a revisionist history. Nevertheless, the artifacts were great shelter against the burning sun that lurked down each side street. It alone cut through the numbness and reminded me of the wanting in heart, head, and stomach. A block before Barrone Street I sighted a nondescript black sidewalk sign for breakfast and lunch. The only prospect that could lift my soul higher than having breakfast or lunch was the logical possibility of breakfast and lunch at the same time. I picked up my pace towards what promised to be a boringly understated meal in an understated part of town. In a city known for big lights, big drinks, and big music, P&G almost disappeared into the façade of another drab office building. My stomach celebrated by reminding me of the previous night’s escapades. Nevertheless, I needed food now and my palate had been dulled by all of the punishment I laid against my taste buds the night before. I got to the end of the block and sized up P&G restaurant.

As I reached up to grab the old wooden door that marked the threshold between a maddeningly hot February in New Orleans and the inviting prospect of a breakfast and a lunch, I took a glance inside the restaurant. I immediately discovered long sterile steel trays lined against the side of the counter. My stomach rose again to meet me at the prospect of eating cafeteria food. I am known for being a food snob for many reasons, but consider my greatest personal act of snobbery to be the rejection of all things made a la cafeteria. The thought of eating that style of food takes me to a dark place I dwell on rarely, (http://willeatyourwords.blogspot.com/2010/02/review-of-maggies-diner.html) but paired with the depressing qualities of alcohol, a failed dining experience here could have been dangerous to my health in more ways than one. But the line appeared empty so I anticipated that I had avoided that part of the P&G experience. As I walked into the restaurant, I also noticed that it was devoid of customers or workers as well. I pressed onward, hoping that someone was available to cure what ails me.

I want to describe the shape of P&G as that of a long, ugly hallway but such a description does not do justice to the unusual design of the restaurant. The restaurant opens out onto a hallway with drab green walls (picked to match the Soviet exteriors no doubt) old chandeliers suspended above on unnecessary vaulted ceilings. Considering the size of the seating area it is troubling that at this time of day, no one was dining at P&G. The lack of patrons and huge dining space made me feel as though P&G received this office as a hand me down. It didn’t fit really well, but the needs of the family required that she wear it as best as she can. The menu, or what remains of it, was tacked so as to be visible from the door. In broken tiles I could make out a few fried Cajun classics. But my stomach had regained some of its pride and clamored for a meal more interesting than the typical New Orleans fare. As we reached the end of the hallway and came to the empty counter, I feared the worst for my cure.

In a bustle of activity, a round and gentle looking woman came through the kitchen door to greet me. She carried a look of grandmotherly experience, despite her middle age. The great food of my youth was prepared by a father and mother who looked the part of Europeans much better than that of down home American diners. But this woman, ironically a Spanish speaking native, carried the weight of experience in enjoying good food. I smiled at her and asked for a menu to translate the word puzzle excuse for a menu on the big board. She took me by surprise and told me to just ask for something and the kitchen staff will cook it up for me. Never one to disagree with the decisions of the chef, I was flummoxed by the idea of deciding the very building blocks of my own meal. Knowing that my stomach was close to rebellion if its demands were not met, I quickly settled on a cheese omelet with shrimp and bacon. To my surprise, the women acquiesced and pointed out that it was a favorite of the chef, even neither it or any omelet appeared on the menu. I took a seat at a cheap linoleum table and waited for my food to come out.

I respectfully decline to put the full force of review behind any food consumed while under the influence of alcohol. I have eaten many things I am ashamed of after bouts of drinking and have found nourishment in the oddest things while on a late night or early morning binge. But I am inclined to believe that this omelet was good in spite of my intoxication. From end-to-oblong-plate-end this large (probably 5 egg) omelet was perfectly browned on the outside yet creamy and gooey on the inside. The salty bacon permeated the whole dish and paired brilliantly with the sweet and delicate shrimp. I looked up from stuffing myself long enough to the see the chef peering out from behind the kitchen door to check on my approval. I threw him a weak thumbs-up and felt his smile glowing from across the hall.

Here, in a lifeless part of town, I had found the sustenance that could raise my spirits and right me enough to make some of the same mistakes again that evening that dogged me on this day. Because in many ways New Orleans doesn’t let you choose your fate. The lights, sounds, and siren song drive you on a beat that you can’t change. The different music blaring out of the bars melt into one song on the French Quarter that compels you to keep pushing the limits. P&G was quiet and empty on that Saturday morning. Perhaps that is because though P&G is patently New Orleans with its overly ornate style and odd pairings, this restaurant asks you to make the choices- a concept too often lacking in the heralded New Orleans.