Commander's Palace

One successful, family owned restaurant deserves applause, but over five reputable restaurants under one family, merits a toast with a little ching ching of our glasses. The Brennan dynasty of New Orleans manages eateries located throughout the city, from City Park to the French Quarter, including Commander’s Palace, Brennan’s Restaurant, Palace Café, and Mr. B’s Bistro to name a few.

Perched on a corner in the Garden District, Commander’s Palace characterized the quiet grandeur and distinction of the decorated homes and its residents. A vibrant blue exterior, lighted sign, and boldly striped porch hangings lured us into an interior softer and more refined in appearance with eggshell and light blue coloring, floral silhouettes, and a set of chandeliers interpreting a classic form with a modern flare. Waiters and staff walked and biked, some even rode the street car or their scooters, to work before the Sunday evening opening at 6:15pm.

Reggie, Pauline, Henrietta and I were right there, second party of the evening to be seated. Paper menus detailed the offerings ranging from braised duck and pecan crusted gulf fish, our waiter’s suggested entree, to gumbo du jour and turtle soup, Reggie’s recommendation. Our selected Riesling and pieces of crispy garlic bread settled our stomach as we eagerly waited for the first round: soups.

Turtles swim in ponds, turtles drift in oceans, but this is the first time turtles appeared in my soup. White and dark meat pieces of these snappers floated in a subtly tart tomato soup squiggled with a line of sherry and surrounded by pieces of celery, onion, oregano, and a mélange of spices. Staff moved as synchronized swimmers, serving each of us simultaneously. Four of them marched over and looked at each other, quietly signaling, before presenting our plates to the table.

Refills of water and wine appeared in our glasses as staff pranced around the tables. The restaurant at 7:00pm approached capacity, and as we received our entrees, many just finished scanning their menus. My entrée, the tartine of local tomatoes, displayed a charming puff pastry filled with eggplant, braised tomatoes, and olive coponata, topped with a sunny side up duck egg, and surrounded by drizzles of aged cherry vinegar and black truffle mascarpone. Layered textures, temperatures, and tastes created a dynamic dish that satisfied the stomach and the tongue. .

Three Creole bread puddings, three coffees, and one piece of cheesecake finished the meal, and I broke the light peach top of the soufflé with high expectations and curiosity. Beneath the thin top layer, a fluffy, egg white filling slowly melted over the warm, dense bread pudding. Pauline and Henrietta, tough critics of this classic dessert, approved the novel interpretation, especially considering the whiskey cream sauce topping the soufflé.

Dinner that evening flowed effortlessly as staff danced, wine materialized, and food sang to the high standards that every restaurant under this dynasty maintains.

Mom, Dad, I love you dearly, but why wasn’t I born into this family?