When I travel to New Orleans, I clamor for New Orleans food. I want roast beef poor boys from Parkway Tavern. I crave beans and rice from Willie Mae's Scotch House. My mouth waters at the mention of green gumbo from Leah Chas's Treme restaurant, Dooky Chase. But my friends in New Orleans don't always want the same. Their palates are more expansive, less provincial. My friend Brett Anderson, restaurant critic for The Times-Picayune, was the first person to steer me to La Boca, co-owned by Adolfo Garcia, the man behind Rio Mar, the brilliant Latin seafood restaurant in the Warehouse District. His outside skirt steak puts most hunks of red meat to shame. And he makes a mean morcilla, a blood sausage that, to an eater craving Louisiana eats, bears a comforting resemblance to boudin noir. On this trip, Lolis Elie, metro columnist for the paper, suggested Stella, Scott Boswell's vest-pocket restaurant in the French Quarter. At first blush, I was not keen on foie gras and duck pâtè BLTs or veal-and-kobayaki gyoza with tempura shiso leaves. I was looking for a riff on shrimp remoulade or a new take on trout menuire, but Boswell's cooking—and the smart pairings of the sommelier—knocked me into the ditch. On the way out, I got a glimpse of the kitchen where a brigade of well-scrubbed youngsters was plating playful riffs on fish and chips, featuring wagon-wheel rounds of taro chips and trails of red chile caramel. I'm not saying I like Stella! better than the city's more tradition-bound restaurants. No way. All I'm saying is Stella! is worth a try when, after a few days of gumbo travels, you aim to shuck the provincial coil.
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