Cuvee, 322 Magazine Street 504-587-9001
When the parents come to town, Dad likes to get into his very sexy khakis and Mom into only the most fashionable pantsuit and spend a million dollars for dinner. Of course, being the spoiled ethnically suburban (though now living in the cityish Irish Channel part of N.O.) rich bitches that we are, we're only too happy to play dress-up and condone this class warfare carried out with heavy silverware on pristine white tablecoths.
The problem is that while many fancy restaurants know how to make a special vegan dish, they often think this means a pile of grilled vegetables seasoned liberally with an utter lack of inspiration. To these "chefs," I say, "Feh!" But more and more, your woman or man in the high white hat and checked pants will actually give a fuck, especially if you call ahead. Wcait, at the next table . . . is that Bob Dylan with a pair of crotchless panties on his head blowing his Victoria's Secret royalty check while singing "The Times They Are A Changin'?"
Although I can't remember for the life of me what we had, I remember it was like the coldest day of the year or something, and the vegan surprises were good, so good we almost didn't mind that we were freezing our clits off.