I can admit that I have been a little bit cranky about restaurants lately. Everything seems so expensive, so same-same, so utterly uninspired as most establishments just try to survive in these deeply bizarre times. I am exhausted by seeing the same crudos over and over again, sitting in the same uncomfortable-yet-trendy chairs, and hearing the exact same spiel about the chef’s inspirations and love of local produce.
This is likely due in large part to the fact that I have written about — and eaten at — what feels like every possible iteration of a restaurant in my decade-plus of covering dining, but it does also feel like there has been a flattening in the broader restaurant culture in recent years. It’s been a long time since I’ve been legitimately surprised by anything a restaurant was doing, no matter how many chefs tried to convince me that their restaurants were more different and interesting than all the other places that look much like them. Call me a cynic.
That is, until I went to dinner at Saint Claire in New Orleans. After a whirlwind South Louisiana reporting trip that you’ll learn more about on this very website in the coming weeks, I was absolutely famished by the time my car pulled up at the hotel in New Orleans. I’d spent the previous 48 hours surrounded by and talking to strangers, both in my reporting and in my lengthy travel day that involved getting on and off of two different airplanes — twice. I hadn’t made any reservations before heading to town, because there’s always somewhere to eat something incredible in New Orleans.
I got lucky in scoring a solo table at Saint Claire. The restaurant from James Beard winning chef Melissa M. Martin and contractor Cassi Dymond occupies a sprawling historic home on four acres, tucked into the city’s Algiers neighborhood, right on the banks of the Mississippi River. Stepping out of the car onto the property’s circle drive at dusk on a random Wednesday, the vibes truly could not have been more idyllic — crickets chirped, string lights twinkled, and I headed inside for what will likely be my most memorable meal of the year.
I’ll just say it: I love to eat alone. I love to order exactly what I want, at my own pace, and to zone out staring into my phone, or, in this case, the self-printed zine on sex work in New Orleans that I’d bought earlier in the day at the impossibly charming Frenchmen Art and Books. I love having a dining experience where I’m not expected to listen to someone else prattle on about their day, and I can fully immerse myself in the meal and my own thoughts. Saint Claire’s candlelit space, which looked much like a bunch of chairs pulled up in your grandmother’s dining room during a family function, offered the perfect setting for this most indulgent of experiences. I sat in a long church pew, my printed-that-day menu bathed in candlelight.
I started the evening with a half dozen oysters, beautifully briny little bites raised in Gulf Coast waters that could put any pedigreed East Coast oyster to shame. I tend to be a bit of an oyster purist, mostly just dashing my bivalves with a dot or two of hot sauce, but the tiny crystal vessel of mignonette alongside these was irresistible — made with Steen’s cane vinegar, it was just the right amount of punchy, sharp, and fresh that I couldn’t resist clumsily dunking the thick French fries I’d ordered alongside into it. I inhaled all six oysters in about 46 seconds and greedily pondered my next course in between sips of my melon-and-mezcal cocktail.
Want to help us cover more of the country's most transcendent meals? Give us a tip, and we'll put it to good use.
Next came an order of citrus-poached shrimp tossed with a ton of olives and capers. I am openly an olive hater, but I sought out each tiny green bite of these buttery Castelvetranos, which seemed fresher and less funky than I usually find them to be. The citrus was brash and assertive in a good way, bracing the marine bite of the shrimp and olives. At this point, I began to realize that this was not just a regular restaurant meal — this might be the restaurant meal to fix me.
The only thing I don’t like about eating alone is that I do not have the stomach space to taste a little bite of everything on the menu. At Saint Claire, I was deeply torn between three options: the duck and andouille gumbo, a caramelized shallot tarte tatin, and its famous crab gnocchi. Something inside me simply demanded the comfort and simplicity of pillowy dumplings served with fresh crab, and I ultimately landed on the latter. I’ve never made a better decision in my life.
On its face, the crab gnocchi is not a particularly complicated dish: it is pan-fried dumplings with a dark, crispy exterior topped with pure lump crab and nestled in a warm bath of lemon beurre blanc., Just a beautiful dish where every single element shines. When I asked my server to clear away the bowl before I started licking all of the sauce out of it, she noted that no one in the dining room would blame me. Perfectly velvety, so lemony, and just light enough to coat a spoon, I can’t imagine Clemence Lefeuvre could’ve stirred together a more compelling iteration of her own sauce.
By the time I’d finished that last gnocchi, which was so tender on the inside that it fell apart at the insinuation of a fork, I was, in a word, satisfied. I peeked at the dessert menu and contemplated a scoop of buttermilk ice cream, before deciding to end my night on that perfect gnocchi. I practically swanned out of the restaurant to wait for my car, too high on a good meal to notice that the city’s unrelenting humidity was causing me to pour sweat. By the time I was back to my hotel, I was ready to insist to everyone I’ve ever met that they need to plan a trip to New Orleans for a meal at Saint Claire.
And it’s not as if the food at Saint Claire was anything envelope-pushing or new or different — it was just really good quality ingredients prepared with a degree of intention that seems to be missing from so many other establishments. Sure, I can eat fresh oysters anywhere, but here I was able to feel the reverence for the bivalves with each slurp. It’s this depth of care that makes a dining experience feel truly special, and no amount of expensive caviar or fancy wine can stand in for it.
That is, to me, the power of a really great restaurant. A good restaurant feeds your body, but a great restaurant feeds your soul, as corny as that sounds. It’s a visceral reminder that eating food isn’t just this perfunctory thing you have to do to stay alive, but also an incredibly vivid way to experience the world. It helps you remember that a restaurant isn’t just a business, but a place where art can happen every single night if the folks in charge are devoted to it. After months of boring meals and mediocre restaurant experiences, this was the dinner I needed to remind me that food can still legitimately excite me.
This Week on Ravenous
Courtney E. Smith
Jaya Saxena
Bird Droppings
- Bill Esparza on the new "golden age" of Mexican cuisine in the New York Times is a must-read.
- An interesting read from Emma Orlow on the decline of restaurant cookbooks at Caper. Meanwhile, every dipshit influencer you've ever seen on TikTok has a cookbook deal.
- Massive meat conglomerate Tyson is shutting down two major beef production facilities, which is probably going to make your cheeseburger even more expensive amid a national beef shortage.
