1838 Napoleon Avenue
New Orleans, LA 70115
(504) 895-4877
http://www.neworleansrestaurants.com/pascalsmanale/
The first thing I noticed about Pascal’s Manale was the Mannings. All of them – Peyton, Eli, Archie, maybe even Cooper – stared down at me as I waited (with a stiff bourbon and ginger) for the rest of my party to arrive in the bare, dive-y bar area. It makes sense, I guess, that in a New Orleans institution such as this, the state’s first family of sports would be so well represented among the myriad celebrity headshots and autographs filling the walls. I smiled up at Peyton. If the barbecue shrimp were good enough for him, they were good enough for me.
Situated in the lush Garden District and a 20 minute trolley ride along St. Charles Street from the French Quarter, Pascal’s Manale is, according to a co-worker who grew up in the area, the creator of the New Orleans-style barbecue shrimp. Our waitress corroborated this, assuring us that while many area restaurants serve the dish, their recipe is the one to copy. I was sold.
If you’ve never had this dish, it’s not really what most of us (northerners, anyway) think of as barbecue. It comes out as several gigantic, shell- and head-on shrimp nestled in pool of pungent, buttery sauce, and served with slices of baguette on the side to soak up all the tangy juices. I should disclose here that I’d discovered New Orleans barbecue shrimp two days before going to Pascal’s Manale and, well, let’s just say I didn’t eat much gumbo on that trip. They are seriously delicious. I’d had extremely respectable versions at Mr. B’s Bistro and Deanie’s Seafood, but my mouth is watering as I type, thinking about those shrimp at Pascal’s.
Part of this might be the ambiance of the place. The main entrance area is all wood and kitsch, those celebrity photos smiling down on you as you chat with the friendly bartenders and locals. It seems to be one of those rare spots that’s popular both with tourists and neighborhood denizens, and everyone is friendly as they suck down Sazeracs. There’s an oyster bar in this area, too, with a man shucking seemingly endless oysters at an incredibly high rate of speed.
The main dining room was damaged during Hurricane Katrina, according to our waitress, and redone with huge windows and deep red walls. The menu surprised me a bit: aside from those shrimp and the requisite gumbo and turtle soup, it was filled with Italian classics like veal parmigiana and spaghetti and meatballs. It’s heavy on seafood, with the shrimp being the most popular item among other offerings like frutta del mare and a pasta with scallops and crabmeat.
Appetizers of the ‘a la Manale’ salad – olives, greens, and mozzarella cheese – and oysters Bienville (baked oysters, similar to Rockefeller but with a Nola flavor) were devoured, and the gumbo was given a thumbs-up by several people who had eaten their share over the years.
Just before the entrees came out, our waitress approached and wordlessly tied a plastic bib around the neck of anyone who ordered the shrimp. This, of course, was old hat for me by this point and I let her make that bow without missing a beat of conversation. Most of us were bibbed that night, but two of my tablemates bucked the trend and I was able to sneak bites of a special of crab cake topped with alfredo sauce (one of those great crab cakes where you can actually taste the crab), and veal marsala, both of which were standard but tasty.
For my part, I once again had to restrain myself from picking up my bowl and drinking the last drop of the sauce. Had it not been a business dinner, I just might have done that. Our waitress wasn’t willing to share the recipe with me, but by my estimation it’s mainly butter, Worcestershire sauce, and black pepper, with things like lemon juice, garlic, bay leaf, and a bevy of savory spices thrown in. Frankly, I don’t care what they put in it as long as I can order it. If you’ve never had it, I highly recommend getting yourself on a flight to New Orleans and making a beeline for the nearest establishment serving this dish. I don’t think it can be bad. And once you’ve become addicted, like me, head to Pascal’s and get the real thing.
by Tara Pierson Hoey
[Photos: Adam Wiederhoeft and Dave Gates]
