Tag Archives: dinner

Copeland’s of New Orleans: New and Improved

Picture it: I’m squiring a houseguest around town. Who is this houseguest? Doesn’t matter. Could be my parents, could be my husband’s parents, or my sister, or just someone from college who’s passing through Shreveport on his or her way to one of the coasts. We head down Youree and get to the Bert Kouns intersection. “Oh!” my passenger says. “Copeland’s. That looks…nice.”

And, indeed, it does look…nice. It reminds you of New Orleans in the same way that the Rose and Crown pub at EPCOT reminds you of England. Cleaner, newer, sanitized, accessible.

“It’s a prom night place,” I say, eyes fixed on the congested road ahead. And it is–perhaps a step up from Carrabba’s, Copeland’s is the kind of place frequented by teenagers of the upper-middle class, rolling up in rented limos (wait…you didn’t get a limousine on prom night? It’s OK, neither did I) or their parents’ freshly waxed Camrys. Inside, there’s the din that would be expected in a restaurant the size of Copeland’s. It’s not what someone would call “intimate,” and that’s alright, since intimacy isn’t too high on the high schooler’s list of restaurant must-haves.

Copeland’s was a place that I myself always seemed to overlook. Maybe I was just being snobby, but my idea of a special occasion dinner for grown-ups usually involves Line Avenue, not Youree Drive. My expensive taste, coupled with a desire to patronize locally-owned businesses whenever possible, didn’t really leave any room for a place like Copeland’s.

But you know? I had my 21st birthday lunch (less than five years ago) at The Cheesecake Factory. With its cartoonishly proportioned architecture, American-sized servings, and focused emphasis on cheesecake, The Cheesecake Factory is really just Copeland’s without the Creole accent. And heck, if I thought The Cheesecake Factory was good enough for a milestone birthday, then surely Copeland’s is good enough for similar celebrations. In fact, maybe that same oversized, opulent quality, that same whimsy, is exactly the point. Maybe these restaurants need an upgrade from “guilty pleasure” to just “pleasure.”

A day at EPCOT isn’t any less enjoyable because their countries are watered-down, climate-controlled versions of the real thing; instead, that scrubbed-up, family-friendly quality might actually be part of the fun.

Just this week, I attended a PR lunch at Copeland’s, in honor of the unveiling of their “new and improved” restaurant. After undergoing a $1 million renovation, everything about the Bert Kouns location seems to be new: new management, new decor, and a new approach to their food with fresher ingredients and proprietary recipes. Al Copeland Jr., who made an appearance, explained that the renovation aims to bridge the gap between the food at Copeland’s and the atmosphere. Once dissonant, with no discernible identity, the new decor at Copeland’s is a bit sleeker, more up-to-date, and has a distinctive New Orleans theme. They’re also introducing a Sunday (live!) jazz brunch, to be held each week from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m.

My sample-sized portion of bananas foster cheesecake.

Since I wasn’t a paying customer during this visit, I won’t be doing a real review. But if you already liked Copeland’s, this is a good excuse to pay them a visit. And if, like me, you were dubious, let go of your pretense and your self-inflicted shame. Invent a special occasion and order yourself a 6-inch tall slice of bananas foster cheesecake. It may not be haute cuisine, it may not be “authentic” (whatever that means), and it’s definitely not kitschy enough to be ironic. But it’s damn delicious.

To borrow the words from my friend Tony Bourdain, “Good is just good. It doesn’t matter when or why.”

Copeland’s of New Orleans

1665 E. Bert Kouns Industrial Loop




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Marilynn’s Place

If you’re ever puttering down Fern Avenue when your “check engine” light clicks on, you may be tempted to stop by a friendly-looking garage with green trim. Not too many cars there, you think, looks like there probably won’t be a wait. And look! It shares a parking lot with a sno-ball stand, which boasts an impressive list of flavors. Hmm…why haven’t you seen this place before?

Well, two things. First, you probably have, but ignored it. Until recently, the building was just another rundown garage, blending into the charming, tree-lined scenery where Broadmoor and South Highlands overlap.

Secondly, it’s not a garage at all. Well, not an operating one, anyway. It’s Marilynn’s Place, a new Cajun/Creole restaurant that features “organic when feasible, local when possible” food. It’s been generating some buzz among the under-40 set who seem to be drawn to quirky, locally-owned businesses with liquor licenses. “Out-of-the-way” is a spectacular understatement, and perhaps that’s part of its appeal. With no exterior signage or marketing to speak of, it feels like an indulgent secret–like only those “in the know”  (perhaps accompanied by a misguided few who simply needed oil changes), have been lucky enough to darken the doorway.

I’ve been to Marilynn’s Place a few times, now, and though service is consistently good, the food can be iffy. The restaurant takes a “fast casual” approach: order at the counter, and either wait for your name to be called, or for an employee to bring it to your table. I’ve had both happen, so I’m not sure what the typical protocol is for them. The menu itself is kind of a mixed bag. Familiar south Louisiana specialties like shrimp creole and jambalaya share space with a vegan brownie and a slow-cooked pork po’boy accented with pineapple.

The pork po’boy is listed on the menu as the cochon de lait. The term cochon de lait is usually applied to a traditional Cajun pig roast. Perhaps that ritual is the inspiration for Marilynn’s sandwich, but, as the first item I tried there, it left a lot to be desired. I was initially drawn to the pineapple salsa aspect of it. Pork and pineapple are a classic Caribbean pairing, and I knew the flavors would work well. However, when I received the sandwich–unfussily wrapped in butcher paper and masking tape–it was a soggy wreck. I was able to take exactly one bite before the bread disintegrated and I was forced to tackle it with a knife and fork. By then, the remaining bread had become an unappetizing paste. I poked around in the filling, which, admittedly, was very good.

Cochon de lait po'boy

The pork was tender and juicy, and the pineapple brightened things up. But I wouldn’t go down that road again–I had to go spelunking in order to get a forkful worth eating. The price, $7.95 for a half sandwich only, felt like a ripoff when all was said and done. (As an aside, I’ve been told that sometimes po’boys are messy–that’s the idea. But, in my opinion, once the services of a knife and fork are necessitated, a sandwich ceases to be a sandwich, and should market itself correctly. Soggy bread really isn’t my thing.)

In an uncharacteristic twist, my companion played it safe with an order of curry fried catfish. This was catfish done right: its curry-kissed cornmeal breading encased flaky, tender catfish–no hints of freezer or dirt flavors to be found anywhere. (Seriously, we’re in a sad state when people start to associate catfish with freezer burn and mud.) It’s served with its standard accompaniments of hush puppies, fries, and slaw. And while $11.95 would seem a bit steep for a plate of fried food, the quality of the fish and the size of the portion makes it worth it.

On our subsequent visits, we also ventured into traditional territory–shrimp creole, crawfish etouffee, and jambalaya were all sampled, as well as a side of dirty rice (because, clearly, our meals just didn’t have enough carbs). The jambalaya and etouffee lean towards the Cajun method of preparation, with less of an emphasis on tomatoes and more on meat. The jambalaya featured big, generous chunks of andouille–quite a treat when compared to the glorified rice some places try to pass off as jambalaya. The shrimp creole was rich and warming. Though I got the feeling that the shrimp weren’t as fresh as they could be, it hit the spot nonetheless. Living 250 miles inland, I’ll take what I can get.

The dirty rice, with a light sheen of grease and the perfect amount of heat, was some of the most flavorful I’ve ever had.

Curried catfish platter

A third companion chose the William Edward Joyce (WEJ) curried catfish po’boy.  Now this was a po’boy I could get behind. The drier filling (the same curried catfish that comes on the platter) ensured that the bread stayed intact, and a thin layer of mayo kept it from entering cotton ball territory. The menu claims it’s “so good it needs a publicist!” Though I wouldn’t go that far, it’s certainly a damn good choice when you’re craving something a little more satisfying than a few Mrs. Paul’s popcorn shrimp tossed on a hoagie roll.

Other items that piqued my interest are the veggie po’boy, dressed with hummus (perhaps that vegan brownie would make a nice little playmate), the shrimp remoulade salad, and the Irish Channel po’boy–with corned beef and cabbage!

With a nice selection of beer and an atmosphere conducive to lingering (something tells me the deck out front will be very popular once the weather turns tolerable), Marilynn’s Place will no doubt be a hit with locals looking for decent, homemade food right in their own backyards–if they can find it, that is.

Marilynn’s, I implore you. Invest in a sign. Maybe you’re trying to be subversive, riding on the coattails of pop-up restaurants and underground dinner clubs. Or maybe you’re just lazy. I don’t know. But it would be a terrible shame to see a good business go under because they didn’t know how to market. Word of mouth can only do so much.

Although, so far, it seems to be working for Marilynn’s.

Marilynn’s Place

4041 Fern Avenue



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Ronin’s Broadmoor Kitchen and Tavern

Edit: Ronin’s Broadmoor Kitchen and Taven is now closed. But feel free to enjoy this review, anyway!

Oh, my darling bud of June! I’ve been the worst blog owner ever.  It’s been almost a month since you’ve heard from me, and yet…my daily hits are at an all-time high! I’m up to 32 fans on Facebook. When did that happen?

In the spirit of…camaraderie? Knowledge? Can you leave a comment here with how you found me? I’m actually really curious as to what chain of internet events led you to my humble corner.

Anyway, realizing that I am woefully behind, companion and I set out to try somewhere new last night. The result? Ronin’s Broadmoor Kitchen and Tavern, on (where else?) Youree Drive. Now, if you’re just now hearing of Ronin’s, you’re not too far out of the loop. The restaurant itself has changed hands several times in the last few months, and it seemed like every time we drove past, it had a new, vaguely familiar name.

Ronin’s has very mixed reviews on the popular restaurant review site Urbanspoon. As recently as May 6, people were complaining of a “God-Awful Smell,” the prices, and the quality of the food. Luckily, I didn’t read the reviews until after I came home. As I’ve learned in the past  (Madison Square Garden, I’m looking at you), restaurants have highs and lows, and experiences can differ greatly depending on a number of variables.

We ate at Ronin’s early in the evening. So early, in fact, that we were the only ones there. Our waitress was a bubbly, girl-next-door type. Not always completely knowledgable about the menu, she pulled off her ignorance with charm. Had it been a pricer, fancier restaurant, it would have bothered me. But I was sitting there in jeans and sneakers; I didn’t mind a bit.

After spending a few solid minutes perusing the enticing but…um…intercontinental menu, the decision was made. To start: Korean BBQ Beef Skewers. When these arrived, there were no skewers to be found. Instead, they were something like “steak fingers” (which, regrettably, sounds like a nickname that a group of high school girls applies to a creepy man who hangs out at the Cumberland Farms around the block). The Korean BBQ flavor was definitely there, however. Sweet and smoky, with a delightful “not-quite-American” exotic tinge, they were exactly what they said they’d be; except, you know, for the skewers part. The “fingers” were served with a generous scoop of “Asian slaw.” The slaw was a refreshing, vinegar-based melange of Napa cabbage and black sesame seeds.

Our dinners came out shortly thereafter: sweet potato gnocchi with Rosa Maria Sauce for the gentleman, and blackened tilapia with sides of purple hull peas and twice-baked mashed potatoes for me.

Okay, first, I’ll let the concept of sweet potato gnocchi sink in. For those uninitiated, gnocchi are little grub worm-shaped pasta made of potato instead of wheat flour. They have a texture that’s somewhere between regular pasta and compressed mashed potatoes, and a modest bowlful leaves you with that full, comforted feeling that only complex carbohydrates can offer. The only thing that can improve gnocchi? Making them with sweet potatoes, naturally. These particular gnocchi were generously portioned and just the slightest bit gummy (confession: I like them that way).  The gnocchi came with a choice of two sauces: San Marzano, a tomato-based sauce, and Rosa Maria, a cream-based sauce (which he ended up choosing). The Rosa Maria sauce was pleasant and worked really well with the gnocchi;  the tomato-based sauce, I think, would have competed with the sweet potato flavor in an extremely unpleasant fashion. The Rosa Maria sauce was mellow, and just thin enough — similar to an Alfredo sauce without the assertive kick of Parmesan. Overall, a solid dish — and definitely enough for three people.

Growing up in Florida, tilapia was basically the default dinner on at least one night of the week. It was on every menu in the state, quickly gaining popularity over the once-ubiquitous (but decidedly eco-unfriendly) grouper. My mom, in fact, went on a tilapia kick sometime during my high school years. I’m pretty sure it was Shake-and-Bake. Or even Oven Fry, the poor man’s Shake-and-Bake. Mom, I love you, but I’m glad the tilapia stage is over.

Anyway, I actually surprised myself when I ordered the tilapia. I really wasn’t that hungry, but I wanted to try Ronin’s sides without committing to something outrageous like a chicken pot pie or meatloaf. I was even more surprised to find that the fish itself was cooked perfectly. A hearty (but not overwhelming) dose of what I believe to be creole seasoning and a few cursory capers (more for decoration than anything else) made it a pretty exceptional piece of fish. But I could be a little rusty. I haven’t really had seafood (I’m talking seafood here, not riverfood or mudfood…both good, but not seafood) since I moved here, 13 months ago. The side dishes were homey, without being sloppy. Served in tin cups (similar to the ones, I imagine, old-timey prisoners would grate against their cell bars), I appreciated that they weren’t crammed onto the plate like an unhappy family flying coach. The twice-baked potatoes were just that; garlicky and creamy, skins-on, with that nostalgic twice-baked flavor. Remember the frozen twice-baked potatoes that came in a box? Yeah…

The purple hull peas were similarly good. A little undercooked, only by some people’s standards, each pea was its own individual. Visible bits of bacon made the cup of beans a little less like, well…a cup of beans.

Dessert-time rolled around, and my gnocchi-stuffed (yet mysteriously thin) companion wanted a crème brulee. His favorite. Our waitress looked at him, the twinkle suddenly gone from her eyes. “Are you sure? They’re like this big.” She positioned her hands to make a circle, sized somewhere between a silver dollar and the circumference of a child’s sippy cup.

Well, damn. He reconsidered and chose the bread pudding instead. This seemed to please the waitress. She assured him he’d love it and bounded back to the kitchen. She returned minutes later with piping-hot bread pudding, overflowing out of a novelty margarita glass (you know, the ones with the cactus base?). Yeah, we’re not really sure how it made its way in there, either.

At any rate, the bread pudding was absolutely divine; gooey and rustic, it left an alcoholic kiss of rum on our lips in the sexiest way possible. The glass? Not so much. But we were willing to overlook that.

The dessert ended up being on the house. Apparently it was their last pudding of the batch and would have just ended up being eaten by the waitstaff anyway. (As an aside, I don’t ever get free food when I go out; I’m not nearly that well-known, and if I do decide to mention the blog, I always do so after I’ve ordered, eaten, and paid.)

With a 20% tip, our bill came out to somewhere around $42. Not too bad, and right on target for a restaurant of Ronin’s caliber. Someone on the aforementioned Urbanspoon complained that it was “overpriced,” but I really beg to differ; this ain’t Chili’s. Ronin’s offers live music on Thursday and Friday nights, plus trivia challenges during the week. Events like these keep the wood-paneled restaurant from seeming too full of itself. Classic, hummable tunes on the radio help, too. (Throughout our dinner, we heard the likes of Bobbie Gentry, Stevie Wonder, and Bob Dylan.)

Urbanspoon users would advise you to stay away from Ronin’s, but we had a genuinely good experience. It seems that people often approach restaurants like Ronin’s with expectations that are either too high or too low; both result in disappointment. Ronin’s is a good, middle-of-the-road neighborhood tavern; an extensive wine list, big portions, and unique, uncategorizable menu make it a quirky, crowd-pleasing pick for dinner. But their nightly events, cozy atmosphere, and unpretentious staff make it a fun place to relax with friends, too.

Ronin’s Broadmoor Kitchen and Tavern

4460 Youree Drive



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Wine Country Bistro & Bottle Shop

Two weekends ago, I was asked to participate in the Shreveport-Bossier City Convention and Visitor Bureau’s Mardi Gras Media Tour. I do some Shreveport-based writing for a newer travel website called VisitSouth.com, and I was fortunate enough to have the lovely ladies from the CVB contact me to participate. I’ve got to admit, it was a really enlightening experience to see my own city from a different perspective. I toured the highlights with a group of other writers from around the country, and we broke bread at some outstanding restaurants.

Wine Country Bistro & Bottle Shop (herein known as “Wine Country,” for the sake of brevity) was one such restaurant. The atmosphere that night was festive and happy. Smack dab in the middle of Mardi Gras season, we had just come from the Krewe of Centaur’s float loading party, and were still a bit buzzed on cheap beer and Jell-O shots. Wine Country’s other diners that evening were feeling similarly jovial–some were celebrating birthdays with gag gifts and cake, while others were simply decked out in plastic beads, enjoying the season. It was indeed a great night to be out, and an especially great night to be a Louisianan.

Michael Brady, the executive chef at Wine Country, made a brief appearance to speak with us personally before showcasing some amuse-bouche that weren’t on the menu.

Generally speaking, an amuse-bouche is an unlisted appetizer of sorts, meant to be more of a tiny glimpse into the chef’s style than a formal course. We began with a fried pickle chip topped with herbed creme fraiche, which was followed shortly by a scallop atop bacon grits with an apple-bourbon puree. These two little bites made it pretty evident what Chef Michael’s aim is at Wine Country–to remove southern food from backwoods stereotypes and fancy it up a bit using the type of ingredients that most of us are more likely to see on the Food Network than in our local grocery stores. This is a cause I can get behind.

A fried pickle chip sports a jolly cap of creme fraiche

After much deliberation, I picked the shrimp and grits for my first course at Wine Country. A southern staple, I thought the dish would showcase what the restaurant is all about. While the shrimp themselves–large and plentiful for a first course–were a touch overcooked, the grits were outstanding, with an ultra-heady smoky hit from the andouille sausage floating happily in the dish.

Shrimp and grits...like two ships passing in the night.

My companions ordered the veal sweetbreads and fried green tomatoes (respectively) for their first courses. I had never had sweetbreads before, and was eager to try them. Sweetbreads are traditionally the thymus gland and the pancreas of a calf, and now that I’ve tried them, I only have a few key anatomical features to sample before I’ve successfully eaten an entire cow. But I digress. Served in a roasted red grape and tarragon butter emulsion, the sweetbreads were actually sweet, but not cloyingly so. The texture, I was interested to discover, is somewhere between the Indian cheese paneer and tofu. Not my favorite dish, but certainly not because it was poorly prepared. The execution was comfortable enough for a beginner like myself.

The fried green tomatoes were just that. We’ve all had them.

Fried green tomatoes

A breaded monument to the south.

Some people adore them, and some people merely feel apathetic towards them. I am sorry to say I fall into the latter category, but I am glad to say that the connoisseurs  among me were quite pleased with them. I’ll admit, the presentation was a far cry from the Whistle Stop Cafe.

The main event finally arrived, and I was genuinely looking forward to my trout amandine. The trout itself, crispy and cooked just to finishing, was served in its natural habitat, a deep pool of butter. Enjoyable? Without a doubt. But even I, a seasoned fan of saturated fats (in moderation, contrary to the content of this blog) found that much butter to be overwhelming. I wrapped up about half of it to bring home. (Fear not–it was enjoyed thoroughly the next day.)

When dessert time finally rolled around, the crowd at Wine Country had thinned considerably–but in the name of journalism, we pressed on. Some varietal of South African white was still flowing freely through me (sorry, folks–I’m not a wine blogger, but I’m getting there), and I foolishly agreed to help my neighbor finish his dessert, a berry crumble with buttermilk ice cream. A refreshing end to a meal of Dionysian proportions, I think I was satisfied until well into the following afternoon.

Wine Country is an excellent option for date night, girls’ night, or a small party. The wine flows freely, and Chef Michael Brady has managed to strike a balance between comfortable southern cuisine and high-end ingredients that would impress any uptown girl. Dinners range from $8.50 for half portions to upwards of $30 for fresh fish.

Leave the kiddies at home and linger over a few plates at this tucked-away eatery for an unexpected weeknight date (the menu changes daily, making use of seasonal ingredients, so be sure to check their website). Don’t forget to hit the bottle shop on the way out to bring some of the magic home with you.

Wine Country Bistro & Bottle Shop

4801 Line Avenue, Suite 14 (attached to Pierremont Mall)




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Bistro Byronz

…and that’s “Byronz,” sounds like “Tyrone’s.”

Our trip to Bistro Byronz was kind of a fluke, considering we ended up there after attempted lunches at two of our regular haunts. It was our first visit–Byronz is one of those places that, for us anyway (“us” being myself and my boyfriend, who is usually my willing companion on these outings), is perpetually on the “to-try” list but never quite crosses over.  Perhaps it’s the location: in a small shopping center on Line Avenue (shared only with a travel agency), Bistro Byronz is dwarfed by the bigger Line restaurants: Bistro 6301, Superior Grill, and the like. But don’t let yourself be fooled by its lackluster exterior; Byronz is a gem of a restaurant, so insanely delicious that we went back for brunch the next morning.

Bistro Byronz is decorated in highbrow minimalism–think Pottery Barn-meets-pub. White subway tile, antique mirrors, and not much else adorn the walls, while straightforward, naked tables remind you that you’re here to eat and socialize. I was a little dismayed, however, to see TVs mounted in a few corners; I’m of the opinion that a restaurant can’t market itself as a “nice place” if it has TVs on–and I don’t care what’s on them. Eating out means conversation and reinforcing bonds with your loved ones. It does not mean staring vacantly at sports while you ignore your wife.

Okay, rant over. On to the food!

With locations in Shreveport and Mandeville, in addition to the flagship restaurant in Baton Rouge, Bistro Byronz is a true Louisiana institution. Byronz serves up classic French dishes, tweaked to incorporate Louisiana-specific flavors.

My companion and I were greeted hurriedly by our icy waiter. Too busy and distracted to introduce himself to us, he seemed to have all the time in the world to make nice with our neighboring table, a large group of older couples. Our optimism was sinking. But we trekked on–after all, I needed material for this very blog.

Byronz has a well-executed lunch menu. Not too large to be overwhelming, they feature old lunch standbys (salads and sandwiches) along with some decidedly non-lunchy choices: cassoulet and pot roast, to name a few. Despite these tempting options, my companion and I were in a lunchy mood, so we opted for sandwiches. To start, we ordered their baked feta appetizer, which is as great as it sounds. We certainly didn’t expect what arrived moments later: a warm, lusty feta island in a sea (well, more like a pond) of robust, intense marinara sauce–served with parmesan toast points for easy sampling. My companion, unable to restrain himself, also ordered a cup of their sweet corn and crab chowder–chunky, sweet, and just the right amount of cream, it had me hearkening back to my days in Florida.

Our sandwiches were brought out soon afterwards by an inexplicably grim server, but we were so heartened by our appetizers that we couldn’t bear to concern ourselves. My companion ordered a Gruyère-stuffed turkey burger on a wheat bun, served with sweet potato fries. This burger may parade around like diet food, but it sure doesn’t taste that way. The turkey patty was flavorful and moist–everything a turkey patty usually isn’t. Frankly, it was downright beefy. I had a hard time tasting the Gruyère in the few bites I had of it, which was surprising because it’s such a hard cheese to miss. Topped with spinach and red bell pepper, the burger is a definite win.

Speaking of wins, my sandwich was just as good, if not better. Shrimp Louie, also on a wheat bun, is a sort of shrimp salad–boiled shrimp are tossed in a dressing similar to Thousand Island (sans the relish) and served with the obligatory lettuce and tomato. I chose something called “Zydeco pasta” as my side dish, and it tasted exactly as you’d think it would; tri-color rotini and big chunks of zucchini were tossed in a light, herby vinaigrette (rosemary came through the strongest). A dash of Tony Chachere’s gave it the “Zydeco” I was anticipating.

For dessert (of course there was a dessert, how else could I bring you an accurate review?), my companion and I split a piece of key lime pie. I was already waxing nostalgic about my years as a Floridian, so this was par for the course. Between you and me, readers, key lime pie is my absolute favorite pie, winning out over the equally strong contenders of peanut butter and blackberry. Byronz’s version is alarmingly close to homemade; instead of the angular, symmetrical, molded slices usually served up at restaurants of the same caliber, this one was soft, jiggly, and utterly delectable, with a remarkably mouth-watering lime bite. Accented by two little candy lime slices, it was also–I daresay–adorable. The crust was crumbly, toasty, and studded with coconut to expand on the tropical theme.

Our sullen server brought us our check, and it was only then that we learned his name, printed across the top: Taylor. At his best, he was chilly–but he brought us such tasty food, it was hard to be anything but miffed.

I am nearly ashamed to say we spent around $50 on a Saturday lunch, but remember, thrifty readers, we ordered an appetizer, a cup of soup, and a dessert in addition to our meals. Considering our minimalist meal at Sake Sushi cost about the same, we considered this a positive experience. Byronz’s lunches run between $5 (a grilled cheese sandwich) and $16 (seared tuna), so you can make your meal an experiment in ascetics, an exercise in opulence, or anything in between.

When you’re hankering for a taste of classic Louisiana without the “not another crawfish place” complaint, head over to Bistro Byronz. Try them for Sunday brunch–they make a ridiculous Bloody Mary that makes Sunday feel a little more like Saturday night.

Bistro Byronz

6104 Line Avenue




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