So I was reading a blog by Times-Picayune sports writer Dave Gladow about Parasol's in New Orleans, which -- according to the "Sammich Scout" -- has "the best gravy cheese fries on the planet."
Inspired by his blog, I thought I'd ramble about my little culinary escapade today with friends from work -- a trip to Ollie's Restaurant, 4070 Southwest Blvd.
I'd never been before, so I had no idea what to expect -- except, of course, for the fried chicken I'd heard so much about. Lawsy, it was SOOO good! So were the mashed potatoes and gravy, which were very reminiscent of my late Mamaw Walters'. Bless her, I'd always compliment her on fabulous vittles, and she'd either saw, "Aww, hush," or something about it being too salty. Not even licking the plate clued her in that it was tastebud-busting.
Fortunately for my friends, I did refrain from mugging down on my plate -- either one of 'em, considering I made two trips for the chicken. If you've never been, you gotta go some time. Are you a model train freak? Cancel your lunch meeting and go tomorrow because they have them all over the place, even one that runs on a track around the main dining room.
Before I shut up, have to confess a breach in etiquette. On my second trip to the trough, I scooted in line before this guy and grabbed the last plate. I was going to let him have it, even apologized to him for taking it -- but took it anyway. I mean, what was he going to say, "Screw you, fashion boy, wait for the next batch!" Sorry, sir -- when it comes to fried chicken, I'm like Brooke Shields and her Calvin Kleins. Bless Mr. Buffet's heart. He looked about as well fed as I am, though, so I doubt he'll keel over from starvation.
Peace, love and finger-lickin' goodness ... xoxo
