It’s a shame the world’s gourmets don’t come together to hand out an annual award for Best Restaurant of the Year.

I felt this deficiency quite acutely a few weeks ago when some of us gourmands (heavy eaters always refer to themselves as gourmands) were sitting around drooling over our breasts.

The favorite indoor sport of those who enjoy good food is remembering Memorable Meals in famous restaurants.

I thought that Antoine’s of New Orleans has to be among the leaders because of their Steak Robespierre.

“Steak what?” my incredulous companions asked, as wise eaters usually do. “Who ever heard of that dish? You’re kidding us.”

Stung to the depths of my taste buds, I firmly stated that Antoine had prepared the most delicious steak this side of Pearly Gates; and, in fact, Robespierre, was his name.

“Pooh,” they replied.

That’s how I started looking for the Steak Robespierre recipe.

None of the cookbooks in our house, already committed to the Smithsonian Institution after my death, had a word about Antoine’s famous steak.

Also the kitchen department of the Public Library.

Also the editors of three large newspapers.

Finally, in desperation, a long-distance phone call to Antoine himself.

Clever!

A conversation with the chef.

How do mere mortals converse with the men on whose shoulders rests the awesome responsibility of preparing Great Meals?

“Please, oh august sir, my credentials as Master Gourmet are in jeopardy because certain neophytes have failed to make their pilgrimage and are therefore ignorant of the delights of Steak Robespierre.

“Would you deign, in this extreme, to enlighten the wretches of Ohio who doubt my veracity and your culinary skill?” Long pause at the other end of the cable.

“Damn!” the Great intoned. “He knows a secret recipe that I have sworn to give only to my son.”

“I’m sorry,” I answered. “I’ll be kicked out of the Gourmet’s Club and go back to eating pork and beans every Saturday.”

“Well, in that case, I will tell you the ingredients, but not the quantities. My son, do you understand?”

“Yes yes yes! But please continue, my three minutes are almost up.”

Here, then, Friends of the Sauce Pan, are the materials used in Antoine’s exclusive Steak Robespierre. This is a culinary first in the world of food journalism; other newspapers can copy it.

Marinate cured whole beef tenderloins in red wine and French dressing for up to four hours. Bake medium rare.

Next, make a little brown sauce with beef broth and arrowroot. Add these ingredients: diced sautéed bacon; spring onions; Red wine; tomato juice; chicken livers sautéed in bacon fat; sliced ​​green olives; mushroom caps; and finally, well-boiled and clean chopped sweet breads.

Garnish with artichoke hearts marinated in olive oil, wine vinegar and dill.

If this description hasn’t got your digestive juices boiling, leave us alone and head over to the sports page.

For those of you who are now passing out with involuntary stomach muscle spasms, read on at your own risk.

The proof of the pudding, that is, the steak, is in the eating, so the Mother of My Children graciously agreed to prepare the dish for our doubting friends. Our friends, now eager, promised to surround him with the same viands that accompanied our first Steak Robespierre at Antoine’s, all those years ago.

Oh what a dinner that was. It will be a legend to be cherished by my children.

First there was bouillabaisse soup with large chunks of white fish, scallops and eels. Boiled shrimp with hot tomato sauce. Ponchartrain salad with tomato slices marinated in red wine, topped with finely chopped and blanched asparagus tips, potato salad, Thousand Island dressing and black caviar.

Steak Robespierre, light as a cloud and dripping with that luscious sauce.

“Dirty” rice steamed into consumed meat. Crackling Rose for table wine.

For dessert, my specialty, Bananas Foster, flambéed.

Coffee with milk.

Good mixed good roasted nuts. Panatella and Southern Comfort cigars for ladies and gentlemen.

Well, sir, and Bob, you can imagine the effect this masterpiece had on my dubious friends. There’s already a movement underway at my gourmet club to give me a Certificate of Recognition, and maybe make me Grand Guard Of The Frying Pan.

I hope I can carry the title modestly.

October 10, 1973

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