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

I felt this deficiency quite acutely a few weeks ago when some of us foodies (hearty eaters always refer to themselves as gourmets) were sitting drooling on our chests.

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

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

“Steak what?” asked my incredulous companions, as wise eaters usually do. “Who has heard of that dish? You are fooling 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 our household cookbooks, 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.

Likewise, the food editors of three large newspapers.

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

Ready!

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, to this extent, to enlighten the wretches of Ohio who doubt my veracity and your culinary prowess?” 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 replied. “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’ll 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 that go into Antoine’s signature Steak Robespierre. This is a culinary first in the world of food journalism; other newspapers may copy it.

Marinate whole and cured 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; chives; red wine; tomato juice; chicken livers sautéed in bacon fat; sliced ​​green olives; mushroom hats; and finally, well-boiled and clean sliced ​​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 and go to the sports page.

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

The proof of the pudding, that is, the steak, is in eating it, so the Mother of My Children kindly agreed to prepare the dish for our doubting friends. Our now eager friends vowed 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 big chunks of white fish, scallops and eels. Boiled shrimp with spicy tomato sauce. Ponchartrain salad with red wine marinated tomato slices topped with blanched and finely chopped asparagus tips, potato salad, Thousand Island dressing and black caviar.

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

Steamed “dirty” rice in meat consumed. Crackling Rose for table wine.

For dessert, my specialty, Bananas Foster, flambéed.

Coffee with milk.

Nice good mixed 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 in my gourmet club to give me a Certificate of Appreciation, and maybe make me Grand Pan Guard.

I hope I can carry the title modestly.

October 10, 1973

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