Big Easy does it: On jazz nights Ortlieb's is morethan just a restaurant - it's a community.

Jazz You Like It

Ortlieb's brings the best of Nawlins to Philly.

by Brian McManus

Ortlieb's Jazzhaus is less a restaurant and more a wicked cool transport portal to New Orleans. Growing up in Houston—just six hours from the Big Easy—I frequently escaped from under Satan's ball sac to visit his armpit. Both were miserable and choked with suffocating heat, but at least New Orleans had flavor. And the chance you'd be hustled out of your money and/or murdered while taking the wrong alley in the French Quarter made it terribly exciting to a dipshit suburban kid like me.

Also, the food. Back then it seemed a bad meal was impossible to come by in Nawlins. Whether rolling into a Zagat-approved hotspot or a dive off the beaten path, everything in the Crescent City was aching with spice—forcing me to coin the phrase “aching with spice” to describe it. In short, it was New Orleans that made me want to go to culinary school. And once there, I and several fellow academic burnouts would cross the state line to eat and—who am I kidding?—drink our way across New Orleans about once a month.

On an early Wednesday evening, my dining companion and I are two of six people in the joint. If they've got air conditioning at Ortlieb's, they ain't big on turning it on. The shotgun shack is “cooled” by several shaky ceiling fans pushing hot, stale air. The ceiling is studded with padded orange leather. The walls are orange and black. And even with the sun beaming outside, Ortlieb's is jazz-club dark.

Rather than deal with being seated and served by a staff that doesn't seem to have shown up yet, we belly up to the bar and order a plate of pan-fried oysters. They arrive quickly, and I scarf them down in a way that's no doubt unattractive. The little guys are coated in seasoned flour, fried to perfection and just waiting to be sopped in the spicy roasted tomato remoulade that covers the plate.

A side of jalapeno polenta fries arrives, further proof that Ortlieb's knows its way around some hot “earl” (New Orleans for “oil”). They're served with a spicy aioli similar to the one you'll find accompanying the hand-cut fries at Good Dog.

All this cayenne, jalapeno and lack of central air has me sweating, but feeling great. New Orleans natives the Meters are piping through the house speakers, and—in what must be divine intervention—“Just Kissed My Baby” (one of the greatest songs ever) comes on as the entrees appear.

The ribs at Ortlieb's are as good as any I've had, and I'm usually an asshole about this sort of thing. (Forgive me. I'm from Texas. Slow-smoked meats and Willie Nelson are the only things I have to boast about.) Tender and swathed in a spicy citrus chipotle, Ortlieb's ribs are the stuff of dreams. I go through them like a buzz saw. I nibble on the accompanying jalapeno cornbread. It's good, but the polenta has me satiated on the corn-and-pepper front. The corn on the cob, described on the menu as “Texas style,” is split in half long-ways, a bit of a pain to eat but delicious nonetheless.

The ribs are so damn good I don't even balk at my dining companion's seitan tips in a molasses soy glaze and mushroom ragout. Ordinarily I'd greet this dish with a roll of the eyes and dismiss it as vegetarian poseur soy trying to play catch-up with the meaty big boys. But perhaps still inebriated with rib-munching glee, I find them pretty tasty as well.

Dinner is different. The place is packed for a jazz free-for-all, and tiny candlelit tables are tightly bunched together around a small stage. Geeky white guys line up to sign a sheet to get their turn onstage, while the band members discuss what they want to play first.

A Louisiana crab bisque with bourbon syrup is silky and rich. Giant clumps of jumbo lump float on top.

Special haus wings spiked with chili and honey are juicy and excellent. Each wing is plump and, ahem, aching with spice. They're some of the best I've ever had.

A blackened catfish entree is Ortlieb's sole miss. The filet is bland and swimming in a “creole” sauce that could stand to be kicked up, as it tastes like unseasoned stewed tomatoes. The greens alongside the fish have been braised in vinegar and emit a surprising, unpleasant tartness—and they're brown. Red beans and rice, scooped haphazardly onto the plate, are underdone in spots, overdone in others, and tasteless all around.

A Cajun chicken sandwich with fire-roasted red peppers has me thinking about road trips past. And after adding a touch of salt, it doesn't disappoint.

Musicians have been playing for about an hour now with varying degrees of competence. Jazzers hop off and on the stage, picking up where others leave off. The crowd applauds, all smiles. Tonight Ortlieb's is a community. A community I'll definitely be back to visit.