THE GORILLA MAN AND THE EMPRESS OF STEAK: A New Orleans Family Memoir, by Randy Fertel. University Press of Mississippi, $28.

By JOHN DeMERS

I am from New Orleans.

After a decade in Texas – looking forward, I hope, to the rest of my decades being in Texas – I can finally say those words with neither pride nor shame. I can simply say them, like describing the weather outside, and feel better. And feel truer to parts of myself that will always define who, what and how I am, not to mention how I eat and drink. In this pursuit, I have a lot of reasons to thank Randy Fertel, who in telling the clear-eyed yet also emotional story of his mother (who founded Ruth’s Chris Steak House), his father (a ne’er-do-well in ways too many to count) and a slew of other relatives, has given me a kind of permission to ponder my own.

If all you know of New Orleans is Mardi Gras or Jazzfest, or even if all you know is borrowed from Treme with a side order of Anne Rice, you have no idea, really, about the city Randy and I grew up in. New Orleans is, as always, both better and worse than you’re thinking. The towering figure in this memoir, as in Randy’s life, is his pint-sized mother with the Old Testament powerhouse of a name, Ruth. In food circles, it’s well known how she ended up a single mother before that was normal, with two sons to raise and an ex who had money but couldn’t be counted on to share any of it. And we know how she mortgaged her house to buy a down-and-dirty, inner-city steakhouse called “Chris,” learned all the jobs, acquired a toughness none of her steaks would happily ever know, and sold the resulting success story shortly before her death for hundreds of millions of dollars. Lucky? Sure. The lady played the horses at the New Orleans Fair Grounds, so she knew all about luck. Yet no one who knew Ruth Fertel, as I did over many years, would bother mentioning luck at all.

Still, in the tangibly Shakespearean/Greek tragedy Fertel chooses to tell, you have to have a father figure – and young Randy and his brother Jerry had to have one too. The Gorilla Man (his top billing in the title is interesting) is a troubled, haunted shadow of a man who passes in and out of the author’s life over the decades, pretty much never when he was needed. Rodney Fertel came from a New Orleans few have ever described: a family of Jewish pawn brokers who lived and worked in the poor, mostly black neighborhoods where artists like Louis Armstrong emerged. Rodney inherited a good deal of money and, as related now by his son, never held a job a day of his life. Probably what we’d now politely call a “gambling addict,” Rodney followed the ponies and anything else that promised adrenalin and a quick, easy profit. The only three things he never followed worth a damn were his wife and two sons.

In some ways, this is a new story, while in other ways, it’s the oldest story there is: a grownup child trying to understand all the good and horrific things his parents did, trying to somehow encounter them face-to-face as human beings rather than parents, and trying to embrace their stories and forgive their failings from the world of the living into the world of the dead. No place on earth seems better suited to this bittersweet journey than New Orleans. My hometown. The fact that there’s so much incredible red meat in these pages is, as Ruth surely learned to say in her hometown of Happy Jack on the Mississippi River, gravy.

No, last night wasn’t my birthday. But it was the perfect way to celebrate the upcoming 10th birthday of one of my favorite French restaurants on the face of the earth - yes, even counting France - Le Mistral in West Houston. A special birthday celebration is planned by brothers David and Sylvain Denis for Sept. 30.

Of course, the birthday party won’t be held at the original Le Mistral, the tiny bistro space in a strip center that still plays host to other eateries next door. No, the celebration also recognizes the savvy of brothers who bought an acre on Eldridge Parkway practically minutes before it took on another name - Houston’s Energy Corridor.

These days, the M atop this wild mushroom soup must stand for “Greater Le Mistral,” which takes in not only a super-stylish French restaurant but an upstairs catering facility, a high-end grocery called Foody’s Gourmet and even a wholesale baking operation serving 18-20 restaurants all over Houston. The Denis brothers talk a lot about the American Dream, and they’ve worked a lot through very hard times to achieve it.

Representing the good life, as French cuisine so often does, Le Mistral does as many dishes as possible with celebratory ingredients such as lobster. This lobster risotto was a big winner last night, for instance, as was some lobster ravioli that turned up added to a bowl of cream of artichoke soup. This is nothing like the snooty French cuisine our parents and grandparents had to deal with; it’s something closer to the earth that tastes like heaven nonetheless.

Chef David assured us that his halibut dish had no sauce, but he also suggested that it didn’t need any. That turned out to be the case, since the lovely, mild fish was topped with a generous layer of thinly sliced tomatoes, with roasted potatoes sneaking in underneath the fish. It was a perfect dish, reminiscent of the South of France from which the Denis brothers hail. You are definitely a long way from Paris when you’re here.

Typically, I don’t approve of oversized plates with undersized food on them - much preferring things the other way around. But I must admit, this version of beef tenderloin left me very happy indeed. I think it was the small cast-iron skillet for the potatoes that did the trick, breaking up the polar-bear-in-snowstorm of all the white. Oh, and I should mention that every component of the dish was delicious.

This wasn’t exactly birthday cake, though there presumably will be some around Le Mistral on Sept. 30. It was a lovely, dense and intense chocolate dessert that benefited greatly from the ice cream-like substance in the shot glass. So Happy Birthday, Le Mistral. Happy Success Story, David and Sylvain. When it comes to vision, focus, sacrifice and plain hard work, you guys may be more American than most of us in your dining room.

Our 21^st Year of Eating, Drinking and Telling You About It!

HOUSTON Saturdays and Sunday 4-5 p.m., NewsRadio 740 KTRH

A Presentation of Spec’s Wines, Spirits & Finer Foods

SATURDAY: Over the years, a lot of Italian cooking has made its way to Houston by way of Italy, but the new Luca & Leonardo in the Woodlands serves the first we’ve encountered that came to America by way of Mexico. So far, all we can say, after several dinners there, is “muy, I mean, molto bene.” And we recognize the new NFL season in this week’s Grape & Grain segment, tasting the impressive wines of Super Bowl-winning coach Dick Vermeil. Turns out, the name “Vermiel” (Ver-MAY) is originally French, and the guy grew up in Napa. Who knew?

AUSTIN Saturdays 10-11 a.m., Talk 1370

A Presentation of Spec’s Wines, Spirits & Finer Foods

As the Eddie V’s concept keeps on growing, taking seafood to the culinary heights of a prime steakhouse, we thought it was high time to visit the original location in downtown Austin. We interview several key players while eating and drinking ourselves silly. And we recognize the new NFL season in this week’s Grape & Grain segment, tasting the impressive wines of Super Bowl-winning coach Dick Vermeil. Turns out, the name “Vermiel” (Ver-MAY) is originally French, and the guy grew up in Napa. Who knew?

This Week’s Delicious Mischief Recipe

DEEP SOUTH FRIED OYSTERS

Now that we’ve finally gotten back to a month with an R in it – which traditionally equates to a month with cooler temperatures, we can sidestep that old wive’s tale and knock back some serious fried oysters.

24 to 36 Texas oysters, raw and shucked

2 eggs, beaten

2 cups cornmeal

1 teaspoon sugar

2 teaspoons salt

1 teaspoon pepper

2 tablespoons flour

Drain oysters. In a bowl, beat eggs; add drained oysters and let stand for 10 minutes. Mix cornmeal, sugar, salt, pepper and flour. Dip oysters in cornmeal mixture and fry in batches in deep hot oil or shortening — at about 370° — until golden brown. Drain on paper towels. Serves 4 to 6.

When they name a restaurant after what may be the most memory-filled two words of your entire life, that place is certain to have a lot to live up to. And no, I don’t mean the New Orleans seafood restaurant called Grand Isle has to give me my father, mother and sister back, or all those summers we spent just off the south Louisiana coast, or all the fishing, shrimping and crabbing, or the escape from work and school, or even the only bathing we did for weeks - in the gently rolling green waters of the Gulf.

Truth be told, I’m sure the restaurant called Grand Isle, only a dice roll from Harrah’s Casino and the New Orleans Convention Center, is a whole lot nicer than anyplace we ever went out to eat on Grand Isle itself. We hardly ever went out anyway, since lunch and dinner were the seafood we’d just caught, boiled with spices or dredged in seasoned flour or cornmeal and pan-fried.

Still, for all its quasi-tropical comfort and design, Grand Isle becomes a bit more of a dive as the sun dips down. The very name would require it. My father took me to many a neighborhood bar when I was growing up (before grownups were made to feign horror at such things), so I know a good dive when I see one. And if all you want is limitless oysters on the half-shell and almost-limitless Abita beer, Grand Isle can be just the dive for you.

In addition to the wonderful grilled shrimp with Asian slaw pictured at the top, New Orleans-born chef Mark Falgoust offers his spin on “classic” New Orleans BBQ shrimp. As the local timeline goes, BBQ shrimp is hardly a classic, having been created at a Sicilian place called Pascal’s Manale in the mid 20th century. And as Texas goes, this is anything but BBQ. Still, shrimp cooked heads-on (headless shrimp are lucky to have 10% of the flavor) in butter, black pepper and garlic have nothing to apologize for.

Traditional New Orleans restaurant cuisine may be one of the few on earth to give Tex-Mex a run for top honors when it comes to using cheese. In the spirit of queso that’s been funnelled through France, locals love nothing better than a bubbly ramekin of molten crabmeat au gratin. There are a million variations all over town, but they all require mountains of French bread.

If you live long enough, you hear lots of great ideas. But I haven’t heard too many better than covering Gulf oysters on the half shell with a variety of toppings, most involving breadcrumbs and cheese, securing them in a bed of rock salt so they don’t tip over, then slapping them under a super-hot broiler. All three Grand Isle variations on classic Rockefeller and Bienville were winners.

In days of yore ( a.k.a. my childhood), any fish dish with crabmeat on top was called Pontchartrain, after the lake, just like anything with spinach was called Florentine and anything with grapes was called Veronique. This special at Grand Isle wasn’t called Pontchartrain, but that didn’t keep the fresh black drum baked in “chile butter” from being very happy beneath its crabmeat.

Then again, after all those summers on Grand Isle itself, I can’t help but think baking is for cakes and frying is for seafood. So of course I had to order Grand Isle’s fried seafood platter - a festival of shrimp, oysters, catfish and a kind of crabcake that resembled an overgrown hush puppy. Did I want fries with that? Yes, I do think I do.

Desserts at Grand Isle, like desserts almost anywhere worth much, are blasts from the past. There’s a super housemade cheesecake (who makes their own cheesecake anymore?), plus good bread pudding and carrot cake with cream cheese icing. There’s even a nod to the modern world with this chocolate brownie - studded with bacon! I promise you, though, it would take a lot more than some weird brownie to drag me back to Grand Isle of the present - when I find so much worth living for in Grand Isle of the past.