Galatoire’s

We’re in a bit of a pickle here. We want to tell you the best time to come to this revered institution, whose interior resembles a debutante’s ball, is Friday lunch. That’s when a brand of New Orleanian you may not have known existed – ladies in big hats and gloves and men with names like ‘Chet’ – buys ­copious bottles of champagne, gossips to high hell, gets called honey or darlin’ or just their first name by the waiters, and generally lives life in an unapologetic aristocratic rhythm. But if you arrive at this time you may not get a table and will probably feel like an outsider, so maybe you should come some other time, when Galatoire’s feels like all outsiders. Unfortunately, grand dame as she is, this place is on Bourbon St, and can’t quite escape the latter’s tackiness. Ask a tuxedo-ed waiter for what’s fresh, don a jacket if you’re a guy and treat yourself to the old-line masterpieces and mainstays: pompano meunière, liver with bacon and onions, and the signature chicken clemenceau.