NEW ORLEANS—We are sitting at a fancy-pants restaurant in the French Quarter, guests of a generous friend and gourmet whose main hobby it is to ferret out such pink and pleasurable places.

There is the clanking of crystal, a stable of obsequious waiters, fresh flowers and cloth napkins the size of Ecuador. Uptown businessmen sniff at corks, and skinny women in Chanel suits toss their coifs. People settle in for some fine dining.

I hate to admit it. But I am more of a Low Church epicurean. In New Orleans, Acme Oyster Bar or Central Grocery suits me fine.

Not ...

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