New Orleans

Breaux Bridge and New Iberia and other citadels of Cajun culture lie a mere 150 miles west of here, but it has never been easy to find good Cajun cooking in New Orleans. Truth to tell, many of the self-anointed local sophisticates consider Cajun cooking at little too…well, coarse compared with their own Creole cuisine.

Now, at one of the least propitious moments in the history of New Orleans gastronomy- New Orleans everything, for that matter- Donald Link has set out to change all that with a new warehouse district restaurant called Cochon (French for pig). Along with the Longbranch, an ambitious spot on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain opened by Slade Rushing and Allison Vines-Rushing, late of Jack’s Luxury Oyster Bar in Manhattan, Cochon seems to me a clear standout among the 77 eating places that have opened in the metropolitan area, according to the New Orleans Restaurant Association, in the eight months since Hurricane Katrina blew into town.

The sleek blond wood of its chairs and tables tells you right away that Cochon is urban; bare brick walls tell you that its roots are rural. And so it is with the cooking, which is rustic without being simpleminded.  It reminded me of the grown-up country food that the excellent Scott Peacock turns out at Watershed in Decatur, Ga.
Mr. Link, who is also the chef at Herbsaint in the central business district, draws on his Cajun roots for his fried boudin balls, whose crunchy exterior contrasts nicely with the soft, spicy pork-and-rice sausage inside; for his crawfish pie, which resembles an empanada; and his eggplant with shrimp dressing, a real bayou blockbuster.
All of these come in small portions, and all are served all day.  Mr. Link is intrepid not only in his timing but in his entire approach to dining out.

Two other dishes deserve- no, demand- mention here. Gulf oysters, discreetly seasoned with lemon juice, red pepper, garlic and butter, emerge from a wood fired oven in perfect balance, their own briny juices melding with but not obscured by the flavors of the seasonings.

Even the oysters, stunning as they are, are outshone by a small skillet full of creamy rabbit stew, boldly flavored with celery, featuring chunks of turnips, carrots and the mild, succulent meat itself, as well as fluffy little dumplings. They taste German, like my grandmother’s, not Southern, I thought as I bit into one, and later I learned that they were just that, made from a recipe of the chef’s German grandfather.

“A potpie gone right” was the verdict of John Pearce, one of those at our table, and no one argued.