The first time my husband ever pointed out Vincent’s to me, I just knew that I’d like it. There’s nothing particularly alluring or grand about the look of it; it’s unassuming — but for some reason, it immediately evoked a desire in me to dine there. It’s been on my radar for months, and last night, we finally ended up there. We’ve recently moved to the Riverbend neighborhood of New Orleans, and Vincent’s sits at the almost-end of St. Charles Avenue, bleeding into our new neighborhood. On this particularly lovely Friday night, we were tired from putting together furniture and working all week, and decided to take a stroll through the neighborhood and hunt down some dinner. Oak Street was popping for a Friday night, and so we ventured further out, with my initial sights on The Camellia Grill (I’ll be back for you). But when we walked by, The Camellia Grill wasn’t calling to me, and I felt like this was a place we should save for breakfast. So we ventured on to Vincent’s.

As we walked, a buzzing excitement I used to get all the time from restaurants and dining started to build deep inside me. It felt really good. A short few blocks later, the restaurant’s red sign glowed as we approached in the twilight, the sun just escaping into the evening. I had my camera hanging around my neck — only with my small 35mm lens, as I did not want it to be too obtrusive — and I wasn’t even sure I wanted to take any photos. When we walked in the door, though, I changed my mind. It was even better than I had hoped. It was dark and packed, wine bottles lined the walls along with photographs and the many awards they’ve won over the years (though many of them are faded). A waiter greeted us to say the host would be right there, and the restaurant was very busy and humming with energy.

I’m somewhat of a semi-retired food writer and social media personality, and I don’t like to bring my camera to restaurants as much as I used to. I once felt proud bringing it out, striking up conversations with the servers and bartenders about my blog and why I had the camera. But now I feel like it marks me as an influencer — and that word, well — it’s just not what I want to be defined as. It’s not really something I want even attached to my name. Ten to twelve years ago, that was in my email signature. Now, I cringe when I hear it.

Now that I’m in New Orleans — where things move just a little slower, but the restaurants are some of the best you’ll find anywhere in the country — I have been inspired to open up my laptop to a blank document and write again. Because while I will most definitely scroll Instagram or get sucked into a food article by a popular online publication that’s really mostly just oversaturated food photos, I personally still love to read. I love to truly absorb what’s inside another person’s head — not only seeing small clips or images from the meal, but having the experience told to me and getting lost in their story. (I’m hoping I’m not the only one.)

But back to Vincent’s — ah, what a night we had! Again, the place was dripping with energy, and my husband (a restaurant veteran and hospitality pro) steps into the next room and pops back to tell me with happy eyes, “There are a couple tables open in the bar.” Perfect. A moment later, the host appears and begins to rustle through the computer when we tell him we don’t have a reservation but are hoping to squeeze in. He tells us to follow him, we step into the bar, and we’re seated at a two-top right across from the bar (which is full of happy people eating and drinking). Again — perfect. Our waitress appears immediately and asks about drinks. I’m easy — Perrier because I don’t drink anymore — and my husband says he needs to look at the wine list, though he ends up ordering a gin martini with a twist, which seems very appropriate for the dark, somewhat boisterous bar setting we’re in.

Vincent’s is really old-school. This location (one of two) has been around for over twenty-five years, and you can tell the menu hasn’t changed since it opened. The restaurant is a little run down — the ceiling has seen better days, and the barstools are pretty dated (along with the rest of the furniture), but that’s truly part of the charm. I immediately adore it. It’s exactly what I expected and hoped for (but better). My heart skips a beat when I open the menu and see all of the classic Italian-American style fare. There’s also a Creole-inspired flair to the menu, with offerings like the insanely flavorful corn and crabmeat bisque we indulge in as an appetizer.

Our drinks appear quickly and we’re ready to order — baked crab claws to start (on the specials menu, which is an entire page inserted into the menu), the corn and crab bisque, classic lasagna for my husband, and chicken parm for me. I’m overwhelmed with joy; I can just tell this is going to be a good meal — and then the bread comes. It’s that perfectly nostalgic, classic white bread — soft on the inside with just the right bit of chew — with a garlic herb butter on the side. The butter spreads easily onto the bread, and it melts my heart with its garlicky goodness. We have so much food coming, so much heavy food, that I try to have only one piece — but I can’t resist. I end up having three (to my husband’s one).

Quickly after, the food starts arriving, and the food here comes fast. They are really pumping out the goodness at Vincent’s, and our waitress does not miss a beat. Nor does any of the other wait staff. As soon as we finish a dish or drain a water glass, it is instantly removed or refilled.

The corn and crab bisque in a small bread bowl is the first “real food” to hit the table. And pardon my language, but my immediate reaction was, “holy shit.” My husband grins as I hand him the soup spoon, and I can see his eyes get wide with his first bite as well — it’s a home run. This was worth the visit in itself. If we had just each had a bowl of this soup and some bread with garlic butter, I would consider this meal a tremendous success.

But oh, that was just the beginning. Next come our crab claws. They’re baked with some parmesan cheese and served with a lemon that we greedily squeeze before devouring them — another home run.

Our entrées hit the table before we can even finish the appetizer. And oh, what entrées they were! Like I said, we had opted for classics — Chicken Parm (me) and Lasagna (Marcus) — and they came in heaping portions. You could tell before you took a bite that they were going to make your tummy so happy — and boy did they. They were done perfectly in my humble, not-Italian-at-all opinion. The lasagna layers were piled on top of one another with melted mozzarella and homemade red sauce pouring down it. My chicken parm came with a side of angel hair pasta noodles and marinara sauce, and the chicken was perfectly crusted in parmesan and then absolutely buried in a champagne beurre blanc sauce. The amount of food between those two plates could have fed a family of five easily (and I was already getting full from the large amount of bread, chowder, and crab claws I’d consumed). Somehow, we managed to eat an embarrassingly large portion of both.

I could have cleaned my plate, but alas — I knew I wanted dessert — so I could not finish it all. And I knew before I even opened the menu that I wanted tiramisu. (I was also eyeing the white chocolate bread pudding — I’ll save you for next time.) Our very efficient waitress appeared pretty much the moment we took our last bites (it was like she had a sixth sense the whole dining experience). She asked if we needed boxes — “yes.” Did we want dessert? “Yes.” And what would we like? “The tiramisu.”

I felt like we had pleased her with our dessert decision and quick ordering, and that made me smile. You can tell this is a woman who doesn’t take any bullshit. Get them in and get them out; get them their good food and give them good service, and be quick about it. I liked her from the first interaction. It wasn’t the type of interaction you get at a Michelin-star restaurant, but for God’s sake — I for one am starting to tire of those “elevated” experiences where everyone is putting on airs. Vincent’s, with its attentive, not over-the-top service and authentic plates, feels real and almost unapologetic. And I like it, a lot.

The tiramisu, like everything else, came quickly, and I was swooning over it from the moment it hit the table. I knew we’d made the right dessert decision. And even though we were both so full we were starting to border on uncomfortable — that magnificent layered dessert did not last long. I managed to get a few very quick photos of it before we dove in — but I didn’t obsess over what the images looked like. I didn’t get out of my seat to capture the “perfect” shots. I didn’t have my 55mm “sexier food lens” that I change to for the ultimate drool-worthy photo, and I didn’t shoot it at multiple angles.

I did what I had done for the entire meal — camera out quickly, a few quick snaps to truly document the food, and back under the table it went. I just didn’t want to be seen as (1) a tourist or (2 — and more importantly) some influencer that’s only there for Instagram (because I’m not — I’m there for the food and the experience, and sharing it with you here with my words and mediocre photos is just a bonus). These shots aren’t curated or styled — this food photography isn’t going to win any awards, and it’s probably not going to be picked up by Eater or any other food publication from my Instagram page.

The instant the last bite was taken, a busboy appeared and cleared the table, and our server was right behind him. We were done and ready for the check, and we had the card at the ready when she brought over the ticket (forever trying to stay in the good graces of the team that’s serving me). The entire dining experience — which included all this food, a martini, and a glass of red wine for my husband — unfolded in just an hour because they are so efficient (and also because they’re probably going to turn that table four times tonight at the rate they’re going).

But it did not feel rushed — it felt appropriate and delicious. And I left with one of the biggest smiles on my face I’ve had in quite some time. “It was even better than I hoped,” I said when we stepped outside. I snapped a couple photos of the building just as the streetcar pulled by. My heart was so full at this point I thought it might burst. My husband and I walked home down St. Charles and Carrollton hand in hand beneath the beautiful oak trees, with him telling me stories of eating at Vincent’s with his dad when he was in his early twenties. It was a perfect New Orleans night. I’m glad I got up the morning after to write it all down, and I hope you enjoyed it, too.

Vincent’s Italian Cuisine has two locations, in Metairie and Uptown. The Metairie location opened in 1989, followed by the Riverbend/Uptown location in 1997.

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