Yes, it's the Christmas season and you'd expect -- if you were anywhere else -- that signs posted around town saying, "I Believe" or simply "Believe" would refer to Christianity or to a literal faith in the Biblical nativity story. Anywhere but here, that is.
"Believing" in New Orleans right now refers strictly to a deeply held faith in the Saints perfect season. It means believing with all your heart that the Bless You Boys will beat Dallas on Saturday, and more than that, will go on to win in the playoffs and end up as Superbowl winners. If faith is "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen," then what New Orleanians of all classes and colors have right now is true and authentic faith.
Religion is supposed to be a uniting force in society, and it is sad how often it is not. You can't imagine how this Saints-faith has brought us all together. Our beloved quarterback, Drew Brees, has been selected to rule over the Bacchus Parade on the Sunday after Superbowl -- picture the pandemonium in the streets! Many houses have Saints-themed Christmas decorations. My personal compromise: our house has Christmas lights and wreaths and mistletoe -- and a gold and black fleur de lis flag. The drug dealers on the corner (OK, I can't prove it, and they're perfectly nice to us) have a glittery gold and black wreath on their door. A swanky maternity dress shop in Old Metairie had a pregnant mannequin outside sporting a black Saints-themed baby-bump hoodie -- and a sign on the door proclaiming "13-0 Woo-hoo!" At my bank this morning, a car in the parking lot had a preprinted sign saying "14-0" -- although many around here would disapprove of counting our winnings before they hatch. (Superstitions abound -- some folks refer cryptically to the "S Bowl.")
With our shared faith in the Saints, and our renewed pride in our city and ourselves, it feels like we can do anything we put our minds to. It's a welcome and much-needed feeling this still-battered and bruised and not-fully-recovered city. What a wonderful Christmas season -- what longed-for gifts!
Love and gratitude to the Bless You Boys for all of this good feeling and unity.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Teddy Bear Tea at the Roosevelt
Big Man got an unusual gig this holiday season -- he's portraying the Toy Soldier who plays the herald trumpet for Santa, Mrs. Claus, the Christmas Elf, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and the Snow Fairy at the re-established Teddy Bear Tea in a beautiful ballroom at the Roosevelt. In a revived tradition from pre-Katrina, every weekend leading up to Christmas, beautifully dressed and generally well-behaved little children, accompanied by parents and doting grandparents, make reservations to sit at round tables in the gorgeously decorated ballroom -- white trees glowing with white lights, the arched ceiling glowing with blue lights interspersed with giant dangling snowflake chandeliers, the "Santa house" at the stage made to look like gingerbread and candy -- to nibble at little cucumber sandwiches, ham and cheese sandwiches, and various sweets, all served with hot tea and coffee for the adults and hot chocolate for the kiddies. Each child leaves with a teddy bear (and possibly a stuffed crawfish or alligator if the accompanying adult has trouble saying "no").
There's a brief musical program, with Big Man blowing Christmas songs on the trumpet, and then the characters make the rounds of the guests, meeting and greeting, and of course there's photo ops with Santa. (Santa told me a lot of the children slid right off his lap, due to the satin and taffeta and other slick fabrics of their holiday finery.) During the table visits by the other characters, Big Man takes a break, since, quite frankly, kids are not lining up to get their picture taken with the Toy Soldier and his herald trumpet.
When the program is nearing the end, they bring Big Man back in, with all the characters except Santa (who's *always* swamped with kids, either taking pictures or just trying to tell him what they want for Christmas), and they all do a big Christmas secondline all around the ballroom, Big Man leading the characters in a little parade of Christmas songs, the kids following behind, waving their red napkins in the air. (Only in New Orleans!)
When the whole thing is over, the characters -- including Big Man in his Toy Soldier guise -- line up to form a "receiving line" as everyone leaves, and it's touching to see the little ones give big hugs and pose with their favorites. (A few even squeezed Big Man and stood for pictures with him! It was sweet.) Later, the Roosevelt's lobby was crowded with holiday-dressed children clutching teddy bears.
If you're a New Orleans-area parent or grandparent of a child older than 2 (the younger ones found Rudolph and his light-up red nose frightening and cried) and younger than 10 (any older than that and they'll just roll their eyes at you if you suggest it), then we recommend the Teddy Bear Tea to you. And be sure to say hello to that large Toy Soldier with the horn.
There's a brief musical program, with Big Man blowing Christmas songs on the trumpet, and then the characters make the rounds of the guests, meeting and greeting, and of course there's photo ops with Santa. (Santa told me a lot of the children slid right off his lap, due to the satin and taffeta and other slick fabrics of their holiday finery.) During the table visits by the other characters, Big Man takes a break, since, quite frankly, kids are not lining up to get their picture taken with the Toy Soldier and his herald trumpet.
When the program is nearing the end, they bring Big Man back in, with all the characters except Santa (who's *always* swamped with kids, either taking pictures or just trying to tell him what they want for Christmas), and they all do a big Christmas secondline all around the ballroom, Big Man leading the characters in a little parade of Christmas songs, the kids following behind, waving their red napkins in the air. (Only in New Orleans!)
When the whole thing is over, the characters -- including Big Man in his Toy Soldier guise -- line up to form a "receiving line" as everyone leaves, and it's touching to see the little ones give big hugs and pose with their favorites. (A few even squeezed Big Man and stood for pictures with him! It was sweet.) Later, the Roosevelt's lobby was crowded with holiday-dressed children clutching teddy bears.
If you're a New Orleans-area parent or grandparent of a child older than 2 (the younger ones found Rudolph and his light-up red nose frightening and cried) and younger than 10 (any older than that and they'll just roll their eyes at you if you suggest it), then we recommend the Teddy Bear Tea to you. And be sure to say hello to that large Toy Soldier with the horn.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Too Funny
Last Sunday, the Saints played a cliff-hanger game against the Washington Redskins (horrible team name, they should change it), and the whole city paused to watch in wonder. There was hardly a car on the streets from about 12:30 to 4-ish pm. It seemed everyone in the city was glued to some means of following the game -- no matter what else they had to do that day.
I understand through letters to the editor to the Times-Picayune, that Sunday Brunch at quiet, staid, traditional Galatoire's Restaurant was punctuated by waiters bearing sweating sterling silver pitchers of ice water to the tables, reporting to the well-dressed and well-heeled customers on the game scores from the radios blaring back in the kitchen.
That's amusing enough, but the capper was finding out that folks attending the matinée of "The Color Purple" at the Mahalia Jackson Theater of the Performing Arts in Louis Armstrong Park were entertained during intermission by a TV set turned to the Saints game in the theater lobby.
Yes, but then both the play AND the game resumed. Theatergoers reported later that the darkened auditorium was strangely lit up in places by the Saints fans continuing to check their cell phones and Blackberries for text messages about the game's progress.
And then in about the 4th act of the play, the actors were startled and the play halted as news quickly spread through the theater that the Saints had won a squeaker, 33-30, in overtime play, and had won their division. There was actually 2 minutes of applause and cheering that had absolutely nothing to do with the play, and the actors onstage had to wait til the fans subsided (somewhat) in order to finish the play.
Turns out that one Metairie Carnival organization has announced that they are canceling their parade for Superbowl Sunday, and the annual so-called "Family Gras" on Veterans Highway (yeah, like Carnival in the city *isn't* for families -- I hate that) has likewise been canceled for 2010. One blogger to the NOLA.com site has already complained they doing that might actually jinx things.
How "Who-Dat" is that?? Now that we're Division Champs, God help us all if the Saints actually do get to the S--------. (Yeah, I'm THAT superstitious!)
I understand through letters to the editor to the Times-Picayune, that Sunday Brunch at quiet, staid, traditional Galatoire's Restaurant was punctuated by waiters bearing sweating sterling silver pitchers of ice water to the tables, reporting to the well-dressed and well-heeled customers on the game scores from the radios blaring back in the kitchen.
That's amusing enough, but the capper was finding out that folks attending the matinée of "The Color Purple" at the Mahalia Jackson Theater of the Performing Arts in Louis Armstrong Park were entertained during intermission by a TV set turned to the Saints game in the theater lobby.
Yes, but then both the play AND the game resumed. Theatergoers reported later that the darkened auditorium was strangely lit up in places by the Saints fans continuing to check their cell phones and Blackberries for text messages about the game's progress.
And then in about the 4th act of the play, the actors were startled and the play halted as news quickly spread through the theater that the Saints had won a squeaker, 33-30, in overtime play, and had won their division. There was actually 2 minutes of applause and cheering that had absolutely nothing to do with the play, and the actors onstage had to wait til the fans subsided (somewhat) in order to finish the play.
Turns out that one Metairie Carnival organization has announced that they are canceling their parade for Superbowl Sunday, and the annual so-called "Family Gras" on Veterans Highway (yeah, like Carnival in the city *isn't* for families -- I hate that) has likewise been canceled for 2010. One blogger to the NOLA.com site has already complained they doing that might actually jinx things.
How "Who-Dat" is that?? Now that we're Division Champs, God help us all if the Saints actually do get to the S--------. (Yeah, I'm THAT superstitious!)
Monday, December 7, 2009
Christmas at the Roosevelt
Last week, my sister D and I made trip after work to go visit the newly unveiled Christmas decorations at the Roosevelt Hotel. Of course, no New Orleanian can do this without remembering and thinking about the old decorations, back in the day, of the whole block-long lobby draped in fluffy angel hair (and don't even start telling me that you can't use angel hair any more due to safety concerns). So that memory -- or those memories -- were in our minds as we parked the car, walked past the poor sad still-shuttered Orpheum Theater and went through the big brass revolving door of the Roosevelt. Entering, we joined the throngs of people strolling through the lobby -- some were natives like us, reliving their happy holiday memories, and others were tourists pulling wheelie bags, just checking in.
It WAS lovely. All the way down the block of the lobby, you could see the massed bare white branches of tall trees set in urns lit with tiny white lights and hung sparingly with elegant oversized ornaments in clear and iridescent glass and medium-sized flocked trees. It made quite a sight. It was festive and sophisticated, VERY "New York" as one woman said to us. Which I guess is appropriate, since the Roosevelt is owned by the Waldorf-Astoria. I liked it, I did, but it was like the present decorations were laid over the ones I remembered, like a memory scrim. Strange feeling, seeing them both at the same time.
A pretty large Christmas train set made with candy and icing and gingerbread was set up in the new Coffee Shop in the Roosevelt's lobby (the old Fairmont Court location -- I still can't get used to seeing it so bright and white). It looked charming and delicious, and while it was not as impressive as the life-sized gingerbread village that used to be part of the old Roosevelt decorations, it was enjoyable and sweet.
D and I walked the whole length of the lobby, admiring the ornaments and trying hard to appreciate what we had instead of missing what was gone (ah, this is the lot of New Orleanians from now on!). D had never been in the new gift shop and we went in and scouted the merch. D was impressed, as Big Man and I had been earlier, by the breadth and quality of the goods offered, and by the reasonable prices. D and I found many great items that fit the Morel Family Christmas gift limit ($15-$20). D showed me a new book by localite Peggy Scott Laborde called "Christmas in New Orleans" which has photos and text about everything we remember: the department store windows and Santa areas, the Centanni house, Mr. Bingle, and all the rest. THAT is going on my Christmas list, f'sure!
Afterwards, we went into the new John Besh restaurant in the old Baily's location, now called Domenica, and sat at the bar to have a glass of wine and peruse the menu. (No way I could eat -- it was the same day as the regional ministers' annual holiday lunch at Commander's Palace, and I couldn't have eaten again if it had been FREE!) Great items on the menu, and there were options for either large or small plates -- terrific innovation and more restaurants should do it. The decor of the restaurant reminded me of Steven Starr restaurants in Philadelphia -- spare and elegant, with sheer curtains made of chain metal and single high-tech spotlights over tables, each with a wineglass full of tall skinny bread sticks. (D ate one and pronounced it very good, but I couldn't even take a bite.)
As we left, I remembered the lovely Christmas decoration at the Ritz Hotel, in the old Maison Blanche building, and I promised D we would do that on another night. More later on Christmas in New Orleans....
It WAS lovely. All the way down the block of the lobby, you could see the massed bare white branches of tall trees set in urns lit with tiny white lights and hung sparingly with elegant oversized ornaments in clear and iridescent glass and medium-sized flocked trees. It made quite a sight. It was festive and sophisticated, VERY "New York" as one woman said to us. Which I guess is appropriate, since the Roosevelt is owned by the Waldorf-Astoria. I liked it, I did, but it was like the present decorations were laid over the ones I remembered, like a memory scrim. Strange feeling, seeing them both at the same time.
A pretty large Christmas train set made with candy and icing and gingerbread was set up in the new Coffee Shop in the Roosevelt's lobby (the old Fairmont Court location -- I still can't get used to seeing it so bright and white). It looked charming and delicious, and while it was not as impressive as the life-sized gingerbread village that used to be part of the old Roosevelt decorations, it was enjoyable and sweet.
D and I walked the whole length of the lobby, admiring the ornaments and trying hard to appreciate what we had instead of missing what was gone (ah, this is the lot of New Orleanians from now on!). D had never been in the new gift shop and we went in and scouted the merch. D was impressed, as Big Man and I had been earlier, by the breadth and quality of the goods offered, and by the reasonable prices. D and I found many great items that fit the Morel Family Christmas gift limit ($15-$20). D showed me a new book by localite Peggy Scott Laborde called "Christmas in New Orleans" which has photos and text about everything we remember: the department store windows and Santa areas, the Centanni house, Mr. Bingle, and all the rest. THAT is going on my Christmas list, f'sure!
Afterwards, we went into the new John Besh restaurant in the old Baily's location, now called Domenica, and sat at the bar to have a glass of wine and peruse the menu. (No way I could eat -- it was the same day as the regional ministers' annual holiday lunch at Commander's Palace, and I couldn't have eaten again if it had been FREE!) Great items on the menu, and there were options for either large or small plates -- terrific innovation and more restaurants should do it. The decor of the restaurant reminded me of Steven Starr restaurants in Philadelphia -- spare and elegant, with sheer curtains made of chain metal and single high-tech spotlights over tables, each with a wineglass full of tall skinny bread sticks. (D ate one and pronounced it very good, but I couldn't even take a bite.)
As we left, I remembered the lovely Christmas decoration at the Ritz Hotel, in the old Maison Blanche building, and I promised D we would do that on another night. More later on Christmas in New Orleans....
Monday, November 23, 2009
10-0, 'Nuff Said
We are all nuts over the Saints. None of us can really believe this fantastic winning season -- we're on Cloud 9. We hardly know what to do with ourselves.
On Saturday, a woman from New Orleans called into the "Wait-Wait, Don't tell Me" radio game show on NPR, and after she identified her hometown, the audience applauded -- not something I remember happening regularly -- and the host asked solicitously, "How are things there now?" And the woman burbled, "Things are wonderful! The Saints are 9-0!" The studio audience went crazy laughing and one of the panelists, Paula Poundstone, asked in an unbelievable tone, "You've got levee worries, and you're not finished recovering from a major disaster, but things are great because your football team is winning??" The woman from New Orleans was not fazed one bit, and replied back brightly, "Oh yes, we love our boys!"
We do love our boys. Big Man and I ate in a hibachi restaurant on St. Charles Avenue (Myako, go, we recommend it) last Sunday night, with a table full of strangers, and we all got to talking about the Saints, and one person had to download the touchdown song they play at the Dome (for some weird reason, it's an Atlanta hip-hop song called "Let's Get Crunk") and then we all together were making the beat sound ("ernt-ernt") of that ubiquitous song. Pretty soon, we were passing plates around and urging each other to eat off our plates. It's the Saints -- they're pulling us all together.
Quarterback Drew Brees has become a kind of secular saint to us. The Times-Picayune had a front-page story recently about how Brees was visiting a little local girl sick of a serious disease, and how he and his wife's foundation have given away tons of money to a New Orleans public school. My niece E forwarded us an email showing a picture of an altered icon, turning Jesus's image into Drew's (it was called "Bree-sus" and while sacrilegious, it WAS funny). Another relative forwarded an email joke about how God is a Saints fan. (What's wrong with that? we want to know.)
If you are not from here, you too might find it all hard to believe. But Drew Brees and the Saints have given us something to cheer about weekly, excellence to applaud, and have renewed our bruised civic pride. With all we have to deal with -- and believe you me, it really is A LOT, still -- the Saints have brightened up our prospects and united the whole damn city in a frenzy of hopeful Saints-mania. People who hate professional football have caught the fever -- Big Man said seriously to me the other day (when we were "only" 8-0, mind you), "We need to go get some Saints jerseys." "Why?" I asked. It's not like we have Saints tickets or go to a bar or something; we watch the games at home, usually just the two of us. "We need jerseys to watch the games *at home*," Big Man said, totally deadpan and serious. (On Sundays, he's taken to saying, "Who dat!" to strangers on the street when he's walking the dog.) My sister L's husband, who's from England and doesn't even *understand* American football, is now a big Saints fan -- that's how it's gotten.
It's an amazing feeling. Thank you, Saints, and Sean Payton and Drew Brees and Gary Shockey and Darren Sharper, and all the rest of the "Bless You Boys" for what you're doing for us, and how you're making us feel.
[PS: We went to Academy to, yes, buy Saints apparel to watch the games in, and an employee told us they had completely sold out of Saints T-shirts and jerseys the Friday before the game. What we were looking at on Monday was the reorder, just delivered. In the same way that Academy moves hurricane supplies up to the front of the store when a storm is in the Gulf, they had moved all the Saints merch up by the door and there was a big crowd of New Orleanians picking over the goods.]
[PPS: Big Man says that for Monday's game, we have to put on our new shirts and go to a bar to watch the game. The man's in *AA* for pete's sake! But we got to have the communal experience.]
On Saturday, a woman from New Orleans called into the "Wait-Wait, Don't tell Me" radio game show on NPR, and after she identified her hometown, the audience applauded -- not something I remember happening regularly -- and the host asked solicitously, "How are things there now?" And the woman burbled, "Things are wonderful! The Saints are 9-0!" The studio audience went crazy laughing and one of the panelists, Paula Poundstone, asked in an unbelievable tone, "You've got levee worries, and you're not finished recovering from a major disaster, but things are great because your football team is winning??" The woman from New Orleans was not fazed one bit, and replied back brightly, "Oh yes, we love our boys!"
We do love our boys. Big Man and I ate in a hibachi restaurant on St. Charles Avenue (Myako, go, we recommend it) last Sunday night, with a table full of strangers, and we all got to talking about the Saints, and one person had to download the touchdown song they play at the Dome (for some weird reason, it's an Atlanta hip-hop song called "Let's Get Crunk") and then we all together were making the beat sound ("ernt-ernt") of that ubiquitous song. Pretty soon, we were passing plates around and urging each other to eat off our plates. It's the Saints -- they're pulling us all together.
Quarterback Drew Brees has become a kind of secular saint to us. The Times-Picayune had a front-page story recently about how Brees was visiting a little local girl sick of a serious disease, and how he and his wife's foundation have given away tons of money to a New Orleans public school. My niece E forwarded us an email showing a picture of an altered icon, turning Jesus's image into Drew's (it was called "Bree-sus" and while sacrilegious, it WAS funny). Another relative forwarded an email joke about how God is a Saints fan. (What's wrong with that? we want to know.)
If you are not from here, you too might find it all hard to believe. But Drew Brees and the Saints have given us something to cheer about weekly, excellence to applaud, and have renewed our bruised civic pride. With all we have to deal with -- and believe you me, it really is A LOT, still -- the Saints have brightened up our prospects and united the whole damn city in a frenzy of hopeful Saints-mania. People who hate professional football have caught the fever -- Big Man said seriously to me the other day (when we were "only" 8-0, mind you), "We need to go get some Saints jerseys." "Why?" I asked. It's not like we have Saints tickets or go to a bar or something; we watch the games at home, usually just the two of us. "We need jerseys to watch the games *at home*," Big Man said, totally deadpan and serious. (On Sundays, he's taken to saying, "Who dat!" to strangers on the street when he's walking the dog.) My sister L's husband, who's from England and doesn't even *understand* American football, is now a big Saints fan -- that's how it's gotten.
It's an amazing feeling. Thank you, Saints, and Sean Payton and Drew Brees and Gary Shockey and Darren Sharper, and all the rest of the "Bless You Boys" for what you're doing for us, and how you're making us feel.
[PS: We went to Academy to, yes, buy Saints apparel to watch the games in, and an employee told us they had completely sold out of Saints T-shirts and jerseys the Friday before the game. What we were looking at on Monday was the reorder, just delivered. In the same way that Academy moves hurricane supplies up to the front of the store when a storm is in the Gulf, they had moved all the Saints merch up by the door and there was a big crowd of New Orleanians picking over the goods.]
[PPS: Big Man says that for Monday's game, we have to put on our new shirts and go to a bar to watch the game. The man's in *AA* for pete's sake! But we got to have the communal experience.]
Monday, November 2, 2009
Relighting the Saenger
Earlier in the week, the Times-Picayune announced that on Thursday, October 29 (I'm a little late posting this), the marquee lights of the Saenger would be relit for the first time since Katrina. Although for years now I had been been mourning the Saenger every time I went by it, thinking that nothing had been done since the Storm, it turns out, according to the article, that a consortium of developers (with experience restoring historic old theaters) have been toiling behind the scenes. The T-P reported that on Thursday, the public would be invited to see the long hallway into the theater, with displays of photos of the Saenger in the past and plans for its glorious future. I was SO excited!
My sister L was in Texas last week, but my sister D was in town. Like all of us, and our parents before us, she is a big theater buff and had been to plays at the Saenger many times. When I told her about the story, she got excited too, and we made plans to go. In the intervening days, there were more stories in the T-P, about a VIP-only reception actually *inside* the Saenger, but it seemed like even us peons would be able to see *something* and there would be the ceremonial lighting of the marquee. All well worth it.
I picked up D in the CBD after work on Thursday and we drove to the old parking garage on Rampart, that used to be called "Blaise's" and was a favorite parking spot for our dad on family outings, especially at Mardi Gras. We paid the fee and parked, talking all the while about our father and all the times we remembered parking there in the past, sitting in the old Waiting Room (now apparently an office) for our car to be brought down by the parking attendants. (There are no parking attendants nowadays -- you have to park your own car and go and get it afterwards.)
As we walked over to the Saenger, we could see police barricades, blocking off the area around the Saenger, and acting as security. We talked about our memories of the Saenger, and pointed out things on the outside -- the old poster boxes that used to advertise coming attractions, the faded, elaborate terra cotta decorations around the windows and boarded-up doorways. We rounded the corner at Rampart and Canal, and could see that the barricades were moved out in front to part of Canal Street. We moved closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of the inside of the theater.
D and I got the front, and a policeman gestured toward us, pointing to where the barricades had an opening. We looked at each other and grinned. (D even pointed to herself, as if asking, "Me? You mean me?") We passed through the opening, thanked the policeman, and entered the long arcade hallway of the front entrance of the Saenger for the first time in more than 4 years. We nearly pinched each other in excitement. Lights had been set up, and there were many displays of the Saenger as it was being built, back in 1927, its grand opening, and high points in its life as a theater hub in New Orleans. (We were especially moved by a photo of a benefit for victims of Hurricane Betsy back in 1965.) We could see at the very end of the hallway, just in front of the old escalator by the double bars, tables had been set up to check IDs of the people invited to the special private reception. (Indeed, while we were watching, New Orleans socialite Mickey Easterling went past us, entering the VIP area.)
But there was so much to see and we were so very happy to be there that it didn't bother us that much to be left out. We wandered around, checking out all the pictures showing the plans for restoring the Saenger to its former glory, and we were very happy. Just then, an old friend of mine (27-odd years ago, we had been pregnant at the same time with our sons) who works for the Mayor's Office came past and I reintroduced her to my sister. D recalled an early toddler birthday party for our sons, during which a friend of mine had asked who was the older sister (I am, by 5 years), and how outdone D had been that it wasn't *obvious* that she was the younger of us two. My old friend laughed and allowed as how she could very well have been the one who committed the age faux pas back then. As J walked away from us to head into the reception, we made a little joke about being "peons" who were just enjoying being in the hall.
D and I went back to examining the photos and captions, when suddenly J came back to us, pulling us by the hands. As we got to the table by the entrance to the VIP reception, J said, "They're with me" and just like that, we were in! A smiling waiter came by with wines and champagne, and we both took glasses, and toasted this amazing good fortune. Sipping at our glasses, we entered the main theater area of the Saenger, where most of the crowd had gathered.
The seats had been removed, and we were contained in a particular area, not that far our from under the upper loges above us. Special lights had been set up and aimed at the small parts of the gorgeous theater that had been cleaned, stripped, and repainted in the manner of its 1927 opening. D and I were almost overcome; our eyes filled with tears. D pointed to the approximate spot where she and Daddy had attended their last play together. We stared at the damaged but still magnificent Mighty Morton Wonder Organ, and recalled the times we had seen it rise majestically out of the floor, its full and dramatic tones filling the auditorium. Around us were the damaged statues and fountains and facades of the "Spanish village" of the Saenger auditorium, following an early 20th-century style of creating the illusion of the audience being in the open air of a village in another country.
We looked up and in the dark blue ceiling we could see the empty place where light bulbs had portrayed constellations of stars. We heard someone talking about how the stars would be reinstalled, this time in LED lights. We wondered aloud about the old cloud machine, but could not hear anyone talking about fixing that. We admired the small sections that had been repainted, and agreed that the new-old colors would be much, much more elegant and beautiful.
Waitresses from a catering company passed among the chattering crowd, with hors d'oevres like stuffed eggplant, boiled shrimp, fried shrimp, fancy cold cuts on a stick, cheese and crackers, and cut pieces of muffalettas sandwiches. Everything was delicious. We definitely felt like VIPs and we VERY glad both of us had dressed up a little for work that day, so that we did not stand out from the invited crowd as underdressed.
Big Man finally joined us and got a chance to finally see the inside of the Saenger, albeit in its unfinished, damaged state. But he could easily see its beauty and was mightily impressed. A few minutes after Big Man got there, a small jazz band struck up some second-line music and the crowd moved slowly down the arcade hallway to outside under the marquee, where quite crowd had grown on the outside of the barricades. After interminable and mostly boring speeches from the developers and various politicians, including several members of the City Council and the Mayor, the switch was pulled and the white bulbs lit up, chasing each other round and round the letters of S-A-E-N-G-E-R and the underneath. The crowd cheered, some sniffled, and many waved handkerchiefs.
It was a wonderful night, and we all look forward to reopening of the Saenger some time in 2011.
My sister L was in Texas last week, but my sister D was in town. Like all of us, and our parents before us, she is a big theater buff and had been to plays at the Saenger many times. When I told her about the story, she got excited too, and we made plans to go. In the intervening days, there were more stories in the T-P, about a VIP-only reception actually *inside* the Saenger, but it seemed like even us peons would be able to see *something* and there would be the ceremonial lighting of the marquee. All well worth it.
I picked up D in the CBD after work on Thursday and we drove to the old parking garage on Rampart, that used to be called "Blaise's" and was a favorite parking spot for our dad on family outings, especially at Mardi Gras. We paid the fee and parked, talking all the while about our father and all the times we remembered parking there in the past, sitting in the old Waiting Room (now apparently an office) for our car to be brought down by the parking attendants. (There are no parking attendants nowadays -- you have to park your own car and go and get it afterwards.)
As we walked over to the Saenger, we could see police barricades, blocking off the area around the Saenger, and acting as security. We talked about our memories of the Saenger, and pointed out things on the outside -- the old poster boxes that used to advertise coming attractions, the faded, elaborate terra cotta decorations around the windows and boarded-up doorways. We rounded the corner at Rampart and Canal, and could see that the barricades were moved out in front to part of Canal Street. We moved closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of the inside of the theater.
D and I got the front, and a policeman gestured toward us, pointing to where the barricades had an opening. We looked at each other and grinned. (D even pointed to herself, as if asking, "Me? You mean me?") We passed through the opening, thanked the policeman, and entered the long arcade hallway of the front entrance of the Saenger for the first time in more than 4 years. We nearly pinched each other in excitement. Lights had been set up, and there were many displays of the Saenger as it was being built, back in 1927, its grand opening, and high points in its life as a theater hub in New Orleans. (We were especially moved by a photo of a benefit for victims of Hurricane Betsy back in 1965.) We could see at the very end of the hallway, just in front of the old escalator by the double bars, tables had been set up to check IDs of the people invited to the special private reception. (Indeed, while we were watching, New Orleans socialite Mickey Easterling went past us, entering the VIP area.)
But there was so much to see and we were so very happy to be there that it didn't bother us that much to be left out. We wandered around, checking out all the pictures showing the plans for restoring the Saenger to its former glory, and we were very happy. Just then, an old friend of mine (27-odd years ago, we had been pregnant at the same time with our sons) who works for the Mayor's Office came past and I reintroduced her to my sister. D recalled an early toddler birthday party for our sons, during which a friend of mine had asked who was the older sister (I am, by 5 years), and how outdone D had been that it wasn't *obvious* that she was the younger of us two. My old friend laughed and allowed as how she could very well have been the one who committed the age faux pas back then. As J walked away from us to head into the reception, we made a little joke about being "peons" who were just enjoying being in the hall.
D and I went back to examining the photos and captions, when suddenly J came back to us, pulling us by the hands. As we got to the table by the entrance to the VIP reception, J said, "They're with me" and just like that, we were in! A smiling waiter came by with wines and champagne, and we both took glasses, and toasted this amazing good fortune. Sipping at our glasses, we entered the main theater area of the Saenger, where most of the crowd had gathered.
The seats had been removed, and we were contained in a particular area, not that far our from under the upper loges above us. Special lights had been set up and aimed at the small parts of the gorgeous theater that had been cleaned, stripped, and repainted in the manner of its 1927 opening. D and I were almost overcome; our eyes filled with tears. D pointed to the approximate spot where she and Daddy had attended their last play together. We stared at the damaged but still magnificent Mighty Morton Wonder Organ, and recalled the times we had seen it rise majestically out of the floor, its full and dramatic tones filling the auditorium. Around us were the damaged statues and fountains and facades of the "Spanish village" of the Saenger auditorium, following an early 20th-century style of creating the illusion of the audience being in the open air of a village in another country.
We looked up and in the dark blue ceiling we could see the empty place where light bulbs had portrayed constellations of stars. We heard someone talking about how the stars would be reinstalled, this time in LED lights. We wondered aloud about the old cloud machine, but could not hear anyone talking about fixing that. We admired the small sections that had been repainted, and agreed that the new-old colors would be much, much more elegant and beautiful.
Waitresses from a catering company passed among the chattering crowd, with hors d'oevres like stuffed eggplant, boiled shrimp, fried shrimp, fancy cold cuts on a stick, cheese and crackers, and cut pieces of muffalettas sandwiches. Everything was delicious. We definitely felt like VIPs and we VERY glad both of us had dressed up a little for work that day, so that we did not stand out from the invited crowd as underdressed.
Big Man finally joined us and got a chance to finally see the inside of the Saenger, albeit in its unfinished, damaged state. But he could easily see its beauty and was mightily impressed. A few minutes after Big Man got there, a small jazz band struck up some second-line music and the crowd moved slowly down the arcade hallway to outside under the marquee, where quite crowd had grown on the outside of the barricades. After interminable and mostly boring speeches from the developers and various politicians, including several members of the City Council and the Mayor, the switch was pulled and the white bulbs lit up, chasing each other round and round the letters of S-A-E-N-G-E-R and the underneath. The crowd cheered, some sniffled, and many waved handkerchiefs.
It was a wonderful night, and we all look forward to reopening of the Saenger some time in 2011.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
How Many Festivals Can You Do in One Weekend?
Your mileage may vary, as the saying goes, but here's what Big Man and I were able to squeeze into last weekend:
Bouligny Blues Festival at the corner of Napoleon and Magazine (my old neighborhood, back when my son was little) -- great music (Joe Krown was on while we were there); some choice crafts, fun children's play area, and terrific food. (Special props to Nirvana, which brought the saag paneer, one of our all-time fave Indian dishes and to Boucherie, whose 12-hour roast beef with horseradish creme and pickled red onions po' boy with *perfect* French fries. Are you hungry yet?)
Attended one of 4, count'em 4, wedding receptions in City Park. Ours was at the Casino, on the second floor, where we witnessed a pink explosion of a sunset, like a Hollywood production. Envied the folks taking a last-minute paddle-boat ride through the park's lagoons (and my family of origin better be scheduling that promised paddle-boat race SOON!) while enjoying giant boiled shrimp, tiny tasty muffalettas, chunks of grilled fresh tuna, perfectly fried shrimp, and crawfish sardou (VERY nice take on a New Orleans breakfast favorite from Breakfast at Brennan's).
Two parades to celebrate Halloween, one of which, Krewe of Boo, is sponsored by Blaine Kern (the self-styled "Mr. Mardi Gras") and winds its way through downtown eventually to the new Kern Mardi Gras World a few blocks from my house. Gigantic floats with skulls and witches and ghouls and goblins and vampires, all in the signature big-figure Kern style, familiar from his carnival floats. Great stuff, could practically see it without leaving my block.
Coliseum Square Festival, in the afore-mentioned park, a small affair on Sunday with only a few food booths and the traveling gelato wagon, and a bunch of crafts, including Baba Blankets. Lots of dog owners and dogs -- our Keely had a grand time running and sniffing and being sniffed. (Keely is such a big hit with the ladies that I told Big Man he could have used our dog back when he was single. He allowed as how he hadn't actually needed a cute dog to meet women back in the day, so there.)
The Boo Carré in the French Market, also on Sunday. Really, really enjoyed Amanda Shaw and what seemed to be an abbreviated version of the Cute Guys. For Halloween, she was sporting little black feline ears and a long furry tail with her well-fitting jeans and black high heels. (I looked at Big Man, looking at her, and he said, "Just don't say it.") A very appreciative crowd was stationed in front and the sides of the stage. (The noise got to Keely a little, so we had to move away a bit. Have to get her more used to loud music.) The Boo Carré was a terrific, family-friendly event, with kids going form booth to booth, trick or treating, and there was face painting and pumpkin carving too. New French Market restaurant, Galvez (in honor of our Spanish governor) was selling a delicious refreshing sangria, which I enjoyed very much. (Funny thing: a new vendor in the Market advertised herself as a healthy, low-fat, alternative for New Orleans-traditional cooking, but the triple-chocolate brownies on her counter, she admitted, were NOT in that category. Too bad.)
)!( )!( )!(
Fall festival season is upon us, and every weekend from now on til cold weather will be an exercise in decision-making. Have fun, y'all!
Bouligny Blues Festival at the corner of Napoleon and Magazine (my old neighborhood, back when my son was little) -- great music (Joe Krown was on while we were there); some choice crafts, fun children's play area, and terrific food. (Special props to Nirvana, which brought the saag paneer, one of our all-time fave Indian dishes and to Boucherie, whose 12-hour roast beef with horseradish creme and pickled red onions po' boy with *perfect* French fries. Are you hungry yet?)
Attended one of 4, count'em 4, wedding receptions in City Park. Ours was at the Casino, on the second floor, where we witnessed a pink explosion of a sunset, like a Hollywood production. Envied the folks taking a last-minute paddle-boat ride through the park's lagoons (and my family of origin better be scheduling that promised paddle-boat race SOON!) while enjoying giant boiled shrimp, tiny tasty muffalettas, chunks of grilled fresh tuna, perfectly fried shrimp, and crawfish sardou (VERY nice take on a New Orleans breakfast favorite from Breakfast at Brennan's).
Two parades to celebrate Halloween, one of which, Krewe of Boo, is sponsored by Blaine Kern (the self-styled "Mr. Mardi Gras") and winds its way through downtown eventually to the new Kern Mardi Gras World a few blocks from my house. Gigantic floats with skulls and witches and ghouls and goblins and vampires, all in the signature big-figure Kern style, familiar from his carnival floats. Great stuff, could practically see it without leaving my block.
Coliseum Square Festival, in the afore-mentioned park, a small affair on Sunday with only a few food booths and the traveling gelato wagon, and a bunch of crafts, including Baba Blankets. Lots of dog owners and dogs -- our Keely had a grand time running and sniffing and being sniffed. (Keely is such a big hit with the ladies that I told Big Man he could have used our dog back when he was single. He allowed as how he hadn't actually needed a cute dog to meet women back in the day, so there.)
The Boo Carré in the French Market, also on Sunday. Really, really enjoyed Amanda Shaw and what seemed to be an abbreviated version of the Cute Guys. For Halloween, she was sporting little black feline ears and a long furry tail with her well-fitting jeans and black high heels. (I looked at Big Man, looking at her, and he said, "Just don't say it.") A very appreciative crowd was stationed in front and the sides of the stage. (The noise got to Keely a little, so we had to move away a bit. Have to get her more used to loud music.) The Boo Carré was a terrific, family-friendly event, with kids going form booth to booth, trick or treating, and there was face painting and pumpkin carving too. New French Market restaurant, Galvez (in honor of our Spanish governor) was selling a delicious refreshing sangria, which I enjoyed very much. (Funny thing: a new vendor in the Market advertised herself as a healthy, low-fat, alternative for New Orleans-traditional cooking, but the triple-chocolate brownies on her counter, she admitted, were NOT in that category. Too bad.)
)!( )!( )!(
Fall festival season is upon us, and every weekend from now on til cold weather will be an exercise in decision-making. Have fun, y'all!
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Finally, Fall
Ever since I was a little girl growing up in the New Orleans suburb of Chalmette, I associated the turn of the weather to relatively cooler temperatures in the fall as my "birthday weather" (my birthday coming close to the end of September). This year, however, there was no birthday weather -- it was just as hot and humid through the month of September as it had been in August.
This unhappy trend continued into October. The air conditioners ran like crazy (oh, the Entergy bills!!) at our house straight up to Thursday, October 15th. Everyone in the city complained and moaned and kvetched about the heat, and why oh why couldn't fall come (or at least what passes for fall in the Crescent City).
Then the rains came on Thursday evening -- great booming thunderstorms, shimmering lightening, pouring sheets of rainwater, clogging drains and flooding some streets. And Friday morning came, and with it, bright blue skies and temperatures in the 60s. Oh my gosh! New Orleanians dug into the back of closets and the bottoms of drawers and in underbed storage boxes, and pulled out sweaters and jackets (in many case, far in excess of what the weather actually called for!), and went around that day reeking of mothballs.
It's finally fall! Folks around here were overjoyed. Late on Friday afternoon, wanting to give some out of town guests a good view of the river, I drove to The Fly and was surprised to see (although I really *shouldn't* have been surprised) the parking spaces packed, and the grassy areas crowded with young people from the uptown university campuses and young families with little kids. The Mississippi River was choppy with the brisk cool breeze ruffling the surface, and sparkling in the fall sunshine. The sky was perfectly dark blue, arching over us like a dome. It was gorgeous.
This weather made attendance at the Blues & Barbecue Festival at Lafayette Square on Saturday and Sunday swell even more, and once again, New Orleans folks were sporting their fall finery (leather jackets and wool sweaters and corduroy pants) even though it must've been uncomfortably hot for some of them. (By the way, the B&B Fest was our dog Keely's first experience of a New Orleans festival and she was very, very good. We rewarded her with just a smidgen of beef and the opportunity to lick the bowl from my creme brulee gelato. I think she was pretty happy with the overall experience, although the cold from the gelato gave her pause.)
The wonderful weather lasted until October 21, when it warmed up some, but not like it had been before. Fall has finally arrived in the Crescent City, and we love it.
This unhappy trend continued into October. The air conditioners ran like crazy (oh, the Entergy bills!!) at our house straight up to Thursday, October 15th. Everyone in the city complained and moaned and kvetched about the heat, and why oh why couldn't fall come (or at least what passes for fall in the Crescent City).
Then the rains came on Thursday evening -- great booming thunderstorms, shimmering lightening, pouring sheets of rainwater, clogging drains and flooding some streets. And Friday morning came, and with it, bright blue skies and temperatures in the 60s. Oh my gosh! New Orleanians dug into the back of closets and the bottoms of drawers and in underbed storage boxes, and pulled out sweaters and jackets (in many case, far in excess of what the weather actually called for!), and went around that day reeking of mothballs.
It's finally fall! Folks around here were overjoyed. Late on Friday afternoon, wanting to give some out of town guests a good view of the river, I drove to The Fly and was surprised to see (although I really *shouldn't* have been surprised) the parking spaces packed, and the grassy areas crowded with young people from the uptown university campuses and young families with little kids. The Mississippi River was choppy with the brisk cool breeze ruffling the surface, and sparkling in the fall sunshine. The sky was perfectly dark blue, arching over us like a dome. It was gorgeous.
This weather made attendance at the Blues & Barbecue Festival at Lafayette Square on Saturday and Sunday swell even more, and once again, New Orleans folks were sporting their fall finery (leather jackets and wool sweaters and corduroy pants) even though it must've been uncomfortably hot for some of them. (By the way, the B&B Fest was our dog Keely's first experience of a New Orleans festival and she was very, very good. We rewarded her with just a smidgen of beef and the opportunity to lick the bowl from my creme brulee gelato. I think she was pretty happy with the overall experience, although the cold from the gelato gave her pause.)
The wonderful weather lasted until October 21, when it warmed up some, but not like it had been before. Fall has finally arrived in the Crescent City, and we love it.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
J'Anita's on the Avenue
It had been some time since we ate at J'Anita's "new" location on St. Charles Avenue. ("New" is a relative term in New Orleans. It can take years for folks here to accept a new location. I myself am still calling Howlin' Wolf "the old Praline Connection." J'Anita's moved from their previous spot on Magazine Street to share space and customers with The Avenue Pub, 1732 St. Charles Avenue about 6-8 months ago.) Driving by the other day, I saw a sign out front that said, "New! Crunchy duck balls!" -- well, they had me at "duck." I knew we had to get over there and SOON.
So on Monday, Big Man and I drove over to have lunch and visit with Craig and Kimmie. We were surprised to see a completely new menu with some terrific new additions. (Note to self: don't let so much time go by between visits!) We were blown away by some of the additions: besides the aforementioned duck balls, there was an appetizer called "Buddha's Temptation" (check this: apricots stuffed with blue cheese, wrapped in bacon, and deep fried. OMG), and among several new sandwiches, one called "St. Chuck Duck." Of course, the Best Damn Fish Sammich was still there, and Big Man fell right into his favorite rut and ordered it and Kimmie's great guacamole -- along with Crunchy Duck Balls, of course. I got the St. Chuck Duck, which is slow roasted pulled duck with apples, blue cheese, pecans, and a berry chutney sauce on bread.
When Kimmie brought our food over, she confided that Craig had wanted to name his new appetizer "Panko-Crusted Duck Tenders" but that she wouldn't let him (good call!). Crunchy Duck Balls IS a better name, especially in a bar. But you could call 'em anything, even some disgusting name, and they would still be one of the best things to eat on the whole damn planet. Crunchy, tender, juicy, and very very ducky -- and that berry chutney! Wow!
When Kimmie came back with our respective sandwiches, we just raved about the duck balls. But then, we were soon caught up with 2 of the best non-po' boy sandwiches in the world. Big Man's fish sammich was everything it had always been -- overstuffed, juicy, tangy, fishy in a really good way. And the duck sandwich was *unbelievable* -- I was licking my fingers to get at every last drop.
Believe you me, that was the best $25 lunch we've ever eaten!! Kudos to Craig and Kimmie for cooking food for the public on a level WAY above expectations. See their Facebook page at:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/New-Orleans-LA/Janitas-The-Avenue/73525898209
So on Monday, Big Man and I drove over to have lunch and visit with Craig and Kimmie. We were surprised to see a completely new menu with some terrific new additions. (Note to self: don't let so much time go by between visits!) We were blown away by some of the additions: besides the aforementioned duck balls, there was an appetizer called "Buddha's Temptation" (check this: apricots stuffed with blue cheese, wrapped in bacon, and deep fried. OMG), and among several new sandwiches, one called "St. Chuck Duck." Of course, the Best Damn Fish Sammich was still there, and Big Man fell right into his favorite rut and ordered it and Kimmie's great guacamole -- along with Crunchy Duck Balls, of course. I got the St. Chuck Duck, which is slow roasted pulled duck with apples, blue cheese, pecans, and a berry chutney sauce on bread.
When Kimmie brought our food over, she confided that Craig had wanted to name his new appetizer "Panko-Crusted Duck Tenders" but that she wouldn't let him (good call!). Crunchy Duck Balls IS a better name, especially in a bar. But you could call 'em anything, even some disgusting name, and they would still be one of the best things to eat on the whole damn planet. Crunchy, tender, juicy, and very very ducky -- and that berry chutney! Wow!
When Kimmie came back with our respective sandwiches, we just raved about the duck balls. But then, we were soon caught up with 2 of the best non-po' boy sandwiches in the world. Big Man's fish sammich was everything it had always been -- overstuffed, juicy, tangy, fishy in a really good way. And the duck sandwich was *unbelievable* -- I was licking my fingers to get at every last drop.
Believe you me, that was the best $25 lunch we've ever eaten!! Kudos to Craig and Kimmie for cooking food for the public on a level WAY above expectations. See their Facebook page at:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/New-Orleans-LA/Janitas-The-Avenue/73525898209
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
We Got a Dog
Yes, you read that right. As some of my readers know, Big Man has been lobbying me pretty hard for some time now about getting a dog, and I've been promising to at least keep an open mind. On Friday of last week, we went to the Louisiana SPCA and checked out the dogs. I have to say I was pretty depressed, since it was clear that we were miles apart. Big Man was attracted to all the big dogs and the pit bulls -- imagine! And when I protested I didn't want a big dog, Big Man told me that a 55-pounder was NOT a big dog!! OMG
So we left on Friday without a dog, and without even agreeing on which dogs were cute or doable or anything.
The next day, Saturday, we decided we'd go over to the Art Museum in City Park to spend some time looking at the collections. And, wouldn't you know, when we got there, the SPCA were there doing an Adopt-a-Pet Day. We saw several of the smaller dogs we had seen the day before (yeah, because the SPCA was too smart to bring BIG dogs to the museum!) And then, while Eric was signing us in the museum's residents register, SPCA volunteers went by with a stocky black dog with brown eyebrows, who was looking around all interested and curious and everything, and had a perky walk with a bobbed tail, and for whatever reason, the thought just came to me, "That's Big Man's dog!"
When Big Man finished signing in, I said to him, "Did you see that cute little black guy go by?" and because he hadn't seen the dog, he actually thought I meant an African-American person! But I dragged him outside, and showed him the dog. The SPCA folks said she -- it's a she -- is a one-year-old Corgi-Rottweiler mix, that she's so shy and sweet that the SPCA staff had been keeping her in the office with them -- which of course is why we never saw her on Friday. They were calling her "Shirley" but they also said she didn't respond to the name at all, and that we should feel free to change it.
Within 5 minutes, Big Man and this dog were all over each other. At one point, Big Man looked at me and said seriously, "I *love* this dog." So we filled out all the papers, and the next thing we know, we're carrying her file (she's got a microchip implant!), the certificate for the free vet visit (she's already got all her shots and has been spayed), the free bag of food, her plush toy, and the dog on her leash out to the car and covering the backseat with a blanket. (We never did see anything else at the museum.) We tried out various names in the car (she was, by the way, a great passenger), and ended up with Keely Smith, Keely for short.
(Parenthetically: It's amazing to us, and more than a little sad, the number of people we have to explain who Keely Smith IS. This would be bad enough anywhere else, but since Louis Prima and Keely and their family lived in the New Orleans area for so long, and since both their music and their act have been SO influential in American pop culture, it really seems like a lack of knowledge. Maybe we're just over-devoted fans or something, but still, *everyone* ought to know who Keely Smith is. (And if you're reading this, and you live in New York City, you really should take advantage and go see her in person the next time she's appearing at a nightclub there, which she regularly does.) )
Keely Smith the dog and Smokey Robinson the cat are now sharing the same house but not yet really acquainted or anything. Possibly we made a mistake in not dragging them together right away, but we figure we'll have an iffy week getting them to co-exist. For the first few day, Smokey sulked upstairs, probably thinking what *I* thought when Mama and Daddy brought my baby sister L home from the hospital, "What do they need HER for -- they've got ME???"
We look forward to introducing everyone to sweet Keely.
So we left on Friday without a dog, and without even agreeing on which dogs were cute or doable or anything.
The next day, Saturday, we decided we'd go over to the Art Museum in City Park to spend some time looking at the collections. And, wouldn't you know, when we got there, the SPCA were there doing an Adopt-a-Pet Day. We saw several of the smaller dogs we had seen the day before (yeah, because the SPCA was too smart to bring BIG dogs to the museum!) And then, while Eric was signing us in the museum's residents register, SPCA volunteers went by with a stocky black dog with brown eyebrows, who was looking around all interested and curious and everything, and had a perky walk with a bobbed tail, and for whatever reason, the thought just came to me, "That's Big Man's dog!"
When Big Man finished signing in, I said to him, "Did you see that cute little black guy go by?" and because he hadn't seen the dog, he actually thought I meant an African-American person! But I dragged him outside, and showed him the dog. The SPCA folks said she -- it's a she -- is a one-year-old Corgi-Rottweiler mix, that she's so shy and sweet that the SPCA staff had been keeping her in the office with them -- which of course is why we never saw her on Friday. They were calling her "Shirley" but they also said she didn't respond to the name at all, and that we should feel free to change it.
Within 5 minutes, Big Man and this dog were all over each other. At one point, Big Man looked at me and said seriously, "I *love* this dog." So we filled out all the papers, and the next thing we know, we're carrying her file (she's got a microchip implant!), the certificate for the free vet visit (she's already got all her shots and has been spayed), the free bag of food, her plush toy, and the dog on her leash out to the car and covering the backseat with a blanket. (We never did see anything else at the museum.) We tried out various names in the car (she was, by the way, a great passenger), and ended up with Keely Smith, Keely for short.
(Parenthetically: It's amazing to us, and more than a little sad, the number of people we have to explain who Keely Smith IS. This would be bad enough anywhere else, but since Louis Prima and Keely and their family lived in the New Orleans area for so long, and since both their music and their act have been SO influential in American pop culture, it really seems like a lack of knowledge. Maybe we're just over-devoted fans or something, but still, *everyone* ought to know who Keely Smith is. (And if you're reading this, and you live in New York City, you really should take advantage and go see her in person the next time she's appearing at a nightclub there, which she regularly does.) )
Keely Smith the dog and Smokey Robinson the cat are now sharing the same house but not yet really acquainted or anything. Possibly we made a mistake in not dragging them together right away, but we figure we'll have an iffy week getting them to co-exist. For the first few day, Smokey sulked upstairs, probably thinking what *I* thought when Mama and Daddy brought my baby sister L home from the hospital, "What do they need HER for -- they've got ME???"
We look forward to introducing everyone to sweet Keely.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Lil Dizzy's in the Whitney
In one of the strangest adaptations and building-sharing arrangements in New Orleans, a hotel has been developed in the old classic Whitney Bank building on Poydras Street. The bank remains on the first floor, with an entrance on the corner; the entrance to the hotel is on the other side, near the Federal Building.
And since almost every hotel in the city has to have a restaurant, the Whitney has a branch of Lil Dizzy's, the Tremé Creole stalwart. The strange thing is how the space for the Whitney's Lil Dizzy's was carved out. The Whitney's original lobby, with its 2-story Corinthian faux-marbre columns topped with gold eagles, its tiled floors, and its art-deco brass fittings outlining the tellers' cages, was a hexagonal room that took up half the building's square footage on the first level. (I'm sure it was reassuring to people in those days that the bank's public face was so imposing and official-looking. Nowadays, banks look like swanky dentists' offices.)
About half of the bank's original lobby has been marked off with a half-wall about 5 1/2 or 6 feet tall (it's taller than Big Man, but feels short, given the height of the ornate coffered and dentilled ceiling). The dividing wall is painted with a full-color comic mural of the Whitney lobby circa 1930, featuring lots of silver screen stars of that era. Then the other half, complete with soaring columns and coffered ceiling and brass fittings, is now Lil Dizzy's restaurant and bar. The kitchen is situated over in the corner by one of the bank vaults (still visible); the other bank vault, a little down the hall, is now a private dining room. Since the wall only just barely separates the bank from the restaurant, delicious smells must permeate the bank when the kitchen is cooking. Must be VERY hard to work there and concentrate on what you're doing while your mouth is watering.
The bill of fare is about what it is at the other Lil Dizzy location -- traditional Creole entrées (red beans, jambalaya, fried chicken, etc.), po boys, and sides with bread pudding and sweet potato pie offered for dessert, all at reasonable prices. We were perusing the menu and getting ready to make our selections when the waiter came over and told us there was a special that evening -- Trout Bacquet. Oh well, there went the menus!
Trout Bacquet is one of the best dishes served at Jazz Fest, a practically perfect combination of fresh sautéed trout topped with lump crabmeat in a lemon butter sauce, with toasted rounds of good French bread to soak it up. No Jazz Fest is complete without eating Trout Bacquet at least once, and we usually have it 3 times or more -- it's that good. But we've NEVER had a full-sized portion before, so this was a no-brainer.
I have to say it was absolutely PERFECT. The fresh, sweet trout was golden brown and just a little crisp, a texture it never achieves at Jazz Fest, due to the challenges of cooking outdoors. The slathering of lump crabmeat was generous and was quite lumpy and not broken up. And the sauce was clear, lemony and buttery, nothing extra or superfluous. It was superb. Our plates were so clean afterwards that we looked like 2 kids angling to get dessert from a strict mom.
You have to go check out the Lil Dizzy's at the Whitney, to enjoy the atmosphere, the ambiance, the architecture, and the FABULOUS food.
And since almost every hotel in the city has to have a restaurant, the Whitney has a branch of Lil Dizzy's, the Tremé Creole stalwart. The strange thing is how the space for the Whitney's Lil Dizzy's was carved out. The Whitney's original lobby, with its 2-story Corinthian faux-marbre columns topped with gold eagles, its tiled floors, and its art-deco brass fittings outlining the tellers' cages, was a hexagonal room that took up half the building's square footage on the first level. (I'm sure it was reassuring to people in those days that the bank's public face was so imposing and official-looking. Nowadays, banks look like swanky dentists' offices.)
About half of the bank's original lobby has been marked off with a half-wall about 5 1/2 or 6 feet tall (it's taller than Big Man, but feels short, given the height of the ornate coffered and dentilled ceiling). The dividing wall is painted with a full-color comic mural of the Whitney lobby circa 1930, featuring lots of silver screen stars of that era. Then the other half, complete with soaring columns and coffered ceiling and brass fittings, is now Lil Dizzy's restaurant and bar. The kitchen is situated over in the corner by one of the bank vaults (still visible); the other bank vault, a little down the hall, is now a private dining room. Since the wall only just barely separates the bank from the restaurant, delicious smells must permeate the bank when the kitchen is cooking. Must be VERY hard to work there and concentrate on what you're doing while your mouth is watering.
The bill of fare is about what it is at the other Lil Dizzy location -- traditional Creole entrées (red beans, jambalaya, fried chicken, etc.), po boys, and sides with bread pudding and sweet potato pie offered for dessert, all at reasonable prices. We were perusing the menu and getting ready to make our selections when the waiter came over and told us there was a special that evening -- Trout Bacquet. Oh well, there went the menus!
Trout Bacquet is one of the best dishes served at Jazz Fest, a practically perfect combination of fresh sautéed trout topped with lump crabmeat in a lemon butter sauce, with toasted rounds of good French bread to soak it up. No Jazz Fest is complete without eating Trout Bacquet at least once, and we usually have it 3 times or more -- it's that good. But we've NEVER had a full-sized portion before, so this was a no-brainer.
I have to say it was absolutely PERFECT. The fresh, sweet trout was golden brown and just a little crisp, a texture it never achieves at Jazz Fest, due to the challenges of cooking outdoors. The slathering of lump crabmeat was generous and was quite lumpy and not broken up. And the sauce was clear, lemony and buttery, nothing extra or superfluous. It was superb. Our plates were so clean afterwards that we looked like 2 kids angling to get dessert from a strict mom.
You have to go check out the Lil Dizzy's at the Whitney, to enjoy the atmosphere, the ambiance, the architecture, and the FABULOUS food.
Surfeit of Festivals
September 25-27, 2009
It was an embarrassment of riches this past weekend. A well-rested and well-organized person might have been able to do a little of everything, but everyone else had to make hard choices. The New Orleans Seafood festival on Fulton Street? The opening weekend of the Oktoberfest at the (possibly doomed?) Deutsches Haus? The wonderful Alligator Festival under I-310 in Luling/Boutté (see my post from last year at this time)? If you were in the mood for a long drive, there was the "Calca-Chew" Food Festival in lake Charles (located in Calcasieu Parish -- get it?), or even the annual Seafood festival in Pensacola, Florida (a mere 3 hours away).
Next weekend, the Oktoberfest continues (every Friday and Saturday until the end of October), and the Gretna Heritage Fest rocks -- that's the one I can hear clearly through the dormer window on the second floor that faces the river, so I'm looking forward to being serenaded by Chicago!
Now that the fall festival season has started in earnest, it's time to get serious about planning ahead, and organizing your time!
It was an embarrassment of riches this past weekend. A well-rested and well-organized person might have been able to do a little of everything, but everyone else had to make hard choices. The New Orleans Seafood festival on Fulton Street? The opening weekend of the Oktoberfest at the (possibly doomed?) Deutsches Haus? The wonderful Alligator Festival under I-310 in Luling/Boutté (see my post from last year at this time)? If you were in the mood for a long drive, there was the "Calca-Chew" Food Festival in lake Charles (located in Calcasieu Parish -- get it?), or even the annual Seafood festival in Pensacola, Florida (a mere 3 hours away).
Next weekend, the Oktoberfest continues (every Friday and Saturday until the end of October), and the Gretna Heritage Fest rocks -- that's the one I can hear clearly through the dormer window on the second floor that faces the river, so I'm looking forward to being serenaded by Chicago!
Now that the fall festival season has started in earnest, it's time to get serious about planning ahead, and organizing your time!
Friday, September 25, 2009
Simply The Best: 50 Years of Irma Thomas
Second Concert of the Thursday Harvest the Music Series at Lafayette Square
Last night, several thousand of Miss Irma Thomas's most devoted fans gathered in Lafayette Square for the second of 7 Thursday night concerts in September and October. The occasion is part of the on-going celebration this year of Irma's (unbelievable) 50 years as a professional singer. Despite the sultry heat and oppressive humidity and the threat of rain (when, oh when, will the weather break?? when will it be fall??), folks were glad to come out and show Irma some love.
I was there with 2 of my sisters, L and D, and L's husband. (Big Man had to miss due to a meeting and getting to Bourbon Street on time). We had a good spot, a little to the left of the stage, not too far back. Of course, we ran into lots of people we know -- long-time old friends, a few people we went to grade school with, members of the crowd of friends around my sister L. I saw the local filmmaker who made the well-received, balanced documentary about the closing of local Catholic churches, and introduced him to my sisters. Anåis St. John went past us too quickly for me to grab her, her baby daughter Elle perched on her hip, heading for as close to the stage and her idol as she could get.
A new restaurant owner, dressed in a chef's outfit, was going through the crowd, handing out menus to promote his venture, and as he got close to us I realized that this was the man Big Man has been telling me about, the new owner of the new restaurant Tiramisu on Carondelet (and first runner-up in the Lou Costello look-alike contest). I introduced myself as the Trumpet Man's wife and he greeted me warmly. He said he was trying to work out a way for Big Man to come play at his place. L and D both took his sample menus and promised to check the place out.
The opening act was the talented Shamarr Allen and the Underdawgs, a new band for him, and it turns out, a different style of music from his band Frenchmen Street. The Underdawgs is Shamarr's foray into hip-hop, and while the music seemed popular with the younger members of the crowd, it is not really my thing. In a spirit of support and fair play, however, I gave them a big hand at the end of their set.
During the break between bands, L and D and I cruised the crafts/arts booths and either admired or critiqued the wares, depending on our collective inclination. We were tickled by the silk foulard ties in tiny NOLA-inspired prints, and were transported back to kitchen experiments of our childhood with the items made of melted Carnival beads. We deplored the Duke Ellington vinyl album made into a bowl. We fingered fleur de lis jewelry and exclaimed over ceramic replications of long-lost NOLA landmarks.
But we hurried back to our spot so as not to miss the start of Irma's set. Funny thing: it seemed as though both the emcee on the stage and the sound tech in the booth were unprepared for how an Irma Thomas set gets rolling. Following an old R&B convention as ritualized and unchangeable as the stylings of Kabuki, the headliner NEVER comes to the stage right off the bat. Instead, the band plays several tunes, showing off their own prowess and drawing out the suspense in the crowd for the main act, and then a band member enthusiastically introduces the Big Name.
Irma Thomas gigs, whether at Jazz Fest or her own club, have followed this set-in-stone pattern for as long as I have ever seen her in person (which is more like 40 years, and not the entire 50). But apparently it was something of a surprise to the folks in charge at Lafayette Square last night. The emcee screamed out that we should welcome to the stage "The Soul Queen of New Or-leeens!!" just as if he expected Miss Thomas to bound right up onto the stage, and as her faithful band, the Professionals, hit the first tune and began to sing, it was clear that the horn line's vocal mikes were not even on.
The Professionals did 3 tunes, ending with a more than respectable cover of Stevie Wonder's "Superstition," and then came the traditional intro, going through some of the awards and recognition Irma has received over the years, ending of course with her sobriquet, "Soul Queen of New Orleans!" The unmistakable voice, warm and rich and throaty and just a little smoky, came out of seeming nowhere in the opening lines of the first song. A few in the crowd wondered, "Where is she at?" but those of us knowledgeable with the show-biz conventions of R&B knew that Irma, using a cordless mike, had begun singing off-stage, and was being slowly and gently escorted up the stage steps by Emile, her husband and partner. As she came into view, the crowd greeted her with screams and waves and clapping. She looked great, and sounded better.
Irma led off with several songs from her latest album, the anniversary collection entitled -- naturally -- 50th Anniversary Celebration, and one or two from her Grammy-winning post-Katrina album "After the Rain." (Anyone who can hear Irma sing "Make Me a Pallet on Your Floor" from that album without crying is no New Orleanian.) It's amazing how wonderful her voice still is, and her styling is so wise and yet so cool.
At the end of the set, in traditional fashion, Irma ran through the hits that had made us all love her in the 1950s and the 1960s, and thousands of us New Orleanians sang along with her and swayed with our sweeties to these songs that meant so much to us. "Breakway," "Ruler of My Heart," "It's Raining," of course, "You Can Have My Husband (But Please Don't Mess With My Man"). "Hip-Shaking Mama" brought down the house, as it always does -- kind of wildly weird and wonderful to see seemingly respectable folks in their sixties, fifties and forties chanting along with such lines as, "My man has got something/he keeps it hid/But I've got something/I can find it with."
And you know she had to do her traditional medley of Mardi Gras Indian tunes, encouraging us to find something to wave in order to secondline. We all got our "backfields in motion" as she always says, waving handkerchiefs, paper napkins, scarves, picnic blankets, hats, whatever we had, in the air, grinning foolishly at each other, not caring how we might look.
What with Irma's singing and the Professionals playing and all that waving and dancing in the heat and the wet, we were all soaked and near exhausted as the set ended. We screamed and hollered and waved whatever we had been waving, til Irma returned to the stage. In an emotional voice, she thanked us for our 50 years of being her faithful fans, and told us we were "simply the best" and then of course she sang that to us as her finale.
But we all knew that it was Irma who was Simply the Best, Better Than All The Rest, Better Than Anyone.
Last night, several thousand of Miss Irma Thomas's most devoted fans gathered in Lafayette Square for the second of 7 Thursday night concerts in September and October. The occasion is part of the on-going celebration this year of Irma's (unbelievable) 50 years as a professional singer. Despite the sultry heat and oppressive humidity and the threat of rain (when, oh when, will the weather break?? when will it be fall??), folks were glad to come out and show Irma some love.
I was there with 2 of my sisters, L and D, and L's husband. (Big Man had to miss due to a meeting and getting to Bourbon Street on time). We had a good spot, a little to the left of the stage, not too far back. Of course, we ran into lots of people we know -- long-time old friends, a few people we went to grade school with, members of the crowd of friends around my sister L. I saw the local filmmaker who made the well-received, balanced documentary about the closing of local Catholic churches, and introduced him to my sisters. Anåis St. John went past us too quickly for me to grab her, her baby daughter Elle perched on her hip, heading for as close to the stage and her idol as she could get.
A new restaurant owner, dressed in a chef's outfit, was going through the crowd, handing out menus to promote his venture, and as he got close to us I realized that this was the man Big Man has been telling me about, the new owner of the new restaurant Tiramisu on Carondelet (and first runner-up in the Lou Costello look-alike contest). I introduced myself as the Trumpet Man's wife and he greeted me warmly. He said he was trying to work out a way for Big Man to come play at his place. L and D both took his sample menus and promised to check the place out.
The opening act was the talented Shamarr Allen and the Underdawgs, a new band for him, and it turns out, a different style of music from his band Frenchmen Street. The Underdawgs is Shamarr's foray into hip-hop, and while the music seemed popular with the younger members of the crowd, it is not really my thing. In a spirit of support and fair play, however, I gave them a big hand at the end of their set.
During the break between bands, L and D and I cruised the crafts/arts booths and either admired or critiqued the wares, depending on our collective inclination. We were tickled by the silk foulard ties in tiny NOLA-inspired prints, and were transported back to kitchen experiments of our childhood with the items made of melted Carnival beads. We deplored the Duke Ellington vinyl album made into a bowl. We fingered fleur de lis jewelry and exclaimed over ceramic replications of long-lost NOLA landmarks.
But we hurried back to our spot so as not to miss the start of Irma's set. Funny thing: it seemed as though both the emcee on the stage and the sound tech in the booth were unprepared for how an Irma Thomas set gets rolling. Following an old R&B convention as ritualized and unchangeable as the stylings of Kabuki, the headliner NEVER comes to the stage right off the bat. Instead, the band plays several tunes, showing off their own prowess and drawing out the suspense in the crowd for the main act, and then a band member enthusiastically introduces the Big Name.
Irma Thomas gigs, whether at Jazz Fest or her own club, have followed this set-in-stone pattern for as long as I have ever seen her in person (which is more like 40 years, and not the entire 50). But apparently it was something of a surprise to the folks in charge at Lafayette Square last night. The emcee screamed out that we should welcome to the stage "The Soul Queen of New Or-leeens!!" just as if he expected Miss Thomas to bound right up onto the stage, and as her faithful band, the Professionals, hit the first tune and began to sing, it was clear that the horn line's vocal mikes were not even on.
The Professionals did 3 tunes, ending with a more than respectable cover of Stevie Wonder's "Superstition," and then came the traditional intro, going through some of the awards and recognition Irma has received over the years, ending of course with her sobriquet, "Soul Queen of New Orleans!" The unmistakable voice, warm and rich and throaty and just a little smoky, came out of seeming nowhere in the opening lines of the first song. A few in the crowd wondered, "Where is she at?" but those of us knowledgeable with the show-biz conventions of R&B knew that Irma, using a cordless mike, had begun singing off-stage, and was being slowly and gently escorted up the stage steps by Emile, her husband and partner. As she came into view, the crowd greeted her with screams and waves and clapping. She looked great, and sounded better.
Irma led off with several songs from her latest album, the anniversary collection entitled -- naturally -- 50th Anniversary Celebration, and one or two from her Grammy-winning post-Katrina album "After the Rain." (Anyone who can hear Irma sing "Make Me a Pallet on Your Floor" from that album without crying is no New Orleanian.) It's amazing how wonderful her voice still is, and her styling is so wise and yet so cool.
At the end of the set, in traditional fashion, Irma ran through the hits that had made us all love her in the 1950s and the 1960s, and thousands of us New Orleanians sang along with her and swayed with our sweeties to these songs that meant so much to us. "Breakway," "Ruler of My Heart," "It's Raining," of course, "You Can Have My Husband (But Please Don't Mess With My Man"). "Hip-Shaking Mama" brought down the house, as it always does -- kind of wildly weird and wonderful to see seemingly respectable folks in their sixties, fifties and forties chanting along with such lines as, "My man has got something/he keeps it hid/But I've got something/I can find it with."
And you know she had to do her traditional medley of Mardi Gras Indian tunes, encouraging us to find something to wave in order to secondline. We all got our "backfields in motion" as she always says, waving handkerchiefs, paper napkins, scarves, picnic blankets, hats, whatever we had, in the air, grinning foolishly at each other, not caring how we might look.
What with Irma's singing and the Professionals playing and all that waving and dancing in the heat and the wet, we were all soaked and near exhausted as the set ended. We screamed and hollered and waved whatever we had been waving, til Irma returned to the stage. In an emotional voice, she thanked us for our 50 years of being her faithful fans, and told us we were "simply the best" and then of course she sang that to us as her finale.
But we all knew that it was Irma who was Simply the Best, Better Than All The Rest, Better Than Anyone.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Driver's License
For the two years that Big Man and I have been living here, we've been carrying New Jersey driver's licenses. When we arrived in 2007, there were so many things to take care of, and there never seemed to be enough time to get everything done, so the driver's licenses kept being put off for another day. We weren't that worried about it, since the Jersey licenses were not set to expire until 2011. (Although once I got a traffic ticket for making a left turn without properly yielding -- long story -- and the young cop who wrote it up said, "I really should give you one for not having a local license, but I'm letting you slide on that."
So in addition to worrying about taking the Louisiana driver's license test -- which we fully expected to fail at least the first time, especially since we kept failing the practice test online -- we were also concerned that there might some kind of penalty or fine for failing to transfer our driver's licenses after so much time had passed. (Catch-22: if you won't go to get your driver's license because you are fretting over them giving you a punishment for not going sooner, you wait even even longer.)
So, we finally steeled ourselves a few Fridays ago and drove to the Driver's License Office that is located under the Mississippi River Bridge. We took numbers and went to sit down to wait, and then we noticed a big sign saying, "We do NOT do transfers of out-of-state licenses at this office." Oh well. We got directions to the correct office and drove in the rain to that address in Harvey, right before the tunnel.
That office had a big sign saying, "No driver's tests in inclement weather." We figured the downpour counted as "inclement weather," but decided to stay and at least get the process going. It was not clear where you should stand, but we figured it out with the help of another hapless citizen there on a similar purpose. (By the way, at both offices, you have to pass through a metal detector before going in -- does this say anything about the state of mind of the folks caught in the bowels of the Louisiana DMV?)
I was ahead of Big Man in the line and was called first to a cubicle. (The man had a plaque on the wall of his cubby that said, "I'll have a decaff mocha latté with vanilla valium and vodka." Well, yeah, and I'll have one too.) He asked me what I wanted, and I said I wanted to turn in my Jersey license and get a Louisiana one. he took my Jersey license, glanced at my Louisiana birth certificate, said he didn't need my marriage license (I needed it in Jersey), and looked closely at my insurance papers for the two vehicles. He told me to look into a little device set up at the edge of his desk and read the first line. He typed away into his computer.
Then, he said, amazingly, "Go sit over there, and they'll call your name to get your picture taken. And welcome home." I was astounded. That was it? That was it??? No written test, no nothing?
Meanwhile, the same process had been happening to Big Man a few seats away from me, and we both got up at about the same time to walk over to the waiting area. He looked at me and I looked at him, all those months of worry and anxiety came back to both of us, and all of it absolutely for nothing, and we just fell OUT. We were practically screaming laughing -- they almost had to tell us to shut up. WE got ourselves under control, but every time we even glanced at each other, we fell out all over again. We couldn't believe it.
So in addition to worrying about taking the Louisiana driver's license test -- which we fully expected to fail at least the first time, especially since we kept failing the practice test online -- we were also concerned that there might some kind of penalty or fine for failing to transfer our driver's licenses after so much time had passed. (Catch-22: if you won't go to get your driver's license because you are fretting over them giving you a punishment for not going sooner, you wait even even longer.)
So, we finally steeled ourselves a few Fridays ago and drove to the Driver's License Office that is located under the Mississippi River Bridge. We took numbers and went to sit down to wait, and then we noticed a big sign saying, "We do NOT do transfers of out-of-state licenses at this office." Oh well. We got directions to the correct office and drove in the rain to that address in Harvey, right before the tunnel.
That office had a big sign saying, "No driver's tests in inclement weather." We figured the downpour counted as "inclement weather," but decided to stay and at least get the process going. It was not clear where you should stand, but we figured it out with the help of another hapless citizen there on a similar purpose. (By the way, at both offices, you have to pass through a metal detector before going in -- does this say anything about the state of mind of the folks caught in the bowels of the Louisiana DMV?)
I was ahead of Big Man in the line and was called first to a cubicle. (The man had a plaque on the wall of his cubby that said, "I'll have a decaff mocha latté with vanilla valium and vodka." Well, yeah, and I'll have one too.) He asked me what I wanted, and I said I wanted to turn in my Jersey license and get a Louisiana one. he took my Jersey license, glanced at my Louisiana birth certificate, said he didn't need my marriage license (I needed it in Jersey), and looked closely at my insurance papers for the two vehicles. He told me to look into a little device set up at the edge of his desk and read the first line. He typed away into his computer.
Then, he said, amazingly, "Go sit over there, and they'll call your name to get your picture taken. And welcome home." I was astounded. That was it? That was it??? No written test, no nothing?
Meanwhile, the same process had been happening to Big Man a few seats away from me, and we both got up at about the same time to walk over to the waiting area. He looked at me and I looked at him, all those months of worry and anxiety came back to both of us, and all of it absolutely for nothing, and we just fell OUT. We were practically screaming laughing -- they almost had to tell us to shut up. WE got ourselves under control, but every time we even glanced at each other, we fell out all over again. We couldn't believe it.
Only in New Orleans, Part Whatever
Three little incidents that fall back into that familiar category, "Only in New Orleans:"
-- Big Man and I are walking down the arcade towards Elmwood Fitness Center recently and we pass two other people coming in the other direction. The first person, a handsome older man who looked Creole, carrying a gym bag, smiled and nodded at us, as he went by, and we did the same toward him. The second person, a younger man also with a gym bag, did not respond at all to our smiles and nods and "heys." As we got farther away from the second man, Big Man muttered to me, "He must not be from here." Of course not -- a New Orleanian would have greeted us, strangers or not.
-- The other day we were in the car, listening to WWOZ, and the DJ was playing Mardi Gras Indian music (Bo Dollis and the Wild Magnolias) from a music fest at Tulane years ago. When the song was over, the young DJ said, (quoting another traditional Indian chant), "Mardi Gras's comin' and it won't be long, y'all." Big Man and I looked at each and burst out laughing. Mardi Gras's coming and it won't be long?? Yeah, not if you don't consider *6 months* long!
-- Even though September is upon us, it's been raining nearly every day and when it's not raining, the sun is still shining pretty hard. It's not at all unusual to see folks with umbrellas out when the showers are coming down. But here's the thing: the other day, the afternoon was cloudy, but with a lot of sunshine. A young black man was striding down Louisiana Avenue toward the Post Office, holding a big black umbrella over him as a parasol or sunshade. I asked Big Man, "In other cities, do young urban males carry open umbrellas as parasols when it's not raining?" "NO," Big Man said back tersely, "they do not."
Only in New Orleans.
-- Big Man and I are walking down the arcade towards Elmwood Fitness Center recently and we pass two other people coming in the other direction. The first person, a handsome older man who looked Creole, carrying a gym bag, smiled and nodded at us, as he went by, and we did the same toward him. The second person, a younger man also with a gym bag, did not respond at all to our smiles and nods and "heys." As we got farther away from the second man, Big Man muttered to me, "He must not be from here." Of course not -- a New Orleanian would have greeted us, strangers or not.
-- The other day we were in the car, listening to WWOZ, and the DJ was playing Mardi Gras Indian music (Bo Dollis and the Wild Magnolias) from a music fest at Tulane years ago. When the song was over, the young DJ said, (quoting another traditional Indian chant), "Mardi Gras's comin' and it won't be long, y'all." Big Man and I looked at each and burst out laughing. Mardi Gras's coming and it won't be long?? Yeah, not if you don't consider *6 months* long!
-- Even though September is upon us, it's been raining nearly every day and when it's not raining, the sun is still shining pretty hard. It's not at all unusual to see folks with umbrellas out when the showers are coming down. But here's the thing: the other day, the afternoon was cloudy, but with a lot of sunshine. A young black man was striding down Louisiana Avenue toward the Post Office, holding a big black umbrella over him as a parasol or sunshade. I asked Big Man, "In other cities, do young urban males carry open umbrellas as parasols when it's not raining?" "NO," Big Man said back tersely, "they do not."
Only in New Orleans.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Airplane Soup
Well, that's the literal translation of the name of this fantastic Vietnamese restaurant in an obscure strip mall on the Westbank. But by any name, or in any place, Pho Tau Bay would be a standout.
Even the most regular traveler on the lower level of the Westbank Expressway would not stumble upon Pho Tau Bay accidentally. The restaurant does not face onto the street, and there isn't even a sign in front of the unprepossessing mall to alert those driving by. If you want directions, I'd have to say, coming from the Eastbank, turn right into the mall that has the big Barry Menswear sign, and then drive in, looking for Pho Tau Bay on the left, after the locksmith. It looks like a dive from the outside, and the inside is not much better, although scrupulously clean. If it's ambiance, you're looking for, you won't find it here -- once you find the place at all.
But why should Pho Tau Bay make themselves more visible? Almost every year, they are voted best Vietnamese restaurant in the city in the Gambit "Best of New Orleans" readers poll. Every time Big Man and I have ever been in there, the place is full of customers, and customers of all kinds. Besides loving the food there, I'm tickled by the amazing variety and diversity of their loyal customer base. Of course there's lots of folks who look Vietnamese, but there's also guys packing serious heat, wearing patches that proclaim them to be Coast Guard and/or U.S. Marshals. There's old white guys with gray hair or bald heads. There are neo-hippies with dreadlocks and lots of tats. There's black couples, and men in snappy business suits and ties. At lunchtime, you can often see a whole table-full of folks from the Common Ground clinic on the Westbank. We love the people-watching at Pho Tau Bay just as much (or almost as much) as we love the fabulous food.
I do not know much about Vietnamese cuisine, but I know food that is fresh, clean, and wonderfully spiced, in interesting combinations. And I can say with confidence that anything you order at Pho Tau Bay will be delicious, even if it is something you have never tried before. Try the soup with the beef and pork slices, strangely enough, in a rich and spicy fish stock with rice noodles --it's killer. Also, Big Man's favorite: the combination plate with egg cake, pork chop, shredded pork, fried egg, rice, cucumbers, and tomatoes. (Big Man says that with those 2 items, he can't understand why they need the rest of the menu.)
Before K, Pho Tau Bay had several locations around the city, but now all they have is the near-secret Westbank location. But it is well worth a special trip to savor lunch or dinner at Pho Tau Bay.
Even the most regular traveler on the lower level of the Westbank Expressway would not stumble upon Pho Tau Bay accidentally. The restaurant does not face onto the street, and there isn't even a sign in front of the unprepossessing mall to alert those driving by. If you want directions, I'd have to say, coming from the Eastbank, turn right into the mall that has the big Barry Menswear sign, and then drive in, looking for Pho Tau Bay on the left, after the locksmith. It looks like a dive from the outside, and the inside is not much better, although scrupulously clean. If it's ambiance, you're looking for, you won't find it here -- once you find the place at all.
But why should Pho Tau Bay make themselves more visible? Almost every year, they are voted best Vietnamese restaurant in the city in the Gambit "Best of New Orleans" readers poll. Every time Big Man and I have ever been in there, the place is full of customers, and customers of all kinds. Besides loving the food there, I'm tickled by the amazing variety and diversity of their loyal customer base. Of course there's lots of folks who look Vietnamese, but there's also guys packing serious heat, wearing patches that proclaim them to be Coast Guard and/or U.S. Marshals. There's old white guys with gray hair or bald heads. There are neo-hippies with dreadlocks and lots of tats. There's black couples, and men in snappy business suits and ties. At lunchtime, you can often see a whole table-full of folks from the Common Ground clinic on the Westbank. We love the people-watching at Pho Tau Bay just as much (or almost as much) as we love the fabulous food.
I do not know much about Vietnamese cuisine, but I know food that is fresh, clean, and wonderfully spiced, in interesting combinations. And I can say with confidence that anything you order at Pho Tau Bay will be delicious, even if it is something you have never tried before. Try the soup with the beef and pork slices, strangely enough, in a rich and spicy fish stock with rice noodles --it's killer. Also, Big Man's favorite: the combination plate with egg cake, pork chop, shredded pork, fried egg, rice, cucumbers, and tomatoes. (Big Man says that with those 2 items, he can't understand why they need the rest of the menu.)
Before K, Pho Tau Bay had several locations around the city, but now all they have is the near-secret Westbank location. But it is well worth a special trip to savor lunch or dinner at Pho Tau Bay.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The Anniversary
And so we made it through another Katrina anniversary. The president mentioned us in his weekly radio address, and pledged once again, as his predecessor did before him, that New Orleans would be rebuilt and that lessons would be learned for the future about dealing with disasters in our country.
We haven't actually seen either thing come to pass.
The tv, radio, Internet and newspapers were filled with stories and essays and photos. There were different memorial events held around town, with varying degrees of grief and anger on display.
I didn't go to any of them this time, but I know many people did.
Folks at church have different ways of coping -- some go into hibernation and avoid all mention of it; some read selectively; some share more of their own stories of survival and recovery; some go silent. A few people threw parties instead of more solemn remembrances. Some, like Big Man and I, had occasion to go to a church and light candles. Others blew it off, and a few -- a very few, I'm sure -- said that it completely went past them, that it went by without their realizing. (And maybe that could actually be true for a few people.)
How long will it be until there are no more watermarks, floodlines, to be seen around town? How long til all the houses are repaired, and streets fixed, and libraries and schools and clinics and hospitals reopened? How long til hurricane season stops causing nightmares? How long til all New Orleanians who want to come home? How long til we have visionary strong leadership, to bring us out out of the morass of corruption, buffoonery, and cronyism? How long?
And how long will it be before ill-natured and bad-tempered and bloody-minded people elsewhere in the country stop questioning our very right to existence, the government's sacred obligation to fund the rebuilding of our levees and the restoration of our wetlands, the right and even the necessity for all exiled New Orleanians to come home?
Saddest, most poignant, story of the 4th anniversary: NOLA.com reports that local funeral homes are doing record-breaking business shipping bodies back to New Orleans for burial. For too many in the Diaspora, that's the only way they get to come home.
We haven't actually seen either thing come to pass.
The tv, radio, Internet and newspapers were filled with stories and essays and photos. There were different memorial events held around town, with varying degrees of grief and anger on display.
I didn't go to any of them this time, but I know many people did.
Folks at church have different ways of coping -- some go into hibernation and avoid all mention of it; some read selectively; some share more of their own stories of survival and recovery; some go silent. A few people threw parties instead of more solemn remembrances. Some, like Big Man and I, had occasion to go to a church and light candles. Others blew it off, and a few -- a very few, I'm sure -- said that it completely went past them, that it went by without their realizing. (And maybe that could actually be true for a few people.)
How long will it be until there are no more watermarks, floodlines, to be seen around town? How long til all the houses are repaired, and streets fixed, and libraries and schools and clinics and hospitals reopened? How long til hurricane season stops causing nightmares? How long til all New Orleanians who want to come home? How long til we have visionary strong leadership, to bring us out out of the morass of corruption, buffoonery, and cronyism? How long?
And how long will it be before ill-natured and bad-tempered and bloody-minded people elsewhere in the country stop questioning our very right to existence, the government's sacred obligation to fund the rebuilding of our levees and the restoration of our wetlands, the right and even the necessity for all exiled New Orleanians to come home?
Saddest, most poignant, story of the 4th anniversary: NOLA.com reports that local funeral homes are doing record-breaking business shipping bodies back to New Orleans for burial. For too many in the Diaspora, that's the only way they get to come home.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Record-Breaking
Two nights ago, during the weather report, Big Man began laughing so hard that he choked and I had to slap him on the back to help him catch his breath again. (He was laughing so hard, he scared our cat, Smokey Robinson, who went running out of the room.) When he caught his breath and could speak, I asked him what set him off, as I had not noticed anything amusing -- let alone THAT amusing.
Big Man asked me, "Didn't you hear the weatherman? He said it was like September or October, and not the end of August." "Yes?" I returned, still not getting it. "The weather showed temperatures in the 80s!" Big Man said, almost shouting, "That's so ridiculous, it's funny!" And he began to laugh again, I think at least partially because I was so dense.
Well, how could I think that was funny? It was only normal to me. For the weather, the heat, to "break" (go "down" into the 80s in the daytime and the 60s at night) in August is so unusual as to be record-breaking -- and indeed, we've been told the last two nights that the temperatures have broken records set way back in the 1950s.
Funny or not, it is a blessing, a relief, for this weather to arrive, however early.
Big Man asked me, "Didn't you hear the weatherman? He said it was like September or October, and not the end of August." "Yes?" I returned, still not getting it. "The weather showed temperatures in the 80s!" Big Man said, almost shouting, "That's so ridiculous, it's funny!" And he began to laugh again, I think at least partially because I was so dense.
Well, how could I think that was funny? It was only normal to me. For the weather, the heat, to "break" (go "down" into the 80s in the daytime and the 60s at night) in August is so unusual as to be record-breaking -- and indeed, we've been told the last two nights that the temperatures have broken records set way back in the 1950s.
Funny or not, it is a blessing, a relief, for this weather to arrive, however early.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
A Truly Great Italian Restaurant
(with a weird name)
Today, the regional group of ministers of my denomination had their monthly meeting, this time in New Orleans (we alternate between here and Baton Rouge -- we used to also go to the North Shore and to the Gulf Coast, but those ministers are no longer in the area). When it's my turn to pick the restaurant, out of pure selfishness, I always choose Eleven-79. I say "selfishness" because Eleven-79 is located on my street, only a few blocks from my house, and so I can walk to the gathering, and because it is one of my favorite restaurants in the city -- which of course is saying a lot.
You can't tell what kind of restaurant it is by the name, which merely refers to the location. You also can't tell from the exterior, which is a neat little four-bay Creole cottage, typical of the 1840s or earlier, with a diagonal door cut likely done in the early twentieth century, when one side of the original double was made into a neighborhood grocery. A loving renovation was done around 2000, turning it into an elegant and intimate restaurant, perfect for a romantic dinner, or a nice business lunch.
But the real draw of Eleven-79 is the food, which is classic Italian, not the usual Creole-Italian that is so prevalent in New Orleans. With a few exceptions (like the addition of buster crabs, for example, and the -- alas! -- absence of broccoli rabe), the restaurant's menu could be duplicated in South Philadelphia in the Italian Market.
The portions are large (I always go home with a box or two of leftovers), the pastas are fresh and al dente, the sauces rich and satisfying and authentically redolent of Italy. Another treat is the classic jazz playing on the sound system, with an emphasis on the Italian greats (Dino Martin, Sinatra, Louis Prima) and of course the New Orleans greats (Satchmo is in heavy rotation).
On the wall as you enter the dining room from the bar (stepping up from ground level into what once was the family living quarters adjoining the grocery), you pass a three-quarters portrait of a young Louis Prima holding his trumpet. This is not a surprise, because the owner of Eleven-79 is none other than Joseph Segretto, Prima's last manager before suffering the stroke that eventually resulted in his death. (You can bet that when Big Man and I eat at Eleven-79, we are happy to swap stories about Louis and Sam Butera and all the guys in the band with him!)
Favorites at Eleven-79 include the duck lasagna (oh my god!), the fried oysters topped with caviar, the thick and homey cucuzza sauce over pasta, the creamy alfredo sauce, the pasta with wild mushrooms, the roasted artichoke appetizer, and the traditional classics like pasta bolognese, the meatball sandwich, the eggplant parm and ALL the veal dishes (if you're a person who lets yourself eat veal, that is).
Some of the desserts are from Brocato's (of course!) and the bread is a wonderful, crusty Italian ciabatta. The coffee is dark and rich and satisfying. The service is usually excellent to wonderful, and only slips a bit when the place is packed, as around a holiday period.
If you're in the mood for some great Italian food, in a lovely, unlikely place (Eleven-79 is located almost under the Pontchartrain Expressway, across the street from an auto body shop), we highly recommend Eleven-79.
Today, the regional group of ministers of my denomination had their monthly meeting, this time in New Orleans (we alternate between here and Baton Rouge -- we used to also go to the North Shore and to the Gulf Coast, but those ministers are no longer in the area). When it's my turn to pick the restaurant, out of pure selfishness, I always choose Eleven-79. I say "selfishness" because Eleven-79 is located on my street, only a few blocks from my house, and so I can walk to the gathering, and because it is one of my favorite restaurants in the city -- which of course is saying a lot.
You can't tell what kind of restaurant it is by the name, which merely refers to the location. You also can't tell from the exterior, which is a neat little four-bay Creole cottage, typical of the 1840s or earlier, with a diagonal door cut likely done in the early twentieth century, when one side of the original double was made into a neighborhood grocery. A loving renovation was done around 2000, turning it into an elegant and intimate restaurant, perfect for a romantic dinner, or a nice business lunch.
But the real draw of Eleven-79 is the food, which is classic Italian, not the usual Creole-Italian that is so prevalent in New Orleans. With a few exceptions (like the addition of buster crabs, for example, and the -- alas! -- absence of broccoli rabe), the restaurant's menu could be duplicated in South Philadelphia in the Italian Market.
The portions are large (I always go home with a box or two of leftovers), the pastas are fresh and al dente, the sauces rich and satisfying and authentically redolent of Italy. Another treat is the classic jazz playing on the sound system, with an emphasis on the Italian greats (Dino Martin, Sinatra, Louis Prima) and of course the New Orleans greats (Satchmo is in heavy rotation).
On the wall as you enter the dining room from the bar (stepping up from ground level into what once was the family living quarters adjoining the grocery), you pass a three-quarters portrait of a young Louis Prima holding his trumpet. This is not a surprise, because the owner of Eleven-79 is none other than Joseph Segretto, Prima's last manager before suffering the stroke that eventually resulted in his death. (You can bet that when Big Man and I eat at Eleven-79, we are happy to swap stories about Louis and Sam Butera and all the guys in the band with him!)
Favorites at Eleven-79 include the duck lasagna (oh my god!), the fried oysters topped with caviar, the thick and homey cucuzza sauce over pasta, the creamy alfredo sauce, the pasta with wild mushrooms, the roasted artichoke appetizer, and the traditional classics like pasta bolognese, the meatball sandwich, the eggplant parm and ALL the veal dishes (if you're a person who lets yourself eat veal, that is).
Some of the desserts are from Brocato's (of course!) and the bread is a wonderful, crusty Italian ciabatta. The coffee is dark and rich and satisfying. The service is usually excellent to wonderful, and only slips a bit when the place is packed, as around a holiday period.
If you're in the mood for some great Italian food, in a lovely, unlikely place (Eleven-79 is located almost under the Pontchartrain Expressway, across the street from an auto body shop), we highly recommend Eleven-79.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
In Praise of the Shrimp Man
(and Shrimp Lady)
Big Man and I are big fans of the Shrimp Man whose spot is the empty lot on the downtown side of the Dollar Store on South Claiborne near the intersection with St. Andrew Street. Five days a week, rain or shine (and it's been raining a lot lately), the Shrimp Man parks his beat-up pick-up truck on the edge of the lot, gets on top of a small ice chest he's placed on the edge of the road, and dangles gigantic shrimp by their whiskers at passersby, making the shrimp jump and the drivers take notice. People pull to the side, up onto the lot, idle at the red light, or pass by and make the next U-turn they can. Those shrimp are like magnets, drawing people in. Suddenly, everyone going by thinks, "I need me some SHRIMP."
The Shrimp Man habitually wears a dingy canvas hat (apparently formerly white) and white shrimp boots. Lately his wife, who I've taken to calling the Shrimp Lady, has been with him, wearing a bright yellow visor hat, staffing the back of the pick-up truck, measuring out and weighing the shrimp, and packing them in ice for you to take home. They are always smiling and friendly, making passing conversation with the customers, and greeting repeat regulars -- like Big Man -- with big waves and grins. The other day, the Shrimp Man told Big Man, "You always make me laugh when you are here." (That time, Big Man got out of the van, walked over, pointed to the sign, and said, "My favorite 3 words in a row: FRESH - LARGE - SHRIMP!")
The shrimp these good folks sell are *enormous* -- the larger size are like 6 to a pound, and the so-called "smaller" size (which would be large anywhere else) about maybe 8 to a pound. The really big ones go for $5 a pound and are well worth it; the next size is even less. On our last purchase, Big Man got 5 pounds of those for only $14.
The Shrimp Man became somewhat famous when the Offbeat local music and culture magazine featured him in an interview and story about a year ago. Unfortunately the publicity nearly did him in, as it brought him to the unwelcome attention of the City's permit agencies, and he was hassled by the cops several times, causing the Shrimp Man's truck to disappear for several months. Eventually, the Shrimp Man's family (the business is a multi-generational concern, with the Shrimp Man's father ad brothers going out on the shrimp boat, and the Shrimp Man and Lady handling the retail end on the street) managed to jump through whatever hoops were required to get the necessary permits, and they're back on the street more or less permanently. The Shrimp Man told Big Man that the permits thus obtained were the first given for selling shrimp on the street since 1937!
If you want to impress your family and especially out of town guests with high quality really fresh giant shrimp, then get yourself over to the Shrimp Man and his Lady on South Claiborne. You can't miss the wriggling, jumping shrimp being dangled out into traffic by a smiling man in a canvass hat wearing white shrimp boots. And when you stop and get your shrimp, tell 'em the Big Man with the straw hat sent you.
Big Man and I are big fans of the Shrimp Man whose spot is the empty lot on the downtown side of the Dollar Store on South Claiborne near the intersection with St. Andrew Street. Five days a week, rain or shine (and it's been raining a lot lately), the Shrimp Man parks his beat-up pick-up truck on the edge of the lot, gets on top of a small ice chest he's placed on the edge of the road, and dangles gigantic shrimp by their whiskers at passersby, making the shrimp jump and the drivers take notice. People pull to the side, up onto the lot, idle at the red light, or pass by and make the next U-turn they can. Those shrimp are like magnets, drawing people in. Suddenly, everyone going by thinks, "I need me some SHRIMP."
The Shrimp Man habitually wears a dingy canvas hat (apparently formerly white) and white shrimp boots. Lately his wife, who I've taken to calling the Shrimp Lady, has been with him, wearing a bright yellow visor hat, staffing the back of the pick-up truck, measuring out and weighing the shrimp, and packing them in ice for you to take home. They are always smiling and friendly, making passing conversation with the customers, and greeting repeat regulars -- like Big Man -- with big waves and grins. The other day, the Shrimp Man told Big Man, "You always make me laugh when you are here." (That time, Big Man got out of the van, walked over, pointed to the sign, and said, "My favorite 3 words in a row: FRESH - LARGE - SHRIMP!")
The shrimp these good folks sell are *enormous* -- the larger size are like 6 to a pound, and the so-called "smaller" size (which would be large anywhere else) about maybe 8 to a pound. The really big ones go for $5 a pound and are well worth it; the next size is even less. On our last purchase, Big Man got 5 pounds of those for only $14.
The Shrimp Man became somewhat famous when the Offbeat local music and culture magazine featured him in an interview and story about a year ago. Unfortunately the publicity nearly did him in, as it brought him to the unwelcome attention of the City's permit agencies, and he was hassled by the cops several times, causing the Shrimp Man's truck to disappear for several months. Eventually, the Shrimp Man's family (the business is a multi-generational concern, with the Shrimp Man's father ad brothers going out on the shrimp boat, and the Shrimp Man and Lady handling the retail end on the street) managed to jump through whatever hoops were required to get the necessary permits, and they're back on the street more or less permanently. The Shrimp Man told Big Man that the permits thus obtained were the first given for selling shrimp on the street since 1937!
If you want to impress your family and especially out of town guests with high quality really fresh giant shrimp, then get yourself over to the Shrimp Man and his Lady on South Claiborne. You can't miss the wriggling, jumping shrimp being dangled out into traffic by a smiling man in a canvass hat wearing white shrimp boots. And when you stop and get your shrimp, tell 'em the Big Man with the straw hat sent you.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
The Heat
The Heat is like its own character. No matter what you're doing, the Heat comes in and takes over. Like a ham actor in a play who upstages all the other action and actors, the Heat is distracting, taking your attention from anything else. Walking outside even just to pick up the paper or get to your (air conditioned) car is like walking straight into a hot wet wall. Being outside for any length of time is like letting the sun beat you on the head with a hammer. (You even have to wear a hat while you're in a swimming pool -- and speaking of swimming pools, how do you like dipping into warm bath tubs?)
Sure, it always gets hot in New Orleans in summer, and yes, it's always a drag. But this, this is something else. This extreme heat is brain-numbing, personality-distorting. You can't think, you can't function, you can't do anything but move slowly, sit around and sweat, complaining dully the whole time. It wouldn't surprise me at all if domestic violence and murder rates go up -- no one can keep their temper or sustain being nice in this Heat.
Of course, this has to be the time that our downstairs air conditioner will decide to quit on us. We've cranked up the upstairs unit and employed electric fans to stir the cooler air dropping down the stairwell so that downstairs is at least *somewhat* bearable. (Frozen gel packs pressed against the body help some too, as does copious amounts of ice water.) It goes without saying that every a/c repair place in the city is overbooked right now. We're hoping someone will get to our house today, but it's been 3 weeks of this (luckily for us, one week of that we were in Utah, where, even though it is a desert, for goodness' sake, it was cooler than here).
Weather reports say it will break soon. From their lips to God's ears. We can't take much more of this.
Sure, it always gets hot in New Orleans in summer, and yes, it's always a drag. But this, this is something else. This extreme heat is brain-numbing, personality-distorting. You can't think, you can't function, you can't do anything but move slowly, sit around and sweat, complaining dully the whole time. It wouldn't surprise me at all if domestic violence and murder rates go up -- no one can keep their temper or sustain being nice in this Heat.
Of course, this has to be the time that our downstairs air conditioner will decide to quit on us. We've cranked up the upstairs unit and employed electric fans to stir the cooler air dropping down the stairwell so that downstairs is at least *somewhat* bearable. (Frozen gel packs pressed against the body help some too, as does copious amounts of ice water.) It goes without saying that every a/c repair place in the city is overbooked right now. We're hoping someone will get to our house today, but it's been 3 weeks of this (luckily for us, one week of that we were in Utah, where, even though it is a desert, for goodness' sake, it was cooler than here).
Weather reports say it will break soon. From their lips to God's ears. We can't take much more of this.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Rebirth of the Roosevelt Hotel
This week the Roosevelt Hotel reopened for the first time after Katrina. The Roosevelt as always been one of the foremost luxury hotels in the city -- maybe in the whole country -- since it was first opened in the early 20th century, and over the years it became a hallmark of elegance and sophistication for generations of New Orleanians. Celebrities of all kinds have stayed there and performed there in the world-famous Blue Room. New Orleanians rich and middle class have marked the important occasions of their lives inside the Roosevelt. Its remaining closed since the Storm was like a hole in the fabric of New Orleans, a hole in our hearts.
The hotel has played an important role in the life of our family too. My older sister B was taken to a show in the Blue Room by our dad for her sixteenth birthday. Our parents ate dinner there and saw shows with friends for special occasions. While I was in college, I worked the 3 pm to 11 pm shift on the front desk of the Roosevelt in the early 1970s. For a short period of time, my sister L worked the Concierge Desk at the Roosevelt, and in the late 1970s/early 1980s, my sister D worked in the public relations department there. Later, when I was working at Godchaux's specialty store, then across the Baronne Street door of the Roosevelt, I waited on several giant-name celebrities who were appearing at the Blue Room (the exquisite Bernadette Peters, the legendary Lena Horne) as they browsed the designer clothing on Godchaux's 4th floor. The lovely Miss Peters actually had me and my date seated ringside a a table reserved for "friends of Miss Peters"! I once saw Lily Tomlin in the Blue Room, as I was seated with a crowd of the local chapter of the Daughters of Bilitis. The night before my son was born, his father and I enjoyed a special dinner at the Sazerac Restaurant. I've seen the great Allen Toussaint in the Blue Room twice -- the first time, I left a "mash note" to tell him how important his music was in my life, and to my delighted astonishment, the next year, he told the Blue Room audience how much the note had meant to him!!
So the Roosevelt is not just a city icon, it's personal, very personal.
Purchased after Katrina by the Waldorf Astoria (which is actually an arm of the Hilton), the hotel has undergone a multimillion dollar makeover and renovation. We have all been waiting with bated breaths for it to reopen. While I'm sure the new owners want the hotel to be completely finished and ready for "the season" that starts when the weather breaks in the fall, apparently they did not want to miss the business available for the Essence festival this weekend. Thus, even though the pool and tennis courts and convention and meeting rooms won't be ready for another two weeks, and even though the John Besh Italian restaurant in the old Bailey's location won't open until late August, the hotel has "soft-opened" this week.
I made Big Man promise to take me tonight. We dolled up a bit (Big Man wore a jacket that he would later remove for his gig at the Blues Club) and went in separate cars to meet in the Roosevelt's gilded block-long lobby. Oh my god, it was all I could do not to cry. The lobby gleamed -- regilded and repainted, the gleaming floor stripped of the commercial carpet down to the marble and tile (when they pulled up the carpet that had lain for decades, they discovered only remnants of the original tile from the early 1900s, and then they *replicated* the tile design!!).
The elegant Sazerac Restaurant is no longer deep red and burgundy, but soft old gold -- a giant change, but in keeping with the way it had been. We checked out the menus -- plural because the *new* Sazerac will be open for breakfast and lunch as well as dinner -- and were pleased both with the selections and the prices. Yes, it's expensive, but by no means the most expensive place to eat in the city (below Restaurant August, for example). Wedding anniversary in October, anyone?
The Art Deco delights of the Sazerac Bar were still there -- the ribbed lights along the bar, the mirrored bar back, the stylized murals, the rounded booths, the warm wood paneling in the bar's lobby area. The bartenders still wear the pressed and starched white coats. The only thing I could see missing were the giant silver trophies that used to ornament the bar. The noise level rose to din level as old-time New Orleanians (some the folks in there simply reeked of Uptown and old money) partied and drank and visited each other's booths and tables, exclaiming over the renovation details. We overtipped like crazy as part of the celebration.
We checked out the new Roosevelt Gift Shop (in the same location as the old Jack Sutton's), and were impressed with the stuff and the prices, which were not outrageous, just upscale. Big Man fell totally in love with the new hotel bathrobes, glaringly white, the Roosevelt monogram logo over the breast, the inside plush absorbent terry cloth and the outside an incredibly silky microfiber, for about $85, which is not at all bad for luxury hotel bathrobes (I believe the ones at the W Hotel are $125). There were New Orleans-themed items and hotel logo items and Mardi Gras items, and then the usual overpriced refreshments that all hotel shops carry. (There was also Zapp's Voodoo chips, which are the absolute best and will hopefully turn lots of visitors into Zapp's fans. It's definitely our favorite -- how can you not love Zapp's chips that have everything on them??)
The biggest changes I noted were that the men's room had been relocated from up the marble stairs over to between the Blue Room (still locked up, unfortunately) and what used to be the bar next door, and that that bar had been changed into a coffee and pastry and gelato bar with a flat-screen TV in one corner, faced with comfortable seating. The former bar had been been kept dark at all hours of the day, perfect for assignations, and had featured a murky mural on the back wall (I think the walls were painted dark navy blue or even black). It was a little disorienting to find it so bright and light and cream-colored, the old mural covered by cream and dark-cream patterned wallpaper, the light bright and clean, to better showcase the work-of-art pastries on display (heaven preserve me!). They had kept the tradition of having some seating in the lobby. We sat there and struck up a conversation with an Essence visitor (of course I suggested he and his friends go to hear Big Man play on Bourbon Street!).
As we strolled the lobby, marveling and admiring, we were surrounded by other New Orleanians doing the same thing. After Big Man left, I spoke briefly to a couple who were scorning the fancy-shmancy French sculpture clock now at the University Street entrance (not yet in use). The woman and I agreed that this Christmas the new owners HAD to decorate the lobby with the traditional angel-hair decorations, or, as the woman said to me, "We'll have to bring in angel-hair ourselves." Of course I agreed with her.
The return -- the rebirth -- of the Roosevelt Hotel is a very good thing for New Orleans and a wonderful thing for me and my family. Another milestone since Katrina, another sign of our recovery. This is a good thing, a very good thing indeed.
The hotel has played an important role in the life of our family too. My older sister B was taken to a show in the Blue Room by our dad for her sixteenth birthday. Our parents ate dinner there and saw shows with friends for special occasions. While I was in college, I worked the 3 pm to 11 pm shift on the front desk of the Roosevelt in the early 1970s. For a short period of time, my sister L worked the Concierge Desk at the Roosevelt, and in the late 1970s/early 1980s, my sister D worked in the public relations department there. Later, when I was working at Godchaux's specialty store, then across the Baronne Street door of the Roosevelt, I waited on several giant-name celebrities who were appearing at the Blue Room (the exquisite Bernadette Peters, the legendary Lena Horne) as they browsed the designer clothing on Godchaux's 4th floor. The lovely Miss Peters actually had me and my date seated ringside a a table reserved for "friends of Miss Peters"! I once saw Lily Tomlin in the Blue Room, as I was seated with a crowd of the local chapter of the Daughters of Bilitis. The night before my son was born, his father and I enjoyed a special dinner at the Sazerac Restaurant. I've seen the great Allen Toussaint in the Blue Room twice -- the first time, I left a "mash note" to tell him how important his music was in my life, and to my delighted astonishment, the next year, he told the Blue Room audience how much the note had meant to him!!
So the Roosevelt is not just a city icon, it's personal, very personal.
Purchased after Katrina by the Waldorf Astoria (which is actually an arm of the Hilton), the hotel has undergone a multimillion dollar makeover and renovation. We have all been waiting with bated breaths for it to reopen. While I'm sure the new owners want the hotel to be completely finished and ready for "the season" that starts when the weather breaks in the fall, apparently they did not want to miss the business available for the Essence festival this weekend. Thus, even though the pool and tennis courts and convention and meeting rooms won't be ready for another two weeks, and even though the John Besh Italian restaurant in the old Bailey's location won't open until late August, the hotel has "soft-opened" this week.
I made Big Man promise to take me tonight. We dolled up a bit (Big Man wore a jacket that he would later remove for his gig at the Blues Club) and went in separate cars to meet in the Roosevelt's gilded block-long lobby. Oh my god, it was all I could do not to cry. The lobby gleamed -- regilded and repainted, the gleaming floor stripped of the commercial carpet down to the marble and tile (when they pulled up the carpet that had lain for decades, they discovered only remnants of the original tile from the early 1900s, and then they *replicated* the tile design!!).
The elegant Sazerac Restaurant is no longer deep red and burgundy, but soft old gold -- a giant change, but in keeping with the way it had been. We checked out the menus -- plural because the *new* Sazerac will be open for breakfast and lunch as well as dinner -- and were pleased both with the selections and the prices. Yes, it's expensive, but by no means the most expensive place to eat in the city (below Restaurant August, for example). Wedding anniversary in October, anyone?
The Art Deco delights of the Sazerac Bar were still there -- the ribbed lights along the bar, the mirrored bar back, the stylized murals, the rounded booths, the warm wood paneling in the bar's lobby area. The bartenders still wear the pressed and starched white coats. The only thing I could see missing were the giant silver trophies that used to ornament the bar. The noise level rose to din level as old-time New Orleanians (some the folks in there simply reeked of Uptown and old money) partied and drank and visited each other's booths and tables, exclaiming over the renovation details. We overtipped like crazy as part of the celebration.
We checked out the new Roosevelt Gift Shop (in the same location as the old Jack Sutton's), and were impressed with the stuff and the prices, which were not outrageous, just upscale. Big Man fell totally in love with the new hotel bathrobes, glaringly white, the Roosevelt monogram logo over the breast, the inside plush absorbent terry cloth and the outside an incredibly silky microfiber, for about $85, which is not at all bad for luxury hotel bathrobes (I believe the ones at the W Hotel are $125). There were New Orleans-themed items and hotel logo items and Mardi Gras items, and then the usual overpriced refreshments that all hotel shops carry. (There was also Zapp's Voodoo chips, which are the absolute best and will hopefully turn lots of visitors into Zapp's fans. It's definitely our favorite -- how can you not love Zapp's chips that have everything on them??)
The biggest changes I noted were that the men's room had been relocated from up the marble stairs over to between the Blue Room (still locked up, unfortunately) and what used to be the bar next door, and that that bar had been changed into a coffee and pastry and gelato bar with a flat-screen TV in one corner, faced with comfortable seating. The former bar had been been kept dark at all hours of the day, perfect for assignations, and had featured a murky mural on the back wall (I think the walls were painted dark navy blue or even black). It was a little disorienting to find it so bright and light and cream-colored, the old mural covered by cream and dark-cream patterned wallpaper, the light bright and clean, to better showcase the work-of-art pastries on display (heaven preserve me!). They had kept the tradition of having some seating in the lobby. We sat there and struck up a conversation with an Essence visitor (of course I suggested he and his friends go to hear Big Man play on Bourbon Street!).
As we strolled the lobby, marveling and admiring, we were surrounded by other New Orleanians doing the same thing. After Big Man left, I spoke briefly to a couple who were scorning the fancy-shmancy French sculpture clock now at the University Street entrance (not yet in use). The woman and I agreed that this Christmas the new owners HAD to decorate the lobby with the traditional angel-hair decorations, or, as the woman said to me, "We'll have to bring in angel-hair ourselves." Of course I agreed with her.
The return -- the rebirth -- of the Roosevelt Hotel is a very good thing for New Orleans and a wonderful thing for me and my family. Another milestone since Katrina, another sign of our recovery. This is a good thing, a very good thing indeed.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Blog Break
From Monday, June 22, until Monday, June 29, I will be attending the general convention of my religious denomination up in Salt Lake City, Utah (where it promises to be cooler, espcially at night). Since this blog was set up as a response to moving home to New Orleans, and reporting on life and love and conditions, good and bad, in the Crescent City since Katrina, I'll have nothing to post until I get back.
So this blog is going inactive until around the first of July. See y'all then.
So this blog is going inactive until around the first of July. See y'all then.
"Vieux To Do" -- Three Fests in One
The weekend of June 13 and 14 featured the three French Market Festivals which had been so much fun for Big Man and me last year: the creole Tomato Festival, the Louisiana Seafood Festival, and the Cajun and Zydeco Festival. It was also a very busy weekend for us, with our hosting a gathering at our home for new church members on that Sunday afternoon, and thus having to clean the first floor of the house prior to the little reception (we don't clean up upstairs unless we think folks will have a reason to go up there!), so the only day we could go was Saturday.
Last year, one of the festivals (or part of the three festivals, I'm not sure sure how they organized it) was held on the grounds of the Old Mint on Esplanade, and there was lots of shade and grass to help cope with the heat. This year, it was not only hotter and not as cloudy (it rained a bit last year, which we thought was a blessing), but for whatever crazy reason, the Mint was closed off for renovations -- which of course were NOT going on on the weekend! -- and the entire complex of three festivals was now jammed up in the French Market and Dutch Alley. No trees. No grass. Just acres of concrete and hordes of sweaty people crammed into a smaller space.
I will say that the music was good at both of the stages we saw (weren't there *three* stages last year??), but it was SO HOT and the stages were set up in such a way that to be in front of the stage was to have the sun beat unmercifully on your head, so that you had to be more than a little crazy to hang there. (A parishioner of mine reported that a friend of hers had been dancing at the festival, and she commented, "She must have lost her mind.") It was so hot you couldn't think, your brain just boiled. And, unlike at Jazz Fest, there was no "mist tent" to duck into to try to cool off; unlike Phoenix, Arizona, no restaurant or shop blew cold air out into the crowd. It was just miserable hot, crazy-making hot, brain-boiling hot.
Three things added to our disappointment: the charbroiled oysters weren't as good as last year (different vendor), there were no comfortable tables and chairs set up in the shade as last year (no room, I guess, with the new set-up), and WE COULD NOT FIND THE HEIRLOOM TOMATO GUY!! We had brought a canvas bag just for the purpose of taking those babies safe home with us, and we were determined, but it was a fruitless (and tomato-less) quest. We walked and walked, sweating up and down the length of the festival area *three times* and asked every person connected to the festival we could find. (One answered, "I don't even know what an heirloom tomato IS." How bad is that??) Since that had been our absolute favorite thing at last year's festival, despite the good music and the good food we ate, and the wonderfully refrsing hand-made limeade, and the carton of (regular) Creole tomatoes we brought home, the festival was a bust to us.
Next year, go back to the Old Mint! Or move the three festivals to Waldenburg Park! (Or the air-conditioned Morial Convention Center!) No grass and no trees and no place to sit makes for one hot and uncomfortable festival.
Last year, one of the festivals (or part of the three festivals, I'm not sure sure how they organized it) was held on the grounds of the Old Mint on Esplanade, and there was lots of shade and grass to help cope with the heat. This year, it was not only hotter and not as cloudy (it rained a bit last year, which we thought was a blessing), but for whatever crazy reason, the Mint was closed off for renovations -- which of course were NOT going on on the weekend! -- and the entire complex of three festivals was now jammed up in the French Market and Dutch Alley. No trees. No grass. Just acres of concrete and hordes of sweaty people crammed into a smaller space.
I will say that the music was good at both of the stages we saw (weren't there *three* stages last year??), but it was SO HOT and the stages were set up in such a way that to be in front of the stage was to have the sun beat unmercifully on your head, so that you had to be more than a little crazy to hang there. (A parishioner of mine reported that a friend of hers had been dancing at the festival, and she commented, "She must have lost her mind.") It was so hot you couldn't think, your brain just boiled. And, unlike at Jazz Fest, there was no "mist tent" to duck into to try to cool off; unlike Phoenix, Arizona, no restaurant or shop blew cold air out into the crowd. It was just miserable hot, crazy-making hot, brain-boiling hot.
Three things added to our disappointment: the charbroiled oysters weren't as good as last year (different vendor), there were no comfortable tables and chairs set up in the shade as last year (no room, I guess, with the new set-up), and WE COULD NOT FIND THE HEIRLOOM TOMATO GUY!! We had brought a canvas bag just for the purpose of taking those babies safe home with us, and we were determined, but it was a fruitless (and tomato-less) quest. We walked and walked, sweating up and down the length of the festival area *three times* and asked every person connected to the festival we could find. (One answered, "I don't even know what an heirloom tomato IS." How bad is that??) Since that had been our absolute favorite thing at last year's festival, despite the good music and the good food we ate, and the wonderfully refrsing hand-made limeade, and the carton of (regular) Creole tomatoes we brought home, the festival was a bust to us.
Next year, go back to the Old Mint! Or move the three festivals to Waldenburg Park! (Or the air-conditioned Morial Convention Center!) No grass and no trees and no place to sit makes for one hot and uncomfortable festival.
D-Day Commemoration
On Sunday afternoon, June 7, Big Man and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves at the D-Day Commemoration at the D-Day Museum. (We discovered the festival quite by accident, since we parked around the corner from there for the meal-service our church was involved in with two other churches of our denomination at Ozanam Inn, which is about a block away from the museum.) We felt lucky to have stumbled upon it, and went straight there after helping to serve the meal at Ozanam. We noticed that food and drink tents had been set up in the museum parking lot, adjacent to the Contemporary Art Center, but we had already eaten before getting to Ozanam Inn, so we passed straight through.
The day was hot and sunny, but not so uncomfortable that we didn't want to join the families and individuals across the street from the main museum complex where a group of World War II equipment (a typical GI tent complete with weapons, cot and personal items; a doctor's jeep; a German missile launcher; and an American tank, with wooden "Hershey chocolate" boxes lashed to the outside) had been set up with docents costumed in World War II garb. Very interesting, especially to small boys, their dads, and of course to Big Man. We spent some quality time there (me sweating bullets -- it was so hot and the sun beat down so hard, I took Big Man's straw hat away from him and wore it myself) before going inside the museum (blessedly air-conditioned).
To our delight, the big open atrium of the museum, with the World War II planes hanging from wires down from the ceiling, had been turned into a concert space, with folding chairs set up in rows. A big band was playing World War II music, from the theme songs of all the military services ("The Marine Hymn," "Anchors Aweigh," and so on), to the favorite dance music of GIs and their girls. Each song was introduced with a lot of information and hints, and those in the audience who shouted out the title were rewarded with -- what else? -- Hershey bars. It was all the songs you'd expect: "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree," "Over There," "Little Brown Jug," "String of Pearls," "Pennsylvania 65000," "In the Mood," "Chattanooga Choo-Choo" and on and on. Big Man kept exclaiming over the high musicianship and great arrangements of the band, made up almost exclusively of older guys.
The emcee pointed out the big open area in front of the band and told everyone it was a dance floor, and meant to be used. The crowd needed little encouragement, and stepped out to dance in the old way. There were young couples dressed in their interpretation of World War II civvy-style: the young women had on hair snoods and strappy chunky shoes, and the young men sported fedoras and loud sport shirts.
But it wasn't only young people dancing. WWII vets and their wives glided around the dance floor, gracefully following each other's rhythmic moves as they had been doing for a lifetime. My favorite was an Italian-looking older man with a silver pompadour and a sport shirt and slacks set in butter yellow trimmed in black, and his wife, with her lacquered hair and pastel pantsuit, expertly making their moves on the dance floor. At the end of each dance, they kissed. So sweet. (Big Man and I danced too, but we were not as expert and graceful in those old dances as the old folks were.)
Figuring we weren't staying that long on that particular day (but we're definitely going back for an extended visit of several hours to do the place justice), we did not buy tickets for the museum itself. But we did enjoy several exhibits on view in the main area where the concert was, and just off it in the hallways to the gift shop (of course we have to go in the gift shop!) and the coffee shop at the back.
Near the restrooms, there was an exhibit of photographs and other material about American GIs in German POW camps. There were the shots you'd expect, of gaunt men standing in rows to be inspected, of the flimsy huts in which they lived out their captivity, of a Red Cross visit to a camp bringing extra rations, and so on. There was also a letter from the War Department to a family, letting them know their loved one had been confirmed as a POW in German hands, and a graphic layout of such a camp. But there was also a hauntingly strange and beautiful black and white photo of a scene from a musical, as put on by American prisoners in a POW camp. One young man was dressed as the heroine in what looked like a straw wig, and was leaning over the railing of the stage set (stage set?) toward the hero. We could hardly tear ourselves away from it.
There was another free exhibit just outside the theater that shows the museum's special films (such as "The War in the Pacific" which we saw that afternoon), with art work by a man who had lied about his age to get into the army and thus came to war and combat at the tender age of 16. The paintings were raw and graphic and colorful, and extremely powerful and affecting -- and hard to look at.
We definitely recommend the D-Day Museum, and next year will schedule the D-Day Commemoration festival on our calendar!
The day was hot and sunny, but not so uncomfortable that we didn't want to join the families and individuals across the street from the main museum complex where a group of World War II equipment (a typical GI tent complete with weapons, cot and personal items; a doctor's jeep; a German missile launcher; and an American tank, with wooden "Hershey chocolate" boxes lashed to the outside) had been set up with docents costumed in World War II garb. Very interesting, especially to small boys, their dads, and of course to Big Man. We spent some quality time there (me sweating bullets -- it was so hot and the sun beat down so hard, I took Big Man's straw hat away from him and wore it myself) before going inside the museum (blessedly air-conditioned).
To our delight, the big open atrium of the museum, with the World War II planes hanging from wires down from the ceiling, had been turned into a concert space, with folding chairs set up in rows. A big band was playing World War II music, from the theme songs of all the military services ("The Marine Hymn," "Anchors Aweigh," and so on), to the favorite dance music of GIs and their girls. Each song was introduced with a lot of information and hints, and those in the audience who shouted out the title were rewarded with -- what else? -- Hershey bars. It was all the songs you'd expect: "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree," "Over There," "Little Brown Jug," "String of Pearls," "Pennsylvania 65000," "In the Mood," "Chattanooga Choo-Choo" and on and on. Big Man kept exclaiming over the high musicianship and great arrangements of the band, made up almost exclusively of older guys.
The emcee pointed out the big open area in front of the band and told everyone it was a dance floor, and meant to be used. The crowd needed little encouragement, and stepped out to dance in the old way. There were young couples dressed in their interpretation of World War II civvy-style: the young women had on hair snoods and strappy chunky shoes, and the young men sported fedoras and loud sport shirts.
But it wasn't only young people dancing. WWII vets and their wives glided around the dance floor, gracefully following each other's rhythmic moves as they had been doing for a lifetime. My favorite was an Italian-looking older man with a silver pompadour and a sport shirt and slacks set in butter yellow trimmed in black, and his wife, with her lacquered hair and pastel pantsuit, expertly making their moves on the dance floor. At the end of each dance, they kissed. So sweet. (Big Man and I danced too, but we were not as expert and graceful in those old dances as the old folks were.)
Figuring we weren't staying that long on that particular day (but we're definitely going back for an extended visit of several hours to do the place justice), we did not buy tickets for the museum itself. But we did enjoy several exhibits on view in the main area where the concert was, and just off it in the hallways to the gift shop (of course we have to go in the gift shop!) and the coffee shop at the back.
Near the restrooms, there was an exhibit of photographs and other material about American GIs in German POW camps. There were the shots you'd expect, of gaunt men standing in rows to be inspected, of the flimsy huts in which they lived out their captivity, of a Red Cross visit to a camp bringing extra rations, and so on. There was also a letter from the War Department to a family, letting them know their loved one had been confirmed as a POW in German hands, and a graphic layout of such a camp. But there was also a hauntingly strange and beautiful black and white photo of a scene from a musical, as put on by American prisoners in a POW camp. One young man was dressed as the heroine in what looked like a straw wig, and was leaning over the railing of the stage set (stage set?) toward the hero. We could hardly tear ourselves away from it.
There was another free exhibit just outside the theater that shows the museum's special films (such as "The War in the Pacific" which we saw that afternoon), with art work by a man who had lied about his age to get into the army and thus came to war and combat at the tender age of 16. The paintings were raw and graphic and colorful, and extremely powerful and affecting -- and hard to look at.
We definitely recommend the D-Day Museum, and next year will schedule the D-Day Commemoration festival on our calendar!
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Serving at Ozanam Inn
Last Sunday, members and friends of the three New Orleans-area congregations of our denomination joined together for the first-ever shared service project. In an inspired choice for more than one reason (see next blog post), it was decided that our inaugural effort would be to serve a meal to the homeless at Ozanam Inn.
Ozanam Inn has a long and distinguished history in New Orleans. You might say it started way back in 1911 by a priest who opened a facility for homeless and jobless men in a rented space in the *Lower Pontalba Building* on Jackson Square -- at a time when the French Quarter was still a neighborhood of immigrants and poor and working class people. From that beginning, it evolved into St. Vincent's Hotel and Free Labor Bureau, which had two more addresses over time: 615 Decatur and 411 North Rampart (next door to Our Lady of Guadalupe). With the deaths of its founding priests, and a shift in attention toward young men and boys (in order, it was thought, to forestall the causes of homeless and jobless men), St. Vincent's lost drive and eventually closed. Other institutions with similar purposes arose to take its place: the Baptist Mission, the Salvation Army, and the Volunteers of America.
By the early 1950s it was clear that New Orleans had not met capacity on services to the homeless in the Central Business District. In those days, both ships and trains serviced the port, and it was common for indigent men to jump ship or hop a freight to get to the warmer cities of the South. Looking for handouts, they often gravitated toward historic St. Patrick's Cathedral, which for over a hundred years was the tallest spire visible from the downtown levee. Priests at St. Patrick's daily dealt with dozens of homeless men, and Lafayette Square, across from City Hall, became filled with men sleeping under the trees and in the park benches.
In the spring of 1952, a group of some 300 Vincentians, gathered for a meeting at the Old Druids' Home at 843 Camp Street, and were challenged by one of their number to find a way to help the scores of "hungry, homeless, hapless and helpless" men they could see every day in the neighborhood. Discussion ensued, but no action was taken.
Two years later, the pastor of St. Patrick's met with the owner of rooming house just purchased at 829 Camp Street. Since its erection in 1903, the building had served as a gathering spot for officers of both the Naval and later the Marine Reserves, and in World War II had been the headquarters of the U.S. Shore Patrol. After the war, it had housed a music school. Most recently, it had been purchased by Loyola University as a possible home for its new TV studios, but it had sold the property after deciding to locate WWL in the French Quarter instead. The new owner was amenable to leasing it at low cost to the Order of St. Vincent, but it took 2 more years of negotiations to work out all the details.
When the newly refurbished inn opened in Spring of 1955, it was decided to name it after the founder of the Order of St. Vincent de Paul, Frederick Ozanam. Word spread rapidly on the streets that there was now a safe and clean place for men to stay, get a shower and hot meal, and be counseled for more productive lives. There was never a lack for clients.
In 1961, Ozanam moved into the very building where the first discussions had taken place for its founding, at the Old Druids' Home at 843 Camp Street, where it is located today. Its mission remains the same: to provide compassionate care in the form of housing, food, and counseling to those without means, without homes, often without education, even without hope.
In order to do this, Ozanam Inn seeks donations of money, food, and volunteers. Our group (made up of about two and a half dozen people representing all three congreations, plus the two ministers) was set to serve -- but not prepare -- the midday Sunday meal, which is the main meal of the day. (In the evenings, they serve the overnight residents cold sandwiches.) We arrived at 1:30 pm and were soon briefed on what needed to happen.
Many hands make light work, and there were assignments for everybody, no matter their age. Two or three greeted at the entry door and counted the people to be served using little "clickers." A group of six, including Big Man and I, stood in the serving line off the kitchen and made sure each tray had a piece of chicken, two slices of bread, a doughnut, a scoop of mac and cheese, and a scoop of carrots or salad. Two more people put out the silverware and the glasses for each tray. Then there were folks wiping down the tables, and helping to bus the tables and sweeping the floor. (And some were taking photos to record the event!) After close to two hours, more than 160 hungry people had enjoyed a hot Sunday dinner. The first person in line was an older African-American lady with an amputated leg in a wheelchair.
It was a tremendous experience for our group of church folks, aged from wise elder to an outgoing boy of about 8. We felt good about contributing to this effort to bring comfort and health to men and women who spend their days on the streets and their nights in shelter (if they're lucky). We look forward to our next community outreach project.
Ozanam Inn has a long and distinguished history in New Orleans. You might say it started way back in 1911 by a priest who opened a facility for homeless and jobless men in a rented space in the *Lower Pontalba Building* on Jackson Square -- at a time when the French Quarter was still a neighborhood of immigrants and poor and working class people. From that beginning, it evolved into St. Vincent's Hotel and Free Labor Bureau, which had two more addresses over time: 615 Decatur and 411 North Rampart (next door to Our Lady of Guadalupe). With the deaths of its founding priests, and a shift in attention toward young men and boys (in order, it was thought, to forestall the causes of homeless and jobless men), St. Vincent's lost drive and eventually closed. Other institutions with similar purposes arose to take its place: the Baptist Mission, the Salvation Army, and the Volunteers of America.
By the early 1950s it was clear that New Orleans had not met capacity on services to the homeless in the Central Business District. In those days, both ships and trains serviced the port, and it was common for indigent men to jump ship or hop a freight to get to the warmer cities of the South. Looking for handouts, they often gravitated toward historic St. Patrick's Cathedral, which for over a hundred years was the tallest spire visible from the downtown levee. Priests at St. Patrick's daily dealt with dozens of homeless men, and Lafayette Square, across from City Hall, became filled with men sleeping under the trees and in the park benches.
In the spring of 1952, a group of some 300 Vincentians, gathered for a meeting at the Old Druids' Home at 843 Camp Street, and were challenged by one of their number to find a way to help the scores of "hungry, homeless, hapless and helpless" men they could see every day in the neighborhood. Discussion ensued, but no action was taken.
Two years later, the pastor of St. Patrick's met with the owner of rooming house just purchased at 829 Camp Street. Since its erection in 1903, the building had served as a gathering spot for officers of both the Naval and later the Marine Reserves, and in World War II had been the headquarters of the U.S. Shore Patrol. After the war, it had housed a music school. Most recently, it had been purchased by Loyola University as a possible home for its new TV studios, but it had sold the property after deciding to locate WWL in the French Quarter instead. The new owner was amenable to leasing it at low cost to the Order of St. Vincent, but it took 2 more years of negotiations to work out all the details.
When the newly refurbished inn opened in Spring of 1955, it was decided to name it after the founder of the Order of St. Vincent de Paul, Frederick Ozanam. Word spread rapidly on the streets that there was now a safe and clean place for men to stay, get a shower and hot meal, and be counseled for more productive lives. There was never a lack for clients.
In 1961, Ozanam moved into the very building where the first discussions had taken place for its founding, at the Old Druids' Home at 843 Camp Street, where it is located today. Its mission remains the same: to provide compassionate care in the form of housing, food, and counseling to those without means, without homes, often without education, even without hope.
In order to do this, Ozanam Inn seeks donations of money, food, and volunteers. Our group (made up of about two and a half dozen people representing all three congreations, plus the two ministers) was set to serve -- but not prepare -- the midday Sunday meal, which is the main meal of the day. (In the evenings, they serve the overnight residents cold sandwiches.) We arrived at 1:30 pm and were soon briefed on what needed to happen.
Many hands make light work, and there were assignments for everybody, no matter their age. Two or three greeted at the entry door and counted the people to be served using little "clickers." A group of six, including Big Man and I, stood in the serving line off the kitchen and made sure each tray had a piece of chicken, two slices of bread, a doughnut, a scoop of mac and cheese, and a scoop of carrots or salad. Two more people put out the silverware and the glasses for each tray. Then there were folks wiping down the tables, and helping to bus the tables and sweeping the floor. (And some were taking photos to record the event!) After close to two hours, more than 160 hungry people had enjoyed a hot Sunday dinner. The first person in line was an older African-American lady with an amputated leg in a wheelchair.
It was a tremendous experience for our group of church folks, aged from wise elder to an outgoing boy of about 8. We felt good about contributing to this effort to bring comfort and health to men and women who spend their days on the streets and their nights in shelter (if they're lucky). We look forward to our next community outreach project.
Wednesdays at the Square Concerts
The Wednesdays at the Square concert series is, sadly, coming to a close. Starting in April and ending in June, this series of free concerts in the late afternoon/early evenings on "hump day" at Lafayette Square across from Gallier Hall (and where, many years ago, my family used to spend Mardi Gras day, back before the Federal Court building was erected) brings out the wide variety of music- and food-loving New Orleanians -- black and white and brown and yellow retirees, Baby Boomers, bikers, professionals, young adults, teens, and babies in strollers (and dogs! Big Man loves to pet all the different dogs at the concerts).
The tradition of the concerts began before Katrina and seems even more popular now, as a celebration of what makes New Orleans unique and wonderful, and as an early start to the weekend. (Only in New Orleans can the weekend start on a Wednesday!) It's great for the local musicians, the concerts being early enough that the musicians can get to a night gig afterward, and thus be paid twice on the same day.
Local restaurants and caterers set up little booths and sell small portions of delicious food and drinks at reasonable prices, using tickets instead of money, and so providing a steady stream of income for the sponsors of the series, the Young Leadership Council (YLC), who took over the concerts after Katrina, when the former sponsor, the Downtown Development District, had to concentrate helping businesses to survive in the post-Storm environment. There are also arts and craft booths, selling locally-themed items such as photographs, replicas of famous or infamous New Orleans buildings and signs, fleur de lis jewelry, etc.
Some people bring chairs and blankets, other stand, some sit on improvised seats, such as the steps surrounding the statues of Lafayette and John McDonough that adorn the park; still others "cruise" the square, meeting and greeting friends and family and enjoying the people-watching (and yes, the pretty woman-watching. Big Man says that per capita New Orleans has more home-grown pretty women than any other city in America.)
There's two more concerts to go, one tonight with the big horn band the Boogie Men, and the last one next week with the double bill of the Hot 8 Brass Band and Galactic, but it'll all be somewhat anti-climatic after last week's blow-out with Trombone Shorty and his band Orleans Avenue. Now, THAT was a show! (Troy pretty much reprised his set from Jazz Fest, but it did not seem like a repeat of anything, just pure musicianship and entertainment.)
I understand the many reasons why the series has to end in June -- it gets way too hot, for one thing, and I'm sure it's very expensive to produce, and so many local musicians go on tour in the summer, to get away from the slow season. But I'm always sorry when the series draws to a close.
The tradition of the concerts began before Katrina and seems even more popular now, as a celebration of what makes New Orleans unique and wonderful, and as an early start to the weekend. (Only in New Orleans can the weekend start on a Wednesday!) It's great for the local musicians, the concerts being early enough that the musicians can get to a night gig afterward, and thus be paid twice on the same day.
Local restaurants and caterers set up little booths and sell small portions of delicious food and drinks at reasonable prices, using tickets instead of money, and so providing a steady stream of income for the sponsors of the series, the Young Leadership Council (YLC), who took over the concerts after Katrina, when the former sponsor, the Downtown Development District, had to concentrate helping businesses to survive in the post-Storm environment. There are also arts and craft booths, selling locally-themed items such as photographs, replicas of famous or infamous New Orleans buildings and signs, fleur de lis jewelry, etc.
Some people bring chairs and blankets, other stand, some sit on improvised seats, such as the steps surrounding the statues of Lafayette and John McDonough that adorn the park; still others "cruise" the square, meeting and greeting friends and family and enjoying the people-watching (and yes, the pretty woman-watching. Big Man says that per capita New Orleans has more home-grown pretty women than any other city in America.)
There's two more concerts to go, one tonight with the big horn band the Boogie Men, and the last one next week with the double bill of the Hot 8 Brass Band and Galactic, but it'll all be somewhat anti-climatic after last week's blow-out with Trombone Shorty and his band Orleans Avenue. Now, THAT was a show! (Troy pretty much reprised his set from Jazz Fest, but it did not seem like a repeat of anything, just pure musicianship and entertainment.)
I understand the many reasons why the series has to end in June -- it gets way too hot, for one thing, and I'm sure it's very expensive to produce, and so many local musicians go on tour in the summer, to get away from the slow season. But I'm always sorry when the series draws to a close.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
It's Creole Tomato Season!
Big Man and I are planning a short little trip to Florida to stay with my brother and sister-in-law (yes, where we spent our "hurrication" during Hurricane Gustav last year), and I asked what we could bring. My sister-in-law immediately said, "Creole tomatoes, if you can find them." My brother really loves them, and you can't get them in Florida.
Creole tomato season is upon us once again, with the annual Creole Tomato Festival (blogged about last year) scheduled for two weeks from now. You have to be careful in the stores, watching for the little stickers that say "Creole Tomato" and the name of a particular farm, and not accidentally pick up regular, old, almost-tasteless tomatoes. The ones I found today at Breaux Mart were from a farmer named Liuzza, and all I can say is, "Thank you, Mr. Liuzza!!"
As soon as I got home, I set the Creoles into a pan for safe travel across pieces of four states, but kept one out. I sliced that baby up into thick slabs, slathered Blue Plate mayo onto good bread, set the slices on, sprinkled sea salt on top, and sat down to fully enjoy one of Nature's wonders -- a Creole tomato sandwich.
Oh my God. Maybe we'll swing by Breaux Mart or the French Market on the way to Florida tomorrow afternoon after church. I totally think we did not buy enough.
Creole tomato season is upon us once again, with the annual Creole Tomato Festival (blogged about last year) scheduled for two weeks from now. You have to be careful in the stores, watching for the little stickers that say "Creole Tomato" and the name of a particular farm, and not accidentally pick up regular, old, almost-tasteless tomatoes. The ones I found today at Breaux Mart were from a farmer named Liuzza, and all I can say is, "Thank you, Mr. Liuzza!!"
As soon as I got home, I set the Creoles into a pan for safe travel across pieces of four states, but kept one out. I sliced that baby up into thick slabs, slathered Blue Plate mayo onto good bread, set the slices on, sprinkled sea salt on top, and sat down to fully enjoy one of Nature's wonders -- a Creole tomato sandwich.
Oh my God. Maybe we'll swing by Breaux Mart or the French Market on the way to Florida tomorrow afternoon after church. I totally think we did not buy enough.
"Shotgun" at the Southern Rep
On Thursday night, after a lovely dinner at Eleven-79 (one of the best Italian restaurants in the city), I went with three of my four sisters -- all of the local ones, missing only my sister in Minnesota -- to the Southern Rep Theater in Canal Place to see the second part of a projected Katrina trilogy by local playwright John Biguenot. (The author's surname occasioned some discussion amongst the sisters on correct pronunciation; apparently Southenr rep is of two minds about it as well, since two different employees said it two different ways.)
The first play, "Rising Water," was set on a rooftop during the aftermath of Katrina, and ran to rave reviews. I did not see that play, but the other sisters did -- however, they could not agree on whether or not there had been actual water surrounding the rooftop set. Even if there were no real water, it seems clear that the play was so well written and so well acted that certain audience members went away with at least a memory of water.
"Shotgun" is set in December 2005, after the storm, and continues into several months of 2006. Beau (Rus Blackwell), a white man from Gentilly and Eugene, his surly PTSD son (played so well by young Alex Lemonier that I wanted to smack him for his rudeness and unrelenting bad behavior), come to rent half a one-bedroom shotgun house in Algiers from the owner, a black Creole woman named Mattie Godchaux (Donna Duplantier). Mattie's father, Dexter Godchaux (Lance Nichols), lost his home and all his belongings in the Lower Ninth Ward in the Flood, and has also lost his livelihood, since the machinist shop where he worked did not reopen after the Storm, and is now living with Mattie, sleeping on the couch in the living room.
Mattie is desperate to keep her house and is happy to find renters, and Beau is glad to find a place to live. But both Dex and Eugene are dubious about the arrangement. The old man wants to keep the boundaries between neighborhoods and the races that existed before the Storm. Eugene wants his whole life -- his dead mother, the house that flooded, his old school -- to go back to the way things were before. There's a fifth character, a black man from the neighborhood, Clarence Williams (Kenneth Brown, Jr.), who has known the Godchaux family a long time and is doing the "scuffle" in order to keep his head above water (metaphorically).
I can't say much more about the play without giving away key points, but I can tell you that the play is engaging and absorbing. Things are gotten "right" -- the way New Orleans folks really talk, how people were immediately after the Storm, the tangled feelings, and mixed-up neighborhoods. The actors are all believable and sink into their parts. It makes you laugh knowingly, nod your head, and even tear up occasionally.
I totally recommend you go see this play, and look for the other two plays in this trilogy.
The first play, "Rising Water," was set on a rooftop during the aftermath of Katrina, and ran to rave reviews. I did not see that play, but the other sisters did -- however, they could not agree on whether or not there had been actual water surrounding the rooftop set. Even if there were no real water, it seems clear that the play was so well written and so well acted that certain audience members went away with at least a memory of water.
"Shotgun" is set in December 2005, after the storm, and continues into several months of 2006. Beau (Rus Blackwell), a white man from Gentilly and Eugene, his surly PTSD son (played so well by young Alex Lemonier that I wanted to smack him for his rudeness and unrelenting bad behavior), come to rent half a one-bedroom shotgun house in Algiers from the owner, a black Creole woman named Mattie Godchaux (Donna Duplantier). Mattie's father, Dexter Godchaux (Lance Nichols), lost his home and all his belongings in the Lower Ninth Ward in the Flood, and has also lost his livelihood, since the machinist shop where he worked did not reopen after the Storm, and is now living with Mattie, sleeping on the couch in the living room.
Mattie is desperate to keep her house and is happy to find renters, and Beau is glad to find a place to live. But both Dex and Eugene are dubious about the arrangement. The old man wants to keep the boundaries between neighborhoods and the races that existed before the Storm. Eugene wants his whole life -- his dead mother, the house that flooded, his old school -- to go back to the way things were before. There's a fifth character, a black man from the neighborhood, Clarence Williams (Kenneth Brown, Jr.), who has known the Godchaux family a long time and is doing the "scuffle" in order to keep his head above water (metaphorically).
I can't say much more about the play without giving away key points, but I can tell you that the play is engaging and absorbing. Things are gotten "right" -- the way New Orleans folks really talk, how people were immediately after the Storm, the tangled feelings, and mixed-up neighborhoods. The actors are all believable and sink into their parts. It makes you laugh knowingly, nod your head, and even tear up occasionally.
I totally recommend you go see this play, and look for the other two plays in this trilogy.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Being Greek for Two Out of Three Days
The Greek Fest sponsored by Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Cathedral and the local Greek community was held last weekend. As happened last year, the Greek Fest coincided with the Bayou St. John Bayou Boogaloo festival, so hard choices had to be made. (Although the energetic and the enterprising could have squeezed in both, at least theoretically. The Times-Picayune suggested renting canoes at the Greek Fest and then paddling your way to the Boogaloo -- I don't know how many people actually did that though.)
Big Man had a gig at the Boogaloo with Russell Batiste's band on Saturday, with requirements to arrive at least an hour early, so that meant no Greek Fest for us on that day. Since (loyal readers of this blog may recall) last year we missed the roast lamb-on-a-spit by going to the Greek Fest on the Sunday, we were determined not to miss out this year. And so, with this in mind, we arrived at the Greek Fest on Friday within a few minutes of the gates opening for the first time. (We were so early that they hadn't put the rock-climbing wall upright yet!) We were happy to be among the first in line to get our pound of roast lamb (and then another pound to take home.)
All three days of the Greek Fest (sign out front: "Be Greek for Three Days!") were heavily overcast with grey and even black clouds, but it never did rain much (there was some misting or drizzling on Sunday evening, but that was it), but as many folks know, festivals with clouds are the best ones. The Greek community had done a little rearranging of the festival layout, and completely eliminated the Porta-Potties, electing to go with the luxury model air conditioned trailer with flush toilets and running water sinks --a good decision! Those folks keep the extensive lawn of the church grounds in excellent shape -- full, lush, and thick, it's like a comfortable green carpet. The view on the bayou was sweet, and there were ample breezes. Really lovely festival weather.
The people-watching was superb. In addition to the attractive members of the Greek Orthodox community, of all ages and genders, there were African-Americans and Latinos and Indian-Americans and white of all kinds. It was like a virtual festival United Nations. Sunday was especially fun, since it had been advertised that folks in "family-friendly" togas would get in free, and be eligible for a Toga Contest. There were some sights, believe you me! We saw the woman who won, an older lady of apparent Greek lineage, whose elegant and tasteful toga made her into a goddess. We gave her props for sure.
In addition to the fabulous succulent roast lamb, there was also fried calamari with feta cheese, feta fries (French fries with feta), souvlaki, gyros, and a full Greek dinner with 3 courses. (Good trick: on Sunday evening, as the festival draws to a close, the ladies in the cafeteria line really heap your plate, just piling it up, all for the same reasonable price.) There was a wealth of Greek and American alcohol to imbibe (judging from all the empty ouzo bottles in the trash, there were lots of hangovers round the city), pomegranate iced tea (yum!), fresh lemonade, sodas, Greek coffee (iced and hot). For dessert, there were booths selling Greek pastries, either singly or in "express boxes" with a nice assortment. There was also a killer baklava sundae (like baklava NEEDS ice cream and chocolate syrup, right?) and something they were calling "Greek beignets" covered in Greek honey. (A kids area had snowballs and hot dogs, but that doesn't really count.)
Inside the community center, past the cafeteria, a Greek grocery store had been created. Six kinds of Greek cheeses were available (we bought five), along with pitas and Greek loaf breads, olives, frozen trays of homemade Greek entrees to take home, eggplant, feta, and fish rose dips in plastic containers, orzo mixes, Greek salad olive oil, salad dressing, and (yum!) Greek honey infused with pear. There were natural sponges from off the coast of Greece for your bath, and wonderful hard-milled soaps made of Greek olive oil. There was also canned goods and pottery. You could've spent a fortune in there, but we managed to escape with about $40 worth of groceries, money well spent.
Booths around the periphery of the festival grounds sold art, jewelry, candles, perfume, religious icons, clothing for both sexes and for children, and the ubiquitous belly-dancer scarves with the jangly border of tiny faux coins. (They must've sold a ton of those, since every woman under the age of 40 had apparently bought one and immediately tied it around her hips.)
The Greek group Alpha-Omega displayed great musicianship and sense of style, and huge numbers of people, both Greek and non-Greek, were dancing in the dance floor area in front of the stage. Giant speakers were set up around the grounds, so that the music was everywhere.
Friday we had been kind of rushed, since Big Man had to get to Bourbon Street for his regular gig, but Sunday afternoon and evening there was no rush. It was a sweet to be there, with the other New Orleanians turning Greek for one weekend, eating ourselves silly, enjoying music, and watching the interesting and attractive people go by.
On the edge of Bayou St. John, under a large oak, someone had set up a giant soft electric light in a paper globe lantern. As the sun went down and the sky darkened, it was like a lovely full moon dipping down to light the ending of the festival.
Big Man had a gig at the Boogaloo with Russell Batiste's band on Saturday, with requirements to arrive at least an hour early, so that meant no Greek Fest for us on that day. Since (loyal readers of this blog may recall) last year we missed the roast lamb-on-a-spit by going to the Greek Fest on the Sunday, we were determined not to miss out this year. And so, with this in mind, we arrived at the Greek Fest on Friday within a few minutes of the gates opening for the first time. (We were so early that they hadn't put the rock-climbing wall upright yet!) We were happy to be among the first in line to get our pound of roast lamb (and then another pound to take home.)
All three days of the Greek Fest (sign out front: "Be Greek for Three Days!") were heavily overcast with grey and even black clouds, but it never did rain much (there was some misting or drizzling on Sunday evening, but that was it), but as many folks know, festivals with clouds are the best ones. The Greek community had done a little rearranging of the festival layout, and completely eliminated the Porta-Potties, electing to go with the luxury model air conditioned trailer with flush toilets and running water sinks --a good decision! Those folks keep the extensive lawn of the church grounds in excellent shape -- full, lush, and thick, it's like a comfortable green carpet. The view on the bayou was sweet, and there were ample breezes. Really lovely festival weather.
The people-watching was superb. In addition to the attractive members of the Greek Orthodox community, of all ages and genders, there were African-Americans and Latinos and Indian-Americans and white of all kinds. It was like a virtual festival United Nations. Sunday was especially fun, since it had been advertised that folks in "family-friendly" togas would get in free, and be eligible for a Toga Contest. There were some sights, believe you me! We saw the woman who won, an older lady of apparent Greek lineage, whose elegant and tasteful toga made her into a goddess. We gave her props for sure.
In addition to the fabulous succulent roast lamb, there was also fried calamari with feta cheese, feta fries (French fries with feta), souvlaki, gyros, and a full Greek dinner with 3 courses. (Good trick: on Sunday evening, as the festival draws to a close, the ladies in the cafeteria line really heap your plate, just piling it up, all for the same reasonable price.) There was a wealth of Greek and American alcohol to imbibe (judging from all the empty ouzo bottles in the trash, there were lots of hangovers round the city), pomegranate iced tea (yum!), fresh lemonade, sodas, Greek coffee (iced and hot). For dessert, there were booths selling Greek pastries, either singly or in "express boxes" with a nice assortment. There was also a killer baklava sundae (like baklava NEEDS ice cream and chocolate syrup, right?) and something they were calling "Greek beignets" covered in Greek honey. (A kids area had snowballs and hot dogs, but that doesn't really count.)
Inside the community center, past the cafeteria, a Greek grocery store had been created. Six kinds of Greek cheeses were available (we bought five), along with pitas and Greek loaf breads, olives, frozen trays of homemade Greek entrees to take home, eggplant, feta, and fish rose dips in plastic containers, orzo mixes, Greek salad olive oil, salad dressing, and (yum!) Greek honey infused with pear. There were natural sponges from off the coast of Greece for your bath, and wonderful hard-milled soaps made of Greek olive oil. There was also canned goods and pottery. You could've spent a fortune in there, but we managed to escape with about $40 worth of groceries, money well spent.
Booths around the periphery of the festival grounds sold art, jewelry, candles, perfume, religious icons, clothing for both sexes and for children, and the ubiquitous belly-dancer scarves with the jangly border of tiny faux coins. (They must've sold a ton of those, since every woman under the age of 40 had apparently bought one and immediately tied it around her hips.)
The Greek group Alpha-Omega displayed great musicianship and sense of style, and huge numbers of people, both Greek and non-Greek, were dancing in the dance floor area in front of the stage. Giant speakers were set up around the grounds, so that the music was everywhere.
Friday we had been kind of rushed, since Big Man had to get to Bourbon Street for his regular gig, but Sunday afternoon and evening there was no rush. It was a sweet to be there, with the other New Orleanians turning Greek for one weekend, eating ourselves silly, enjoying music, and watching the interesting and attractive people go by.
On the edge of Bayou St. John, under a large oak, someone had set up a giant soft electric light in a paper globe lantern. As the sun went down and the sky darkened, it was like a lovely full moon dipping down to light the ending of the festival.
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