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.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
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.
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