Holy Thursday at Dooky Chase

Maundy, or Holy, Thursday arrived as a gorgeous spring day, with cloudless skies, and temperatures expected to go to the high 70s. First thing I heard was the sound of a brass marching band, and I went out the house dressed in only a caftan to see what was going on. A school band was marching pretty sharply, in school uniforms, NOT band uniforms, with adults and children marching behind them, carrying signs which I was too far away to read. (And clad only in a caftan, I was not about to get any closer!) Not sure which school it was, but I suspect it was the International School and not St. Michael's Special School. As I walked back to the house, I thought, "Thank God I live in New Orleans, where a neighborhood parade is a fairly normal thing."

Another part of the day to give thanks for living in New Orleans is Ms. Leah Chase's annual serving of green gumbo or "gumbo dezherbes" for Holy Thursday. An old Creole tradition for the end of Lent, it involves 7 meats and 7 different kinds of greens to form a thick, rich gumbo served over rice. Dooky Chase Restaurant in the Tremé is always packed for this event, and today was no exception.

With a little difficulty navigating the construction on Orleans Avenue, and an even bigger challenge in finding parking, we made it shortly before 12 noon. Of course, there was a line waiting for a table, but we were "privilege characters" (as my Mama used to say) with an invitation to a private party hosted by my old friend RJH in the old Dooky's dining room, now called the Gold Room.

All of the servers were hopping, overtaxed by the huge crowd. In the far room, I could get glimpses of Ms. Leah, in a bright green "Holy Thursday at Dooky Chase" T-shirt. (I want one, and I hardly ever wear T-shirts!) There was so many people wanting to speak to her, she moved through the packed dining rooms like a politician or celebrity, or like a saint! touching a shoulder, shaking a hand, bussing a cheek, exchanging snippets of conversation as she made her slow way around.

There was supposed to be 20 people at RJH's green gumbo party, but of course more showed up, so Ms. Leah's twin grandsons, who work as waiters, carried in 2 more tables and settings. I was seated between Mrs. Sybil Morial, widow of one former mayor and mother of another, and local civil rights activist attorney BR. Others in the room included local judges, candidates for office, civil servants, and political operatives, as well as RJH family members.

We were served "Arnold Palmers" -- a mix of half lemonade and half iced tea -- and soon the gumbo dezherbes arrived, each bowl seemingly carefully apportioned with bits of the 7 meats: hot sausage, smoked sausage, andouille, chicken, veal, beef, and ham. We kvetched that we wanted bread (or more bread, as one end of the long table had gotten hot garlic bread slices and promptly scarfed it all up), and young Dooky patted me on the shoulder as he flew by, "Coming, it's coming!"

Soon he and another server were back with platters of corn bread squares, which we fell on with gusto. They were warm and rich and sweet, needing no butter (although I bet Big Man wanted some but was too polite to say so!). This would have been good enough -- more than good enough -- but then young Dooky swept back in, carrying 2 heavy platters of hot fried chicken. "I had to sneak this outa the kitchen," he grinned. We squealed and oohed and aahed, grabbing at the hot chicken, dropping it quickly on our plates, our fingers nearly burned.

What sublime chicken! I mean, it was perfect! The skin golden brown and as crispy as hot popcorn, the meat inside tender and juicy. I know the New York Times calls the fried chicken at Willa Mae's (around the corner from Dooky's) the best in the country, but Big Man and I can see only a hairbreadth's difference between them. I'm sorry to confess that I had *2* pieces of that exquisite chicken, and ended with a piece of garlic bread.

We made our farewells around the table, and then came out into the main dining room -- where who do we see but the current Mayor of New Orleans, in the very worst table in the place, a tiny TV-tray sized thing, barely big enough for one but with the mayor and guest squeezed at it, up against the wall. (That table is so small that normally it is only used as a station for water pitchers.) What better indication could you have of the estimation of Ms. Leah, that this is where the outgoing mayor ended up??