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.
Monday, September 14, 2009
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.
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