Remembering Wardell Quezergue

I tried several times to write about the great Wardell Quezergue (and nobody should EVER say or write his name ever again without putting "the great" in front of it) after learning of his death on September 6, but found myself stymied by having far too much to say. Let's just stipulate that if you love New Orleans rhythm & blues of the 1940s, '50s, and '60s, especially the slew of hits churned out by Cosimo Matassa's J & M Studios, then you already are a fan of Wardell Quezergue (pronounced, for you outlanders, as "kuh-zhair") and you didn't even know it. If truth is told in the history of rock'n'roll, then someday Wardell will get credit for putting horns in rock.

Whenever some musician or other artist dies, people always say, "This was a genius" but it was really true in Wardell's case. He started off on trumpet, and played his first professional gigs as a teenager, but his real talents lay elsewhere. He was a composer and arranger par excellence, and apparently he heard music in his head all the time. Here's the kicker: he wrote all his songs and his Creole Mass and his horn charts and song arrangements using a tuning fork. I kid you not, he used a tuning fork, it's well known. Amazing.

If you seek a list of his credits, that won't be possible, because so many times back in the day he wasn't credited. But even what is available to be marveled at is more than impressive. One online discography put his output (albums, singles, and compilations) at over 200; for comparison, the list for another famous "Q" Quincy Jones is 157. The list of great bands and vocalist who worked with him sounds like a who's who of New Orleans -- and national -- music. (Indeed, at his funeral at Corpus Christi Catholic Church on September 12th, Big Man whispered to me that if anything untoward happened, music would be wiped out in the city and much of the country.)

Of the famous non-family members who were present at his service, Dr. John seemed the most choked up. Deacon John offered a sweet and funny remembrance. Many of us felt that the Neville Brothers and Allen Toussaint were conspicuous by their absence. (However, Cyrille Neville and his nephew Ivan Neville were there.) Since Big Man and I were sitting (with songwriter and poet Ron Cuccia, my son's parain, and the immortal author of "My Darlin' New Orleans") about the middle of the church, I couldn't see everyone, since it would have been rude for me to turn all the around and see who's sitting behind me, here's a partial list of the talent present at the service:

Dave Bartholemew (older even than Wardell and from his wheelchair, he actually played his trumpet for one tribute song)
Coco Robichaux (who performed some kind of voodoo ritual over the casket with an eagle wing)
Dave Torchinowski
Amasa Miller
Holley Bendtsen of the Pfister Sisters
Davell Crawford
Jo "Cool" Davis (who contributed several gospel tunes to the musical tribute)
Kermit Ruffins
Jean Knight
Dorothy Moore
Doc Paulin
Dooky Chase
Dooky Chase Jr.
Greg Kline of Bonerama

It was a beautiful, moving service, and we were glad to be there. (Big Man has all kinds of regrets that he never got a chance to work with Wardell.) Wardell's final opus will be released later this year, and I recommend everyone go out and buy it.

A nephew of Wardell's wrote a poem about his uncle, who in later years lost his eyesight due to complications from diabetes. It was called, "Close your eyes and see." So close your eyes, listen to some of Wardell's great recordings, and see what real genius sounds like.

We miss you already, Wardell.

After the Storm

Today is second day after Tropical Storm Lee blew through here, in a ragged series of bands that left open spaces of hours at a time when you could see sunshine and a bit of blue sky through all the grey clouds. Today, like yesterday, is a beautiful day, clear blue skies, no clouds, low humidity, sunshine, and temperatures in the 70s. Everyone is saying if every storm brought this kind of weather, we'd gladly have more storms. (Not really, but it's the kind of thing that folks say.)

It started raining on Thursday morning. I thought the rain and the coming storm would mean the cancellation -- once again -- of the Army Corps of Engineers New Orleans clergy tour of the improved flood system, but apparently the Corps was just as tired of canceling and rescheduling as clergy were. So we all climbed into the bus in the drizzle, and were driven first way out into New Orleans East, to view the new fortifications on Bayou Bienvenu. This involved climbing up a steep new levee, so new it had only grass seeds and no grass and, with all the rain, it was basically a mud levee. Everyone got back on the bus with caked-on river mud on their shoes. And if you've ever dealt with river mud, you know that stuff's not coming off, not any time soon, not without a LOT of effort. Pretty soon, that bus was looking pretty sorry.

The next stop was the gigantic hole in the waterway being worked on under the Seabrook Bridge. They evidently had to pump out millions and millions of gallons of water to get down under there. When they are finished constructing the underwater gate system, they will let the water back in by pulling up the temporary metal wall they sank in to hold it back while the work was going on. I sure would like to be there *that* day!

As the tour went on, the rain kept on coming down. At 4:30 pm, when they dropped us off back at the Lakeview Community Center, it was still lightly raining. (Not enough to clean off my shoes, I can tell you that.) That evening I attended an event for the Human Rights Coalition at Tulane University, and the story was the same -- steady, if somewhat light, rain fell the whole time. While I was there, I got an alert on my phone about Tropical Storm Lee and went home to discuss with Big Man our possible preparations.

Friday morning, it was raining pretty hard, and had rained all Thursday night. Big Man declined to move the patio furniture, thinking it wasn't that big of a deal wind-wise, but agreed to get emergency groceries to supplement our supplies. Yeah, us, and the rest of New Orleans. The Walmart parking lot was packed; it looked like they were giving stuff away, which of course they weren't. We continued on to Rouse's where the scene was somewhat better, but we found out why when we entered, dripping wet from the soaking we got.

Many of the shelves of storm-staples were already picked clean. White bread was nearly all gone -- luckily, we don't eat white bread, so there was still plenty of the whole-wheat, heavy-fiber stuff we eat. The battery aisle was picked clean; good thing I had already stocked up, mainly because our new battery storage cabinet makes me feel bad if there are too many empty spaces. Rouse's had just restocked the gallon water jugs, so we were OK there too, picking up another 3 to go with the one left over from the last storm stock-up. To get to the tuna fish cans that were left you had to reach back into the shelf, but we did find some there. We decided on 2 big bags of ice in case electricity went out and we needed to keep things cold. We also got some rawhide chews to help calm Keely our dog. (Storms make her nervous and nervous makes her chewy.)

It rained all of Friday, sometimes very hard indeed. Church leaders began discussions of whether or not to cancel services on Sunday. After all, our corner floods during heavy regular rains, let alone days and days of tropical storm. It rained all Friday night and was raining when we woke up on Saturday. Big Man made some phone calls as soon as he was up, fearing that the shrimp boil he was scheduled to pay for had been cancelled, but no, the house owner had decided it was Tropical Storm Lee and Labor Day Weekend Shrimp Boil, so it was still on. (Maybe he figured he had already bought the shrimp and all, so...) Meanwhile, I frantically made phone calls and emails, to alert church members and the public that the Sunday service was definitely cancelled.

The party was a strange affair. It was held in a recently renovated shotgun off Freret Street, with a makeshift deck covered with a tarp. The renovation was clearly done by a man, for men. For one thing, there were not enough electric outlets, the floor had been highly polyurethaned, like a gym floor (which I guess was helpful, because they had all the windows on the yard house open, and the floor was soaking wet), and the kitchen had a high eat-on counter made of recycled wood that had 2 things wrong with it: it was too high to prep on and it was unfinished on the underside (I know, 'cause I got a nasty splinter from it). Another sign of careless masculine-flavored renovation was the bathroom, with its shiny corrugated metal wall on one side, the multi-toned slate tile on the other walls and floor, the fancy bowl-type sink -- and the plain old regulation rub. And there was no lock on the bathroom door, really. (Really?)

The resident(s), whoever they were (it was never clear to me), had moved nearly all the living room furniture into the back bedroom to make room for the band, and so that's where they set up. It rained on and off all day (with the sun weirdly breaking through at one point as another one of the bands of Lee made it was across the city), but folks kept coming in and out, the windows wide open. The band got a break just as the first batch was done, and I have to say they were some of the biggest boiled shrimp I've ever had, even in a restaurant. They were well-seasoned too, and the boil included Manda's hot sausage (LOVE Manda's!), giant heads of garlic, lots of halved onions, stalks of celery, lemon halves, and corn on the cob (no new potatoes, though).

The band played from about 12:30 to a little after 5 pm (Big Man said that the horn was REALLY going to need cleaning after that, and it was TMI for me, UGH). The rain went back to hard teeming rain that evening, and pretty much rained all night, and all the next day, Sunday. Good thing we cancelled church. It then proceeded to rain all day Labor Day Monday as well.

We did not suffer. Except for a little blown rain around the upstairs dormer window, nothing leaked; our street didn't even flood as it sometimes does, and our electricity never went off. We were well-stocked, safe, and cozy, and we sure ate well. (I made stuffed merliton casserole with hot sausage, a meaty spaghetti sauce over angel hair pasta, and a beef and turkey meatloaf to try to work on that full freezer.) Some folks had more trouble than we did -- water on first floors in parts of Jefferson and Plaquemines Parishes, as well as on Madeville's lakefront; street flooding around the city in low-lying neighborhoods, and lots and lots of trees got "trimmed"by the storm, and some trees got knocked over. But all in all, all of us were lucky. Could've been a lot worse.

When Tuesday came up cool and beautiful, it was like a gift. And then today as well.

Fire in the Marshes

For several days now, everyone in the greater New Orleans area has been dealing with the smoke from the marsh fire way out in New Orleans East. Several things are working against us here -- one, it has been a drier than normal August; it seems like it's hardly rained at all since July (when it rained nearly every day). Two, the wind, whether influenced by Hurricane Irene or not, has been out of the northeast or east. And three, there's been a so-called "cold front" (don't you believe it) that has been pressing down on the city.

Thus, even though the brush fires (sparked, it is said, by lightning deep in the marsh) are far into the undeveloped area of New Orleans East, the smoke is being pushed over the whole city. In fact, Big Man and I went shopping on Monday out near Elmwood, which you might call New Orleans West, and the smoke was as dense and thick as if there were fires in Metairie. A parishioner of mine who went out on Tuesday morning to get her newspaper in her Uptown neighborhood (far to the south and west of the fires), at first thought one of her neighbors on Magazine Street might be burning, til she realized what it was.

Yesterday, it was so pervasive that I got a headache from working inside the church building. Several of my parishioners are coping with aggravated allergies, coughing and hacking. The local news media are full of stories urging all those respiratory ailments, the elderly and the very young to stay indoors for the duration. And the mayor called out the Air National Guard to water-bomb the fires, since downtown New Orleans had the visibility of like a foot in front of your face.

It's a little better today. We're all hoping for a big rainstorm, which they're predicting for this weekend. Keep your fingers crossed!

Kermit vs. Irwin

Last week Irvin Mayfield's Jazz Playhouse at the Royal Sonesta Hotel on Bourbon Street hosted a series of trumpet challenges to benefit local charities. The one to raise money for UNITY, the local umbrella organization for the homeless, was held on Wednesday evening. I promoted the event within the two congregations I serve, and Big Man and I made plans to attend, along with my sister L and her husband B.

We found free parking (with Big Man in the car, natch) only a few blocks away, though in the heat and humidity even just from Chartres to Bourbon seemed like a hike. We arrived in the lobby of the Sonesta at or near the time that had been advertised as when the doors would open, but of course everything was late. This is the kind of thing that used to drive Big Man absolutely nuts about New Orleans. (Once on his very first visit to the city, we waited more than an hour past the stated start time at Irma Thomas's old club in the pre-Katrina days. What really got to him was how nobody at the club seemed especially exercised about being so late.) My brother-in-law kept asking, 'Didn't they SAY they'd be open by now?" Well, yes, B, they did, but it doesn't mean anything.

About a half-hour past the "doors open" time, the doors did actually open. I asked the young man at the door about the seating policy, and he told me it was first-come, first-served for the available seating behind the reserved-only section in the very front that was for the folks who had paid $350 for the VIP tickets. I gave him my ticket and scooted past him to snag seats at the back corner banquette that faced the stage. The four of us ensconced ourselves there quite comfortably. As I've said before, I'm too old to stand the *the whole time* for a musical event.

We ordered drinks and B and L ordered from the surprisingly extensive and inexpensive (for the venue) menu (who knew?). L got the alligator sliders with thin onion rings and B got the bananas foster cheesecake. They shared these goodies with Big Man and I, and we all gave 'em a big thumbs-up.

Well, we're sitting there and sitting there and of course the show doesn't start at 8 pm. The place is really filling up, which is a good thing for UNITY, but it is tiresome waiting and not knowing when things will begin. (For those of you reading this, this is not meant to be representative of everything that goes on at Irvin Mayfield's Jazz Playhouse -- for all I know, they start strictly on time every single evening except for this one night. I don't really know, this was my first time there.)

Around 8:30 pm, Irvin and his band came out and they played a good set. If there were folks who thought it was simply going to be a trumpet battle, with Irvin and Kermit duking it out at the same time on the stage, then those folks were disappointed. Irvin and his combo did what seemed like a full set, with fast numbers and some ballads and some fine playing by Irvin, and also with Irvin doing some vocals. He seemed very relaxed and comfortable, which it seems he has gained over time, since there were certainly times in years past when he seemed technically great but very stiff and uncomfortable interacting with audiences.

Somewhere close to hour into Irvin's set, we saw from our vantage point near the door Kermit arriving, so obviously he hadn't been there earlier. Irvin called Troy Andrews, better known as Trombone Shorty, to the stage, and Shorty blew soulfully for a tune or two. Then Irvin came back on, and the set ended without Kermit taking the stage, and Irvin announcing there would be a break before Kermit came on. That just about did it for L and B, who are not late-night people, and who had thought they'd be seeing both trumpeters on-stage together from the git-go. (Plus, they said they would have enjoyed it more if Irvin had just blew and not sung. I enjoyed Irvin's vocals myself. Different strokes...) So they started calling for the check and asking me directions back to their car. (Geez, you go out the door of the Sonesta, turn left, take the first left, and go 2 blocks to Chartres and there you are. How hard is that?)

Big Man excused himself and came back a few minutes later from the Men's Room with a full report -- he had run into Kermit in there, and had asked him if he was still playing a Jupiter. (Jupiter was a company that used to make student horns almost exclusively, but had recently been manufacturing professional models. We had seen Kermit playing one in the recent past.) Kermit told Big Man someone had stolen his Jupiter, and that he had just gotten this new trumpet -- which he held out to Big Man to look at. To Big Man's utter amazement, it was a Harrelson trumpet. This is a super custom-made horn, with extra-heavy brackets and supposedly "ergonomic" finger rings. Damn things cost a veritable fortune, though not as much as a Monette (which custom brand both Irvin and Trombone Shorty usually play). Big Man said that Kermit was acting like he didn't know what he had, but who knows? Maybe he was just putting on a show for the trumpet groupie in the men's room. In any case, Kermit told Big Man he'd had it for all of like a half-hour, and had just had about 5 minutes worth of practice on it.

As a side light, just as a weird coincidence, Big Man ran into Tom Harrelson in the French Quarter during the Louis Armstrong Trumpet Fest, who told him he was delivering a trumpet to "some guy." Could it be??

If completely true, then Kermit's performance in the next few minutes was astounding. He blew that thing like he had had it for years, and put on a great show. The fact is, as any true New Orleans trumpet buff knows, in any trumpet contest between them, Irvin is going to be the better technical player, with triple-tonguing and trills and so on and so forth, and Kermit is going to be -- by far and away -- the better entertainer and crowd-pleaser. And so it was this evening. Kermit drew us like iron filings to a magnet, off our comfortable seats in the back, to come stand by the bar in the crowd and gawk at the stage. The man is a born entertainer. He just makes you happy, make you smile, makes you sing along -- which we all did, on the chorus of his famous Pops-tribute tune "The Viper."

Kermit called up a young woman singer from NOCCA (New Orleans Center for Creative Arts, a public school that one has to test to get into), who did a bang-up job on several standards. I wish I remembered her name, because I'm sure we'll all be hearing from her in the future. Judging from this girl and Sasha Masachowski, a recent grad, NOCCA does a helluva job on teaching jazz vocals.

Big Man and I stayed til about midnight, and Kermit was still going on, razzing Irvin occasionally where he was sitting stageside, but we still had not seen them both onstage at the same time. Dunno if they got to that later.

In terms of the contest, we give to Irvin on trumpet points, and to Kermit for giving us a good time. And we hope lots and lots of money was raised for UNITY.

Mayor Mitch on 60 Minutes

We New Orleanians have had a hard time over the past few years with television viewing. First it was all the Katrina news reports in 2005-6, then it was the Katrina follow-ups in 2006-7. Then there was Spike Lee's "When The Levees Broke" and its sequel, "God Willing and The Creek Don't Rise." Then there was the first season of HBO's locally-set "Tremé" series, which had us tearing up and crying almost every episode. (And you couldn't even leave town to get away from it -- in Wyoming, Big Man and I had to comfort a woman in an art gallery, sobbing over John Goodman's character's suicide).

Now, just when you thought it was safe to watch TV without tears, there's this emotional interview with New Orleans Mayor Mitch Landrieu on CBS's "60 Minutes." Mayor Mitch stoutly took up for us, his city, in the face of outside criticism, declared he couldn't do his job without the people of the city doing theirs, and was filmed doing a creditable secondline dance.

Near the end of the interview, the reporter commented, "It sounds like you almost feel, well, like romantic about New Orleans..." and Mitch interrupted him. "Of course I do," he said, "it IS romantic!" Try watching your mayor declare his unashamed romantic love for his (lost, wounded, recovering, beautiful, fascinating) city, and not tear up.

Here it is on the "60 Minutes" website:
http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-504803_162-20075126-10391709.html?tag=cbsnewsMainColumnArea.1

Braxton's Restaurant in Gretna

Wow! Big Man and I want to urge everyone to make an extra effort, cross the river to Franklin Street in Gretna, and eat at this fabulous Creole restaurant, Braxton's. Located at 636 Franklin, in this converted and expanded shotgun house that has been transformed into a spacious double dining room and large elegant bar.

On the outside, there is a large covered front and side porch with ceiling fans, which I'm sure will be more usable and more used when the weather breaks sometime in the fall. Inside, the dining rooms go off to the left as you enter, and have comfortable chairs, white tablecloths, and attractive African-American-themed poster art hung on the walls. In one corner, there's a small stage where we were told they had a DJ once a week (but Big Man has certainly played on stages smaller than that). The bar is large and L-shaped, with a nice seating area in one corner, more of the art (I spotted a Josephine Baker art poster hung near the entrance), and lots and lots of padded bar stools. Playing at a comfortable audio level was some classic R&B from the 1960's ("Precious Baby, You're Mine" played while we were there).

We had read about their special, the Stormy Monday Blues Buffet, in the Gambit. It was advertised at $7.95 -- so we figured, not much to lose if we weren't crazy about it. So we drove over. It's easy to find, and there is some off-street parking available outside, including a reserved handicapped space. An attractive hostess seated us, offered us a menu, and when we said we wanted the buffet, took our drink order. We were a late for the regular lunch hour, and so there were only a few other tables with people eating, folks both black and white.

Braxton's uses stylish rectangular white plates, generously sized for a buffet -- which is both a good and bad thing, since their food is delicious. This past Monday, there was red beans and rice with *lots* of meat (just the way Big Man likes 'em!), turnip greens cooked with little ham hocks and big chunks of sweet turnips, perfectly fried chicken, slow-roasted chicken falling off the bone in an incredible sauce made of lemon, garlic, herbs, and I think olive oil, sweet white cornbread, and home-made bread pudding. We tried everything except the bread pudding (we were *trying* to be good!), and everything was wonderful. Despite skipping dessert, we still ate too much, and we loved everything we ate.

Braxton's has only been open for about 2 years, and they seem to be trying to find that all-important steady regular customer base. They have Monday through Friday drink specials with free food, and a steak special on Thursdays (when they also have a DJ). They would also be great for private parties.

Big Man and I say: cross the Bridge, get over to Franklin Street, and eat yourself happy at Braxton's. You won't be sorry you did.

Catfish Festival in Des Allemands

Big Man has been very busy this hot summer, piecing together different gigs in different places to make up for the regular nightclub gig he lost when the club closed this spring. But it also means that he has nights off that he otherwise might have had to work, and so we very happily made plans to attend the annual Catfish Festival in Des Allemands, about 35 miles from our house, in a small spit of land set among swamps and lakes and bayous that eventually make their way to the Gulf.

Des Allemands boldly bills itself as the Catfish Capital of the Universe, and they may well be. As the name suggests, the little Cajun village was first settled by German immigrants, who nestled themselves among the French Acadians/Cajuns already there. The area now has black and white French Cajuns and German Cajuns, and a goodly number of Vietnamese fisherfolk as well. They are mostly Catholic, with some Baptists and Evangelicals. In addition to the ubiquitous oil field jobs that it seems no Cajun community can escape, folks there make their living shrimping, crawfishing, hunting, and of course, catfishing.

Every year, on the same weekend of July, on the extensive grounds of St. Gertrude the Great Catholic Church and elementary school, they throw the Catfish Festival. The fest has tons of food -- more ways to eat catfish than you might've thought (more on that later), hamburger and hot dogs for the unadventurous (though I have it on good authority that the homemade chili on the 'dogs was outasight), fried shrimp and softshell crab po boys, gumbo, and sauce piquante. There's also snow balls and funnel cakes and beer and soft drinks and frozen daiquiris. Off to the side, there are numerous crafts booths, including 2 in the name of small Cajun children who, sadly, have contracted some very rare, incurable, genetic diseases (all that intermarriage in small Cajun towns has led to a significant uptick in these kinds of illnesses and conditions that physicians almost never see), and one staffed by prisoners from the local St. Charles Parish prison, who learn leather-working as a craft while incarcerated. To the back of the grounds, near the railroad tracks (a train went by that night while we were there), giant carnival rides were set up.

Behind the school's frosty air-conditioned gym/cafeteria, a giant steel-framed, concrete floored pavilion has been set up, apparently for this and other festivals on the grounds. The pavilion is named in honor of a St. Gertrude priest, and, significantly, he had a Vietnamese surname. I liked the way the pavilion had been set up, with the floor painted to show clearly demarcated areas to put folding chairs, allowing for aisles, and leaving a giant dance floor in the center. There were enormous electric fans set up around the edges, facing the dance floor. Which was a good idea, because couples of all ages crowded in there, dancing up a storm. It's the kind of thing that makes me so happy to be a Louisianian -- all those people, old and young and middle-aged, black and white and Vietnamese, dancing together to the same music.

And the music was terrific! A guy we had never heard of before, Al "Lil Fats" Jackson, with a band of 3 saxes, bass, guitars, drummer, with him on keys, doing absolutely wonderful, swinging, versions of Fats Domino songs. Everyone was diggin' it like crazy. The band was really tight and they played like they had been playing this stuff like forever (even though they were all, of course, considerably younger than Fats himself). Al was quite the showman too, teasing the appreciative crowd several times by starting out, "I found my...." but then NOT going into "Blueberry Hill." By the time he deigned to do it, everyone was all hyped up and cheering. Big Man and I joined the dancers in the pavilion and a great moment. (Amazingly, the band played from the time we got there -- a little after 8 pm -- and was still playing with no break when we left, around 10 pm. When I mentioned this to Big Man, he burst out, "Are you kidding? South Louisiana is the No-Break Capital of the Universe!")

The three Catfish Queens were brought onstage to much applause and appreciation. There are three of them because there are three age divisions. They were all three sweet-faced, pretty girls, with towering rhinestone tiaras on their heads, but otherwise dressed in what was apparently the festival uniform of T-shirts, shorts, and flipflops. It made quite a contrast, I can tell you. Inside the gym/cafeteria, air-conditioned to a fare-thee-well, there were framed photos on all four walls of Catfish Queens going back to the early 1970s. They start off conventionally enough, with blondes in bouffant hairdos and standard Cajun surnames, but as the years and decades and eras go by, the pictures show girls with dark hair and swarthy skin, and even some Vietnamese girls. It was wonderful to see the Catfish Queens tradition evolve like that, like a sweet Cajun fairy tale.

So, back to the catfish. There was fried catfish filets served in platters, and on po boys. There was catfish, shrimp, and crawfish gumbo, which, while a little thin, sort of like a courtbouillion, was beautifully seasoned and totally chockfull of the aforementioned seafoods. There was a deep red sauce piquante, studded with big chunks of catfish, and with cute little cocktail onions in it instead of chopped onions; I wondered if the cook had run out of fresh onions and just found the jar of pickled cocktail onions in the fridge and decided on a whim to go in that direction, or if this was an intentional, stylistic choice. Either way, it was fantastic.

There was also something called Catfish Boullettes. Now anywhere else in America they might be called Catfish Fritters or, to be playful, maybe Catfish Balls; in New Orleans, they might be Catfish Beignets. But we're in Cajun Country, so they're Catfish Boullettes (little balls). Chopped up raw catfish is mixed in a thick seasoned batter with little snippets of green onion in it, and then mushed up by hand into balls that are roughly between a golf ball and a tennis ball, and then deep fried (of course). Oh my these were *wonderful*! We ate more of them than we should have, all the time speculating about making them at home and then serving them with home made tartar or remoulade sauce. (The festival was serving them with simple ketchup.)

We saw flyers at the festival for the Des Allemands Catfish Cookbook, which listed an intriguing dish called Catfish Cacciatore on the front. Believe me, if they had had that at the fest, wed've eaten it.

After about 2 hours, we were stuffed. However, we still had food tickets left over, so we scouted for a little while and gave our tickets to a young family with several children on our way out of the fest. It was a lovely if hot night, the people-watching was great fun, the music great and the food fantastic, but we'd had enough. If you haven't been or haven't been in a while, you should go.