Sloe Gin Fizzy, Eat at Li'l Dizzy's

After a morning of care-free "grocery-making", my friend Kevin and I experienced a luncheon in old New Orleans style right in my neighborhood. Li'l Dizzy's Cafe is one of those places that just inhales the sweet, humid breath of this great city, and exhales some of the most straightforward soul food that I have known. Owned and operated by the legendary Famille Baquet, this wildly popular Treme restaurant is named for Jazz great Dizzy Gillespie, apparently a family friend. The exterior exhibits the wear and neglect of a neighborhood that has seen better days, but is in a way, comforting and in keeping with the Treme area. The interior is always packed with neighbors, local politicians, visiting celebs and musicians who declare the food to be as authentically home-cooked Creole as it gets.

We were seated at a table with a family of Creoles. The extremely light-skinned grandma at the table pronounced that she wasn't feeling that well. She ordered the stewed chicken with a side of okra. Stewed chicken is a phenom of New Orleans. It appears on many a menu of lunch specials and is celebrated by dipping crusty hunks of French bread into the rich sauce ribboned with chicken that has completely slipped off the bone. Sort of like chicken and dumplings, but the slices of baguette replace the dumplings, be they drop or strip dumplings.

Having been disappointed (or, "disapperntet" as is the correct pronunciation in these parts) that breakfast was no longer available, Kevin joined me in my pursuit of delicious fried chicken "ya get two siiides, Bebe." The dry-erase board of daily sides reads like a second-graders list of favorite foods. I ordered a side of "canndie yams" and the okra. I had warned Toniesha about the sweet tea, which is, I believe, hospital grade glucose on the rocks with a straw. I love it. The entrees are also served with either a cup of file gumbo or a trip to the salad bar. The salad bar is mythic. It consists of a hotel pan of cold iceberg lettuce, some grated orange cheese, canned beets and two types of dressings to choose from that, I assume, are Ranch and Eye-talian.

The walls are lined with photographs of celebrities that have dined within those walls. Kelly Ripa must have posed for a shot with everyone on Li'l Dizzy's payroll, because there are no less than five photos of her posted around, as well as some of the former President. The acoustic tiles above our heads are painted with images of jazz musicians, fleur-de-lys and a very striking likeness of Irma Thomas, the Soul Queen of New Orleans, complete with glue on diamonds around her delicate brown neck.

While we waited for our chicken, the conversation next to us drifted to opinions about a sensational local news story. A baby in Westwego had been chewed by rats and died as a result of the bites. Earlier I'd heard someone say, "Dat baby was already dead before da rats bit it." Headlines the following day disputed that statement, with a photo of the neglectful parents in shackles glaring from the front-page of the Times. "Baby Was Alive During Rat Attack" screamed the paper, in bold, black print. Shameful......

The chicken arrived, golden and as full of promise as a full moon glinting off of the Mississippi. The exterior was crisp and the interior melting as the result of an overnight soak in buttermilk, I imagine. The candied sweet potatoes were the stuff of Christmasses gone by. Warm with cinnamon and nutmeg and so rich with butter and brown sugar, I feared the tingling sensation in my right foot portended amputation from diabetes. Along with the sweet tea it's probably not far of a stretch.

We finished our meals about the same time as the Creole family we were seated with. The grandma, who was not feeling well, pronounced that she was feeling very good now. Possibly as a result of consuming the stewed okra that she had ordered. "That was so good, I could eat the whole pot!" I disregarded my side of okra. It reminded me of swamp algae in it's consistency and rather off-putting Kermit the Frog hue. I will still side with the old woman, who would know delectable stewed okra better than I would.

Satisfied and on the brink of diabetic coma, Kevin and I ventured back to my house two blocks away. I recalled a blog post I had read somewhere the previous week that was a rebuttal from an article that appeared in The New Yorker titled "Why Are Southerners So Fat?" The rebuttal stated, "Why Are Yankees So Rude?" After a meal at Li'l Dizzy's, the answer to the former is quite clear. Before I had the opportunity to feel the tiniest twinge of guilt after my processed sugar and saturated fat loaded lunch, I thought of the old hand-painted roofing slate that hangs above an autographed photo of Dionne Warwick that reads, "Come on in and taste what it means to miss New Orleans."

Like God's Own Mercy

A few days ago, my worst summertime fears were realized: my central A/C stopped working. This is a matter of extreme discomfort living in a place that is, in fact, a swamp that was converted into a city about 300 years ago. It felt like I was existing in the lyrics of a Bobby Gentry song. You know, one of those "swamp sagas" that her career was built on. Songs that painted a picture of dusty delta days where your neck is constantly slicked with perspiration and the mosquitoes dance the Calinda with your leg hairs. I contacted my sympathetic land-lady who sent someone out almost immediately. A cute Y'at attended to my needs called Henry. Turns out the problem was amended with a simple fuse change. He also told me what to do with the little starchy bananas that grow in the courtyard. Apparently, to make them palatable, one coats them in a flour-egg batter and fries them in butter, after which a generous dusting of powdered sugar is applied. I mopped my face with a handkerchief and said "well, I'll be. I wondered what to do with those little things...." Alas, our courtship ended as quickly as it had begun. I will remember forever the whirlwind that was our romance. I will revisit those memories often, perhaps when the pain of losing him is not so fresh.

Whenever I would mention to someone that my A/C was not working, the response I received was always the same: "My God! You have to be kidding! How will you survive? You won't!" I considered how the people who lived in this house a hundred years ago survived the humidity and the heat of Louisiana summers without icy cold air falling from the 14 foot ceilings and being circulated by fans turning lazily in the rooms. I realized that they were made of stronger stuff than me. I imagined long summer afternoons sitting in courtyards draped with shady banana trees, sipping cold drinks and swatting mosquitoes while fanning oneself with handheld rattan fans purchased at the French Market. Seersucker suits wicked the perspiration from the surface of your skin to cool you with each gentle breeze through the leaves. Conversations varied from the latest Congo Square gossip to the incredible watermelon that was enjoyed the previous Sunday. The romantic notions in my mind of those long-gone days of New Orleans summers past
were pushed aside when I heard the A/C unit kick on one of it's many cycles through the day. Cold air falling from the ceiling vents to be twisted around the room by the fans constantly turning this time of year. Sweet indoor comfort, like God's own mercy.

Discoveries better left hidden

Tonight when I returned from the bar, I thought some meatballs would be the perfect ending to my day. Needless to say, I was not quite nimble in handling my meatballs. I had prepared about five dozen small meatballs last week. They were properly individually quick frozen and held in my freezer for convenient enjoyment. When I discovered that three of the meatballs had frozen together, I banged them on the side of a cast-iron skillet to free them. To make them individual again. This action caused them to leap from the pan and into the dark, dark recesses behind my gas stove.

Naturally, not wanting meatballs to rot and attract vermin to my newly fumigated home, I set about the taxing chore of retrieving them. The stove pulled away from the nook that it lives in very easily. What was discovered behind was interesting, to say the very least.

A quick visual scan revealed the findings. A contact lens case (not mine), a pen from Marriott (with cap attached), a brand new Estee Lauder lipstick (Pink Parfait, never used!), the lid to a disposable type food storage container (also not mine) and a completely dessicated mouse (nothing but fur, bones and a tail). The latter being my winter visitor who repaid my gracious hospitality with half-chewed cookies and turds in the crumb-tray of my toaster.

The findings were quickly discarded with much haste and disgust. With the possible exception of the lipstick which I have decided to save for Toniesha, lest she like to tint her brown meat curtains a very winsome shade of pink. Again.

Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

My first experience with a gypsy cab was with my friend Angelique. She seems mad for a gypsy cab. We had at one time decided that gypsy cabs are not the answer, after repeated bad experiences with them. What is a gypsy cab, you ask? Gypsy cabs are found outside of national super-centers, and can be had for a fraction of the cost of a typical taxi in the city. The problem is that in taking such-said-cab, you are accepting a ride with a stranger...something that we are warned against in childhood. It has been in my experience that childhood warnings are typically given in the good sense of a parent who knows better. That being said, I have found myself in no less than three gypsy cabs.

The first time, I was fresh in the City of New Orleans. I needed to set up housekeeping and what better a place to start than (dare I speak it's name?) Wal-Mart. Angelique and I set out on a trip to Wally World via United Cab. I believe that $17 was the rate we were charged for the fare. Our shopping was done and we needed a ride back to our respective nieghborhoods. An old man approached us on our way out saying "Y'all could use a ride?" This was completely against anything that I would have considered, but Angelique assured me that it would be OK. "If anything goes down, we can take this old guy, right?" she said. In the spirit of adventure and New Orleans experience, I accepted. I will say that the gentleman's SUV was clean and comfortable. After Angie requested that the old man extinguish his smoking materials,(I recall it being a cigarillo) we were on our way. We arrived home safely to the tune of $12.

The next time a gypsy cab was taken, however, is a much different story. Again we were approached leaving the Wally-World, once more by a seemingly frail old fellow. This being the only qualification so far, we accept the lift. This time, the vehicle was seriously in question. We were escorted to a battered work truck complete with a lawn-mower, a weed-whacker and various tools in the bed of said truck. After our parcels were loaded into the bed, the front seat was lifted to expose a pile of soiled towels, to which Angelique responded, "This really isn't a seat." To which our driver responded, "Sure it is!" We exited the parking lot, and were on our way! This man drove down North Rampart at about 60. Needless to say, the driving quality of North Rampart leaves alot to be desired. On our journey, I hear Angelique exclaim, "Oh Fuck!!! There goes your toilet paper!" This being a 6-roll pack, I interjected my displeasure of having my Quilted Northern bounced out onto the street. The driver graciously made a turnabout, parked and reclaimed my toilet tissue. At this point Angelique said, "Never again." We were deposited home safely and later told the story to the great amusement of our friends.

Some people never learn...

About two months ago, we found ourselves in the same situation, which is, in fact, a way to save about $5 from a trip to WalMart. This time Angelique had a checklist:

Is your vehicle clean?

Is it used for your real job?

Is there room for all of our stuff?

How much? $20? No, I say $15. Ok.

We disembark. Before ever leaving the parking lot, Angie says to me, "Brandon. Look at this!" and gestures to a box in a plain brown wrapper. I quickly see that it is a box labled "CREMATED REMAINS". We laughed it off during the ride. It was pleasant enough, Antoine was a very good driver and played great music. He even scribbled his name and number on a cocktail napkin should I ever need a ride in the future.

Everyone that I have ever told that story to has asked me:

"Who was in the box?"

I will never be able to say...we will just chalk it up to New orleans experience.

Sweet Summer Rain

"Don't you just love these long rainy afternoons in New Orleans? An hour isn't just an hour-but a little peice of eternity dropped into the palm of your hand-and who knows what to do with it?"
-Blanche DuBois
A Streetcar Named Desire

I got caught in the rain yesterday on my way to work. Not just a gentle drizzle, but the type of downpour where an umbrella is useless for the rain comes in from all sides. I was soaked to the bone as I arrived at GW Fins for my shift. Regardless of that fact, I am not one to complain about the rain. I am hard pressed to think of a more beautiful city in the rain than New Orleans. The already romantically gothic atmosphere seems magnified when the water cascades from the cast iron balconies, like tears falling from Spanish lace. The dark clouds seem so low and close that if you reached high enough you could penetrate them with a fist.

Although I prefer to be at home or in a neighborhood tavern when such a deluge begins, the beauty of such an event is so striking that the inconvenience of being wet is nothing. It makes me feel alive as I watch tourists huddled close to walls in their $2.00 ponchos emblazoned with "French Quarter" insignias all over the place. These ponchos are nothing more than garbage bags with arm holes in them. A one-time use garment that will inevitably end up in a bin liner that they so closely resemble.

Welcome to Where The Sweet Olive Grows

New Orleanians are not just the people who reside in the Crescent City. New Orleanians are the Crescent City. Most visitors to our city find it hard to believe that anyone actually lives here, much less hold jobs and actually get things done. But I can assure you that it is a working city. Every day is not Mardi Gras, but we often have parades. Jazz Fest is not every weekend, but we do have a wealth of live music. The city is filled with music. It's everywhere. From the ragtime ensemble that plays daily on Royal Street, to the lone trombone player who casually asks passersby "Whatchoo wanna hear? Jazz? Blues? Dixieland or Gospel?" I think I've even heard him play "I Will Survive" on his trombone, and it was as moving as if it were a dirgeful rendition of "The Old Rugged Cross".

I often say that we are not without our disadvantages here in New Orleans, but I can't imagine living anywhere else. The wonderful things that are so natural and at home in this city, far outweigh any inconveniences that we might encounter along the way. It is certainly an interesting place to live to say the very least about it.It is easy to see why creative people have made this beautiful and sometimes weird place their home. It is not for everyone, but I'm so glad it is for us. It is certainly not "middle America" or Anytown, USA. It is New Orleans. The Crescent City. The Big Easy.The City That Care Forgot. And I say "Hallelujah!"