Have An Eggroll, Mr. Goldstone

"You do not sew with a fork, so I see no reason that you should eat with knitting needles."
-Miss Piggy

It wasn't until my glamorous house guest arrived in New Orleans that I rediscovered my affinity for Chinese food. Of course, I'm speaking of American-Chinese food. We've been averaging one delivery from Golden Wall on Canal Street a week. After an evening of debauchery and over-indulgence French Quarter style, nothing is better that the sweet, sticky, crunchy, salty promise that awaits you in styrofoam containers from the local Chinese take-away.

Thursday evening, Kevin and I set about the most cherished of alcoholic past-times in the Vieux Carre: The Bar Crawl. We began our evening at home with a pitcher of Sweet Tea cocktails and moved on from there. Several stops on our tour and a few hours later, we arrived at home and patiently awaited the man on a bicycle who would deliver our much anticipated repast of General Tao's Chicken, Vegetable Lo Mein and Crab Rangoon. I had also requested an order of Honey Chicken for something to pick at during the week. It wasn't until I tasted the "Honey" Chicken that I let go of any lingering denial that what we were eating really wasn't that bad for you. It tasted like breakfast. Kevin attributed the golden flavor of the "Honey" Chicken to the undeniable fact that the crispy fried nuggets of boneless chicken thigh were, indeed, practically drowned in pancake syrup. And by pancake syrup I mean artificial maple flavored corn syrup. I was staggered. I've always been aware of the copious amounts of corn syrup used to flavor my favorite Chinese dishes, but this was an affront to everything I believe in. Obviously, no honey is used in this preparation and I have a strict aversion to any type of pancake syrup that isn't marked Pure Grade A Maple Dark Amber. I felt completely deceived and was horrified that I couldn't stop eating what reminded me of sub-par chicken and waffles. Which are, by the way a glorious example of the Soul Kitchen, provided that you ordered chicken and waffles and were expecting chicken and waffles.

Whenever I savor Chinese food, I often think about an all-you-can-eat buffet located in a dingy strip mall, anchored by a Big Lots in St. Petersburg, Florida known as Good Fortune Buffet. My sisters and I used to take the journey to this establishment frequently to have a cheap, tasty meal and a few laughs at what we called Hard Livin' Buffet. Oh, the place was a beautifully appointed palace of over-laden steam tables tumbling over with anything you could possibly want to eat. The standard American-Chinese offerings were your best bet. The Lo Mein was delicious, as were the variety of dumplings, both fried and steamed. This place also featured a carving station, Mongolian BBQ, pizza and spaghetti and a build-your-own sundae bar, all under an enormous, sparkling crystal chandelier that just reeked of class and refinement. All for $10 a head. Can you imagine? I recall the Honey Chicken being exquisite at this place, bathed in real clover honey that was genuinely regurgitated by real bees

The best nights at Hard Livin' Buffet were the ones that offered all you can eat crab legs as part of the buffet. I remember an evening when the salty crustaceans were available, we sat next to a table of absolutely enormous ladies who were prepared to get jiggy with some legs. They had a food-service sized can of Old Bay Seasoning on the table, and it was surrounded by monkey dishes of drawn butter, or artificially butter-flavored grease. I was not surprised when they returned to the table with what appeared to be the entire steam tray of crab legs piled on their plates, because obviously, these women were serious about what they came for. Oh, the indignity they suffered on subsequent visits to the buffet line before the crab legs were replenished! I remember observing one lady who physically grabbed one dining room attendant after another inquiring about the ETA of the next truckload of crab legs. Not receiving a satisfactory response to her inquiry, she noisily sucked her teeth and carefully picked a crisp green bean from a nearby steam table with her four-inch acrylic fingernails.

Later on, this party was joined by a young lady, approximately 13 years of age. I learned that she was a beloved niece to these women. The young girl was painfully thin and looked upon the table with such disgust drawn on her face that I could only imagine that she either didn't care for crab legs, or she was completely appalled by her Aunties eating habits because she refused even a morsel.

So, despite my disappointment in Golden Wall's deceitful practices, I am not throwing in the towel on Chinese food. I'm not even considering giving up on them either. Who else is going to bike a mile into the Faubourg Treme from Canal Street bearing a basket of crunchy, sweet, salty and slurpy goodness? I just won't order the Honey Chicken again. Unless, of course, I am hankering sub-par chicken and waffles. It's nothing that a bottle of Crystal hot sauce won't fix.

Don't Worry, He's A Vegetarian

ANGELIQUE IS AFRAID OF HUGE RABBITS

Where Beauty Lives In Memory

"I was just a little past eighteen, when I came to New Orleans. I'd never been beyond my home state line."

-Dolly Parton, "My Blue Ridge Mountain Boy"



It's true. I was just a little past eighteen when I came to New Orleans. Seeking escape from another family holiday, a friend of long ago and I set out to the Crescent City the day before Christmas Eve in 1992. We rented a car, loaded the cassette player with a mix-tape that contained every song in my collection that even mentioned New Orleans and hit the road. We arrived in this much fabled city around dawn. After a charming breakfast of fried pork-chops and red beans, we set out to find accommodations. We ended up at some run down hotel on Tulane Avenue with a drained pool and were led to a room two-doors down from one that had been completely blackened and burned out by a fire. It didn't really matter, we were young and exhausted from a journey that should have taken 9 or 10 hours but had stretched to 14 due to a stop in Tallahassee, (my friend was a former student at FSU), and a rather embarrassing but memorable visit to a rest area outside of Mobile, Alabama where a pair of my teal green underwear were left urine soaked and slung over a toilet seat. Before your minds begin to wander to some watersports fueled fantasy, let me say that it was completely innocent and devoid of eroticism. Abandoning the underwear was the only practical thing that I could do.



We entered the hotel room that care forgot with it's double beds and greasy handprints on the wall and went to sleep for a few hours before entering the decadent world of New Orleans. Our first stop was Lafayette Cemetery in the Garden District. Recently, I revisited that old City of the Dead and found it in such shocking disrepair. It had sunk into something far beyond the stately gothic elegance that I first encountered on my inaugural trip to the city that I now call home. A lot of the beautiful black ironwork that surrounded the tombs was gone, perhaps looted and sold for scrap. Grassy areas away from the paved banquettes of the cemetery that I recalled had become soft mud pits after a recent rain. The cemetery still retains some of it's gloomy charm, but beauty lives in memory, I suppose. Across the street, we stumbled upon what looked to be a shop set up in the first floor of a house. I don't recall the name of it, but we entered and were greeted by an astonishing assortment of occupied birdcages, as well as the proprietor clad in a green silk dressing gown. He seemed so surprised to see us, almost as if we just walked into a private residence. "Oh my!", he said. "Let me put on some coffee!" My companion and I looked at each other with curiosity and soon were served some very strong coffee and packaged cookies that were so hard, real effort had to be employed to consume them. He chatted with us and told us of some places to visit while in town. We bid our unusual host a fond farewell and departed the shop. We were never quite sure of what was for sale in there.



Upon entering the French Quarter for the "first" time, I was struck with a sense of extreme nostalgia and melancholy. I had been here before. I astonished my travelling companion with my basic knowledge of the Quarter. "Put that map away! I know where Dumaine is!" Eventually we found a shop, not much more than a closet tucked away in the side of a building where an old black lady would swear over a peice of felt, some old bones and herbs, douse it with oil, tie it up and pass it to you into your right hand. I had ordered a gris-gris from her for my friend Sean, for his happiness. I think I paid ten dollars for it. I presented it to him upon arriving home and told him to place it under his bed. All he ever said about it was how nice it smelled while he banged boys who weren't me on top of his sheets. Shortly afterward, he relapsed into alcoholism and checked himself into some form of treatment. I never saw him again. I don't think the gris-gris had anything to do with that, however. At least I hope it didn't.

After enjoying some of the raucous nightlife that the French Quarter has to offer, we took our leave of this grand city on Christmas Night. Watching it disappear behind the rented car, I promised to return for visits and perhaps someday become part of it. I moved to New Orleans a little over a year and a half ago. Of course, familiarity has blurred the lines of the past and the present. I often experience a strong sense of deja vu when I hear the click-clack of a mules feet on the streets or smell the richly perfumed air carried on a delicate breeze. Reason tells me that these are such common sensory experiences encountered daily, that I may not be remembering a previous existence in a time long, long ago in New Orleans, just acknowledging the rare beauty of details that are so special and so specific to the place I call home. Sweet, sweet home.

The Way You Wear Your Hat

"Shabby gentility has no characteristic but for it's hat."

-Oliver Wendell Holmes

Since summer began it's cruel, damnable hostility in the Delta, with it's beating rays and unforgiving glare, the days I am not sequestered in an air-conditioned environment, I am wearing a hat. This hat was selected in a handsome shop in the French Market known as Latin's Hands during the Creole Tomato Festival. It certainly makes sense for one to wear a hat in this climate. I sincerely believe that it keeps the wearer at least ten degrees cooler as well as adding a bit of fashionable mystique. The hat I chose suits me well. I had tried several different styles from the typical pork-pie that the Quarter hipsters don to a faux-fedora that reminded my companions for the day of the late Truman Capote. Although I admire the deceased Southern writer very much, I don't want to look like him, especially during that sad, post Studio 54 period. I chose a hat that is made of tightly woven palm leaves with a wide brim and a dark band. A prosperous Delta planter might be pictured wearing a hat like this. More on that later.



I never believed myself to be a so-called "hat person". My head is too big. Everything I put on seemed to look perched on top of my head. The proportions were incorrect. I was told a few months ago that there is a psychological block that one must tear down in order to comfortably wear a hat. This is true. I tried on a few until I found the one for me. I wear it at an angle to the left which might suggest that I was out to impress the ladies, but I can assure you, I'm out to impress everyone.

It's funny how hats have the ability to influence perceptions about the wearer. Last Wednesday I was having cocktails with an aquaintance who regarded my hat as very provocative of the romance of the Old South. He conjured images of frosty mint juleps sipped on a sweeping verandah while happy darkies sang in the fields. I could hear the mistress of the plantation saying, "Finish your juleps now, gentlemen. There will be no more liquor served until after breakfast!" Although, that is certainly not the life I live, I cannot help but identify with that image. Then I remember, it is just a hat. No one is cutting cane. I have a set of silver julep cups, but they are not likely to contain a bourbon cocktail. I live in an apartment that in no way resembles Gerald O'Hara's Tara. I will admit that I have a fondness for negro spirituals, however. Unfortunately, I still get Truman Capote references.

Admittedly, any hat I have ever worn has had a Southern fancy to it. It has been a long hallowed tradition among my dearest friends that Easter be celebrated with the wearing of fantastic chapeaux that rival any found in an upscale haberdashery in the city. Mine were always wide brimmed numbers that were worn to the side, reminiscent of Dolly Levi's in Thornton Wilder's The Matchmaker. Or, more likely, Gene Kelly's Hello, Dolly! My only requirement in the design of these Easter hats was that, not only should they be beautiful, but they should also tell a story. They became fantasies of hydrangeas and ladybugs, honeysuckles and hummingbirds and a particular favorite which I called "Berry Festival" which featured a feather butterfly perched atop a toppled berry container, full of mischief and quite pleased with himself.


I look forward to Easter every year for this reason. Not only does it give me an opportunity to wield a hot-glue gun, but it provides an avenue for creative expression. My hat this past year was inspired by one I saw in a window on Royal Street that carried a $325.00 price tag. I re-created this chapeau for literally $17.00. Albeit, I wasn't using the same quality of materials, but the effect was the same, as well as the sense of satisfaction I derived from feeling like "Hey! I can do that, too!"

I've decided that in creating future Easter bonnets, I will be going for more realism than whimsy. If sheared rooster feathers and magnolias are good enough for Uptown ladies, they are more than good enough for me.

Of Friends and Pot Roast

"Life is partly what we make it, and partly what it is made by the friends we choose."
-Tennessee Williams

Last week I had the rare pleasure of entertaining friends at an informal supper party held at my home in the Faubourg Treme. "Plauche House", as it was named when it was built sometime in 1840, is a classic Creole Cottage in architecture, the two rear units that open to the courtyard were added on sometime later, probably mid-last century. I often think about the lives lived in this old house over the last century and half, and wonder about the people who lived them. Not a lot is known about former residents, but it is rumored that this house was built by Claude Treme himself to house his mistress and his six illegitimate children. Of course, it is known that wealthy Delta planters and early industrialists of this area freely took mistresses and provided for the families that they produced. This neighborhood especially was home to many Creole, quadroon and octoroon ladies with children by married men. A block or so away from here is a neighborhood street known as St. Claude, named for the same Claude Treme as mentioned earlier. This street was once known as Good Children, named for all of the children born of bastardy and fornication who once inhabited this area. I suppose city planners didn't want them to feel so bad about their lot, so a street was named in their honor. Awwwwww........

Anyway, I had the great honor of entertaining the recent newlyweds, Zak and Angie, and was graciously assisted by my glamorous houseguest, Toniesha Shabazz Johnson (aka Kevin) who created cocktails of such amazing delight that Matassa's Grocery had to be telephoned to deliver more vodka and ice. The good times rolled.

Conversations are always interesting in this magnificent company, and the myriad topics covered were a rich tapestry that wove intellect and reason into a sparkling affair. We discussed personal New Orleans crime stories, falling down on the streets, (by the way, a number of friends, including myself and La Shabazz, have fallen victim to the heaving streets and banquettes of the neighborhoods recently. It seems that often the pavement just leaps before you, grabs you by the ankle and pulls you to the ground. Old World charm or urban decay? Hmmm...a post for another day.) groceries, genital piercings, sexual intercourse with melons, restaurant reputations, animal husbandry.....the topics were endlessly fascinating as we sipped sweet tea vodka cocktails until dinner was served.

Pot Roast. I have long been known for slow-cooker meals through the years. Large pieces of meat braised in flavorful liquids destined to become gravies or soup bases later. The roast was slow cooked in red wine, beef stock and a finely minced mirepoix that was later thickened to be served over the tender beef along with ethereal mashed potatoes flavored with garlic. The perfect meal for either a gray November day or a late July supper with good friends sharing laughter and tears.

During dinner, I screened my latest obsession: Grey Gardens. Angelique and Zak had not witnessed this spectacle before. I have to say that Zak was profoundly affected by the tale of American aristocracy on the skids. I found it so amusing that Angie and Zak were in hysterics when Big Edie points out to the Maysles that a cat was urinating behind her oil portrait. The camera pans down to the familiar expression of a cat going potty. See, Angie and Zak are proud cat owners, and they recognized the expression of this feline relieving itself. Priceless. Zak lamented later after dessert that he regretted that he would not be able to relate or discuss this film with anyone in his circle, being that they are straight people who probably haven't seen it. Angelique asked Kevin and I, "Why do gay guys like stories about broken down, crazy women?" Kevin smartly replied, "Because there is one deep inside of all of us." Hear, hear.

I look forward to combining this company again. It is the very least I can do to demonstrate my love for these particular people who grace my world and enrich my life. Someday I will have to recount the story of Christmas a few years ago in St. Petersburg, Florida when Angie and Zak were unwilling refugees from New Orleans. The story is ribald and racy and desintegrates into something that everyone involved should be ashamed of, with the exception of our sister, Paul Anater, who is a paragon of virtuous behavior and abstinence. It was a most memorable Yuletide. Perhaps I will post that chestnut at the holidays.