Where the Sweet Olive Grows

In Your Easter Bonnet, Conclusion

2010-04-07T12:55:00.030-05:00

What a glorious day for a parade! I'm telling you, if there is something more fun than riding in a French Quarter Easter Parade, you better not tell me, because I don't think I can handle it! It was a beautiful Spring day, and everyone looked stunning as we rode through the cobbled streets of the Vieux Carre, sling beads and trinkets to the throngs on the banquettes. It is easy to spot the visitors to New Orleans during parades: they are so conservative and far too proud to clamor for the throws like locals do, shamelessly.

We started our day with Prosecco and succulent ham and biscuits in the company of the lovely Angelique, who brought marvelous treats with her that day that ensured that we would be having lots of fun in the hours to come. We made our way to Starlight By The Park to sign in for the parade. Thankfully, my responsibilities ended with the ham and biscuits. We cocktailed for a while, and admired the many beautiful hats and ensembles donned for the day. My friend Sam remarked that Easter is interesting because you get to see the drag queens of New Orleans in glaring, natural light-not flattering in many cases.

We found our carriage toward the end of the line-up. There was plenty of space for Auntie Bob, Toenisha and myself. Throw a couple of black drag queens in the back...let's roll! The streets of the French Quarter were lined with parade-goers the entire route. Near riots ensued at intersections where literally hundreds of people screamed and waved for throws. Although the atmosphere at an Easter Parade is not as bawdy as Mardi Gras, the energy is the same. What fun!

Jesus Himself made a brief appearance.

French Quarter Style

Ever the epitome of glamour and refinement

Auntie Bob And Toenisha Light The Route With Their Smiles

The Girls...Who Is Having More Fun?

Hans And Franz

"Let's Hear It For The Rainbow Tour"

In Your Easter Bonnet

2010-04-02T14:40:00.010-05:00

Oh, my favorite holiday is quickly approaching, Y'all. Regardless of what anyone says, Easter IS all about the hats! It has been a long tradition amongst my friends that this holiday of resurrection, renewal and divine haberdashery be observed by the donning of intricately created Easter headwear. It started in 2002 on my sister Toenisha's front porch when an astonishing array of hats were brought out for everyone to wear during one of our annual Easter brunches. Hallelujah, a new tradition was born.

Each year, during Holy Week, a special trip to the craft store is organized to accumulate the supplies required to create these one-of-a-kind art pieces. Typically, I would wait until I arrived at the craft warehouse to garner inspiration from the glorious gardens of silk flowers and accoutrements to conceive the theme of my hat for the year. In recent times, I've gotten inspiration from the window of a marvelous shop in the French Quarter that creates beautiful hats with vintage materials and price tags to match. Not wishing to be accused of producing a "knock-off", I simply seek inspiration in the form of a theme. This years theme included sprays of gorgeous calla lilies, and a wide purple ribbon to represent the Passion of the Lord.

Of course, Toenisha's hat is, as always, representative of her exquisite taste and is a study of a refined eye for what is truly breathtaking:

I've written about my particular fondness for hats and this stunning tradition previously in this post: wherethesweetolivegrows.blogspot.com/2009/08/way-you-wear-your-hat.html

The tradition started a handful of years ago has been greatly enhanced by my relocation to the Crescent City. You see, in St. Petersburg, Florida, the concept of wearing an Easter bonnet has yet to reach those shores. We would gracefully alight to the now defunct (thank goodness) Suncoast Resort where the typical Sunday crowd assumed that we were members of some Big Hat Club that they had never heard of. All I could do was cry "heathenry" upon this group of colossally ignorant specimens who had no idea that it was Easter. Blissfully, after moving to the green banks of the Mississippi, I can say that I have finally come home. Not only is the donning of Easter bonnets encouraged, it is practically mandatory AND the holiday itself is observed by no less than three parades in the City that day. Toenisha and I have ben invited to participate in the most auspicious of these parades for the past two years, so that many people can admire our hats. The parade that we roll in is by far the most glamorous, featuring carriages and thousands of revelers. We bring nothing but sunshine to the streets of the French Quarter that day. And of course, glory to the risen Christ.

Mardi Gras Mambo #1

2010-02-20T02:33:00.013-06:00

"God! I don't want to see your tits!"

-Brandon Bergman

"Absolutely Indescribable!" is what I said to my mother on Ash Wednesday when I attempted to paint a picture for her of what Mardi Gras is in New Orleans. Or what it was....the only representation she understands is what she has seen on pre-Katrina re-broadcasts of "COPS". Even though I think that that depiction is accurate to some degree, the daytime activities of Mardi Gras are so much more beautiful than seeing some female from Arkansas expose herself for thrice-turned beads or the evidence of someone shitting their pants around 6:30 P.M. (yes...things turn rather ugly after the sun goes down), I am only interested in celebrating the glory of this marvelous day, where anywhere else but in New Orleans, it is just Tuesday.

I had the great fortune of joining a well-organized Krewe this year. "Krewe Woo-Hoo!" has been in existence for a while, and is a function of a lot of really good people who love to have a good time. Nothing more. A King and Queen are selected to represent this informal group and are paraded through the streets of the Vieux Carre to tremendous excitement and cheers throughout this unbridled day of sheer joy and merriment. The theme of this year's Mardi Gras was "Krewe Woo-Hoo Takes To The Garden". There were many representations of fantastical garden-y things: butterflies, a Grand Ladybug, a carrot, a sexy bunny and an entire troupe of garden gnomes attended the festival. The parade was led by a very talented group of musicians from all over the world, presiding over the affair with drums and bagpipes.
(Please see my videos on my Facebook page for an idea of the music provided for our romp through the French Quarter). Occasionally, a piper gnome would let out a rhythmic cry of "All hail the King and Queen of Woo-Hoo!". To which the participants and the crowd would respond "Woo-Hoo!" I am not doing the experience justice, as I said before, it is indescribable. This parade even boasts a confetti cannon that periodically blasts joy into the streets in the form of shredded paper in a rainbow of colors. Magical!

The festivities with this Krewe seemed to culminate in a sojourn by the riverside where Grande Proclamations are read and new royalty are announced for the following year, as well as the theme for the next Mardi Gras celebrations. Things are altered a bit for the coming Fat Tuesday, as there is not a King and Queen, but a single Empress will preside over Krewe Woo-Hoo's Mardi Gras festivities in 2011. Jaclyn MacCabe is the Empress Elect, and will reign over the theme of "Krewe Woo-Hoo Dreams Of Venice". I'm already imagining my costume for next Mardi Gras.

I resisted joining this wonderful band of people last year, because I wanted to experience my first Mardi Gras in New Orleans on my own. Although I have no regrets to that decision, I cannot imagine a better way to spend a Tuesday before Lent any other way but with this group of merry-makers. God Bless Us All!

King Cake Abomination

2010-02-07T03:18:00.010-06:00

I have recently resumed communications with a dear old friend from long ago, via Facebook. I was so pleased to find that after reading my previous post about King Cake, she was inspired to create one of her own. A King Cake was made and taken to her office in Denver, CO for her co-workers to enjoy. A bit of Mardi Gras in the Mountains. I was absolutely charmed. She related in a message that someone made up a story that whoever found the Baby in their piece was to become pregnant. This actually made me nauseous and took the wind right out of me. I was aghast. Any "charm" that I felt absolutely fell away, like crumbs of stale King Cake from the front of my sweatshirt.

How could this happen, this abomination? Taking the simple yet noble tradition of finding the tiny figure in a King Cake and having it become some retarded baby-shower perversion? I suggested that everyone involved in this unholy massacre should become pregnant, only to violently miscarry in the third tri-mester to spare the world of their ignorant, blasphemous spawn.

I did take some comfort in reading that after this outrageous assignation occurred, the baby reappeared about three times in different pieces of King Cake. That suggested that no one wished to become pregnant at all. "Pass the curse on to JoAnne....she'll eat anything."

It just furthers my point that New Orleans culture just doesn't translate to other parts of the world. When attempts like this are made, you can see what happens. I'm just saying.

Let Them Eat (King) Cake

2010-01-26T18:39:00.008-06:00

'Tis the time of year when grocery stores, bakeries and almost anywhere that people gather you will find a specifically New Orleans confection: the King Cake. Traditionally eaten on Twelfth Night, or the Feast of the Epiphany, the King Cake is an institution. Essentially, this is a yeast risen coffee cake that can come filled or plain. Plain being a filling of cinnamon and pecans. A filled King Cake can mean anything from cream cheese to chocolate or fruit filling enrobed in a rich, flaky sweet bread. Always present, however, is a small figure of a baby, representing the Christ Child. You are not meant to eat this. The one who finds the baby in their hunk of King Cake is declared to be King (or Queen) of the feast, and is responsible for either buying the next cake, or throwing the next Carnival party. This tradition is taken very seriously. To eat King Cake outside of Carnival Season holds the eater up to ridicule and humiliation by those who find out about it. But since, in New Orleans, as my sister Toenisha points out, shame and dignity are the first things to go, so, this is't that big of a deal. If you have an out-of-season craving for King Cake, may I recommend a regular coffee cake, without the Baby.

I have just enjoyed a piece of King Cake. Delicious!

The international sign for "I'm Choking!"

Foreign object dislodged from windpipe...

Look! I found the Baby!

Damned Mean Red Bean

2009-12-06T03:36:00.013-06:00

"Red Beans and Ricely Yours,"

-Louis Armstrong

The quote above is how Louis Armstrong ended all of his correspondence, so fond was he of the iconic washday supper, still held dear in Old New Orleans almost as religion. Every Monday on my walk to work through the French Quarter, I smell red beans and rice in the works on peoples' stove tops. The perfume of bell peppers, onions, celery and garlic meet my nostrils along with the aromas of bay and smoked pork sausage. Once in a while, I can smell scorched Louisiana popcorn rice that some home-cook has left over too high heat on a burner, rendering the pan of starch useless-or even worse, serving it despite the ruination of the grain.

When I first arrived on the green, levied banks of the Mississippi to start a new life, I swore to uphold all of the unique and utterly charming old customs that enrich the fables of this City. I vowed to never let a second-line parade pass me by without joining in, even if I'm just waving a handkerchief from the banquette. I committed to living a life as free of stress as I could and live La Vie Bon Temps. I dedicated myself to cooking red beans and rice every Monday, even if I wasn't doing laundry on said day. It is tradition to do as such as a New Orleanian. Especially being a New New Orleanian, or so I thought. Any weekend stop at the grocery in the Quarter would find my basket containing at least a pound of Camillia Brand Red Beans and all of the necessary ingredients to prepare this dish. When people would come to visit from Florida, why, I would cook up a big pot of red beans, local andouille and rice from the fertile fields of the Delta. The meal was always met with such glowing satisfaction and nods of approval, that I continued the trend for months. Months....

Let me say, it is impossible to prepare a small amount of red beans and rice. Even if five people are gathered, consuming all they can, one is still left with half of a gallon of the stuff. I am a man who loves his leftovers, and typically will consume every last morsel of a left-over. Sometimes re-imagined in a clever and delicious way. I've basically had enough of the red bean. I don't even want to see it in chili.I have had my fill of a filling dish, I can assure you.

At the tony French Quarter restaurant at which I work, one of the "benefits" is a full staff-meal, provided to employees free of charge before each shift. It is something that I anticipate every day that I work. There is always speculation as to what it might be. It is usually held in some kind of secrecy until it is served. Perhaps so the Chef doesn't have to hear any grousing about how someone doesn't want to eat open faced tuna melts again, or how someone else had a turkey sandwich for lunch that day. Usually the meals are very well imagined: balanced, tasty and fresh. One of my favorite things that they don't trot out nearly often enough is the build-your-own-nachos bar. Once we were treated to a positively enormous chefs salad, bursting with so many good things, with your choice of homemade blue-cheese dressing or ranch! The Asian inspired staff meals are always well appreciated. Who doesn't love eggrolls and vegetable lo-mein? My favorite day is pizza day. I literally leap with joy. We are treated to a variety of Sysco Brand Rising Crust pizzas with very creative toppings such as (but not limited to) lamb and spinach, corn and jalapeno and barbecued fried chicken, just to praise a few. A fresh green salad is always provided. Sometimes, since the meals are kept so guarded from the staff until they are served, an experienced waiter may sniff out a clue and reveal the meal beforehand. Yesterday I spied that Jack O'Lantern of a sous-chef headed for the giant food processor with a bowl of dill pickle chips and onions, ready to make relish. "Oh. Must be hot-dogs today." Guess what we were served? Hot Dogs! I knew it! I'm a detective. I mean, usually these are meals that any 11 year-old would be pleased with, but what the hell? It's free.

Mondays, are for me, a particularly nice day to work. I've made my money over the weekend and Monday precedes my two days off in the week, so whatever tips I can charm out of people is gravy. Scratch to be spent on cocktails or lunch or whatever I choose. The ugliest part of Monday has got to be the ennui and tedium of refilling the sugar-caddies after they come from the dishwasher, but if that is the biggest thing I have to overcome on "My Friday", then I will suffer through. Then I remember that it is Monday. There is hot sausage grilling in the kitchen. The rice cooker is going full-force and I see empty cans of Blue Runner Red Beans in the garbage. My heart sinks to the floor and I wish that I had eaten before I came to work.

I still hold true to the commitment to uphold the traditions and unusual customs that make New Orleans such unique and wonderful place to live. A place that millions of songs have been written about. A place that has street names like Elysian Fields, Desire and Piety. A place that celebrates anything from Creole tomatoes to Gumbo and Mardi Gras. A place so rich with culture and absolutely filled with music. A place where the odd is commonplace. On my way home tonight, I passed a house on St. Peter Street in the Quarter where about thirty Santa Claus's were falling out of the front door in various stages of intoxication and undress. I love living here but, I will tell you, if I see another red bean, I am going to scream.

Just Because She's A Woman

2009-12-03T14:17:00.005-06:00

"The day we're born we start to die, don't waste one minute of this life, get to livin'"

Dolly Parton, Better Get To Livin'

Singer. Songwriter. Cultural Icon. Living Legend...

Turkey Re-Hash

2009-11-28T13:34:00.022-06:00

"No more turkey. I will have some more of the bread that it ate, though."

-Hank Ketchum

I love Thanksgiving. I could have it all year round. I adore the idea of a feast for your family and friends, good wine, lots of laughs and the splendid vision of a fully dressed turkey, proudly resting after a long, sizzling slumber in your oven, presented in a fashion that would make King Henry VIII himself, blush with envy. Basted until it yields the golden brown skin and succulent flesh that home cooks the world over seek yearly. I have read of many techniques designed to keep that bird juicy and moist, but most seem bizarre and too troublesome to even attempt. I read of one that tells you to roast your turkey breast-side down for a portion of the cooking time, then flip it over for the remainder. I can picture myself struggling with a hot, stuffed 20 lb turkey wearing some kind of clumsy gloves to turn the bird right side up. Probably splashing the contents of the roasting pan to the floor, disgorging some of the stuffing and, if I didn't drop the turkey to the goddamned floor, I would, at the very least, have a greasy mess to clean up when I would much rather be enjoying a bottle of vino tinto and perhaps a pharmaceutical or two, in the presence of some very nice people who have come to marvel at my skill in the kitchen. Forget that.

I am also a fan of brining. That is where the bird takes a 24-hour bath in a salt and sugar solution in the fridge before being brought to room temperature, dressed and roasted. My buddy and chef, Zac, has presented turkeys with tremendous success in the brining realm. Positively bursting with juice from neck-to-popes-nose. That term, popes nose, for those interested in food history, was began by the English Protestants during the Tudor period, to denote the tail of a roasting fowl and to express contempt for the Catholic Church by suggesting that the Pope's mouth was likened to a bird's asshole. It's filthy, filthy asshole... (For fans of Showtimes divine series, The Tudors, Season Three's DVD's drop on December 15th. I've discussed with my friend, Paul that I am already coming up with ways to cope when that series ends. Wish me luck.) Back to brining. Being that I had purchased a 20 pounder this year, there is nothing that I had at home or could purchase, for that matter, that would accommodate the size of this bird and the brine. I briefly considered buying one of those Ziploc Brand Giant bags, or whatever they are called, but the pictures on the box showed that the bags were designed for storing sweaters and blankets, but not one photo of a raw turkey submerged in brown liquid stashed in someones fridge. My beloved Nigella Lawson suggested to me to purchase a small garbage can for this purpose. Alas, though I follow the words of Ms. Lawson as if they are religion, who's fridge can accommodate a small wastepaper basket as well as everything else in the icebox needed for this day? Not to mention the regular groceries that reside in there as well? Brining was out.

Martha Stewart suggests soaking a length of cheesecloth in melted butter and wine and draping that over the turkey while roasting. I have heard of people actually doing this to great success. The turkey, as well as the cheesecloth become mahogany and the flesh is unbeatably delicious. Even though Martha Stewart is another of my illuminated inspirations, I went with a method that not only makes that bird incredibly moist, but provides the most velvety gravy you've tasted. Here I present my Maple-Roasted Turkey. This also works with a Sunday Night chicken and would be delicious with a pork-loin roast as well. Although with the latter, I would roast some charming lady apples alongside, to be presented as a buttery, spreadable condiment along with the pork. May legions of home cooks take note and grow rich:

Brandon's Maple Roasted Turkey

What You Will Require:

A glorious bird of any size
Your beloved Grandmother's Cornbread Dressing
A stick of butter, softened and blended with savory herbs (thyme, sage, marjoram)
Salt and Pepper
A pound of thick sliced bacon (first quality)
A half cup of pure maple syrup (no detestable maple flavored corn syrup, please.) diluted with a cup of water or stock
Some turkey stock

Procedure:
Preheat your oven to 425 degrees.
Bring the bird to room temperature after thoroughly washing in cold water and patting dry with paper towels. (This is a good time to drink a cup of coffee and smoke a cigarette, while thumbing through your latest issue of Martha Stewart Living, or just fantasizing about the marvelous feast you are going to present to your eager guests who will no doubt boast about your turkey for decades to come.) Remove the bag of guts from the cavity. Sometimes the processors will hide it in the neck cavity in what I am certain is an act of cruelness to an inexperienced home cook. I chop up the liver as fine as I can and blend it into the dressing. My grandmother would not have done this, but she also cooked pork until it was the texture of particle board. Break up the heart, neck and alarmingly enormous gizzard with a knife and strew the pieces on the bottom of the roaster with enough water to cover the bottom of the pan.
If you choose to stuff your turkey, be reminded that it will add some time to it's sojourn in the oven, do this now. Pack it in. Don't forget to stuff the neck cavity as well and tuck the neck flap under the bird's shoulders. This gives a turkey that beautifully rounded appearance, suggesting goodness and plenty for all.
Carefully loosen the breast skin and massage about half of your softened herby-butter all over. Gently melt the rest. (I used the same pan I sauteed the mirepoix for the dressing in) Don't neglect the turkey's armpits. Tuck the wing tips under the turkey's corpse, bring the skin around the cavity over the stuffing and fasten with wooden skewers. With cotton kitchen twine, cross the legs at the ankles and tie a tight knot so that the turkey appears to be coquettish and winsome, protecting it's cavity from prying eyes. Brush the entire bird with the melted herb-butter generously, and cover the entire pan tightly with heavy-duty aluminum foil for the first third of the required cooking time. Of course, times will vary according to the size of your turkey. I bought a 20lb turkey, so the foil was on for about two-hours. I adore leftovers.
Remove the foil and reduce the temperature to 350 degrees. Shingle the bacon over the entire breast and legs, overlapping the slices as you go. Brush the turkey with the diluted maple syrup and back into the oven, basting with the syrup mixture every 20-30 minutes. If you notice that the legs are getting too dark too soon, cover them loosely with foil.
At this point, the bacon will have begun rendering it's sweet and salty fat over the entire bird, anointing it with a haunting smokiness. When the bacon has reached the point that it is a crunchy carapace of, what is in fact, candied pork-belly, gently remove the bacon and reserve it to crumble over the finished bird, or chop it into bite-sized pieces and present to your guests as a homey amuse bouche. They will be grateful. When the turkey (and the dressing) has reached an internal temperature of 160 degrees, remove from the oven to a cutting board and tent with foil. A turkey can sit like this for a half-hour to forty-five minutes with no harm while you get on with the rest of it.

The Silken Gravy:

Tip the contents of the roasting pan into a strainer set into a wide-mouthed measuring cup, scraping any browned bits from the pans bottom. While the fat separates from the luscious drippings, get on with the potatoes or whatever else needs to be done. I had the very handsome Zak attend to the mashed potatoes while I did something else at this point. Carefully pour or spoon the fat off of the surface of the dripping, tipping about three tablespoons of the fat into a saucepan. Combine, over medium heat, the fat with an equal amount of flour and whisk until you have a nutty roux. Gradually add the dripping to the saucepan, whisking all the while. You may add some delicious homemade stock that you made the night before with a package of turkey-necks to your gravy at this point. Simmer and adjust the seasonings, whisking, whisking, whisking. Any juices that have accumulated on the cutting board should also be incorporated at this time.

I am not a very good carver, so, I usually leave that job to someone else. It is an honor to be asked to carve someone Else's turkey, so accept the duty as such. I think that in most cases, the hostess is so pleased to be able to share the work at this point, I believe because a few glasses of Prosecco and/or red-wine have been consumed by this time, handing a knife to someone else is a relief to say the least. Zak did a marvelous job.

A delightful feast followed with the obligatory "oohs" and "ahh's", richly complemented by Angelique's divine Mac and Cheese, Zak's delightful stuffed mirlitons (a delicacy in Louisiana), and, it goes without saying, the most marvelous company in the world. Thank you Sam, Angie and Zak for allowing me to demonstrate my love for you all by feeding you on this most wonderful of holidays. My former houseguest, but still glamorous, Toenisha Shabazz Johnson came in after work a little later and enjoyed a plate as well as a slice of Angelique's revelatory sweet potato pie. A staple of Southern holidays. It was a perfect example of what good sweet potato pie should be: not overly sweet and studded with pieces of sweet potato adding texture to each bite. Her crust was buttery and light and literally melted in your mouth. I ate the entire pie in less than two days.

Idea For Leftovers:

Turkey Shepherd's Pie!

Christmas time is a-coming, and I am planning to secure a ham with the bone removed, to stuff with a mixture of cheese grits and collard greens. This is a recipe that I came across in one of Nathalie DuPree's cookbooks. She is a marvelous woman with a real commitment to Southern food ways. She keeps her recipes deeply rooted in the past but with such a contemporary flair that one cannot call her "cornpone". More on the projected success of that ham after Christmas. And don't forget: Hoppin' John for New Year's Day! It is a firm belief that by not eating black-eyed peas on the first of the year, you will invite misery and poverty into your life to such a monstrous degree that you may never, ever recover from the ravages. It is best to eat some black-eyed peas. Don't say that you hadn't been warned.

Po' Boy Sunday

2009-11-23T00:51:00.012-06:00

"I am just a poor boy, though my story is seldom told. I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles such are promises."

-Paul Simon

Today I attended one of my favorite festivals in New Orleans. It is an annual orgy of which I have grown very fond. It is The Po' Boy Preservation Festival held on Oak Street Uptown. I have been eagerly anticipating the return of this popular festival since I first attended last year and joyously celebrated the City's most ubiquitous sandwich. Restaurants vie for the distinction of not only serving the most delicious Po' Boy in town, but also the most unique. I must have sampled at least five, and being a compulsive overeater, that is being mighty conservative, I can tell you. I attended the festival for the past two years with my dear friends, Angie and Zak, who, by their own admissions, are as fond of Po' Boys as the laws of nature will allow. Missing from this event was Toenisha Shabazz Johnson, who has been known to enjoy Po Boys (sandwiches, as well as the human variety) with as equally great gusto as myself and the recent newlyweds. Unfortunately, she was unable to attend due to work commitments, even though she had been scheduled the day off. It appears that The Sazerac Restaurant would have to close if she were to ever get sick or require a personal day. She paints a picture of her co-workers almost as a character study of Prissy in Gone With The Wind: lazy, incompetent, ignorant of midwifery. Despite her absence, a good time ensued, though she doesn't know what she missed. Look at the picture of the fun lovin' Po Boy enthusiasts below! Look at the size of them swimps! Only in New Orleans! Santa doesn't appear to have enjoyed many Po Boys this year, as he is quite svelte and trim. Maybe he has a tapeworm or just doesn't eat the bread.

It was hard to believe that an entire year had passed since a variety of tempting Po Boys passed my lips in one afternoon. We enjoyed a stuffed blue crab Po Boy dressed with a traditional remoulade, the beloved Parkway Tavern's Roast Beef Po Boy (which incidentally, could not be beat as far as flavor and value is concerned. A six inch sandwich covered with tenderly braised roast beef, Swiss cheese and mayonnaise for two dollars. AND a bag of Zapp's!) My favorite of the last two years, however, is prepared by a Vietnamese restaurant on the other side of the river, and is a wonderment of quality, freshness and flavor. A Vietnamese Pork Po Boy. Behold the glory: It is perfect in every way. The bread is fresh and has a delightful chew, the pork is sweet and savory, the cucumber salad and the cilantro perfectly balances the heat from the siracha. Perfection on a roll.

As well as about 50 food vendors, one offering what looked like grilled frozen pizza, (I know. At The Po Boy Festival. It is an abomination before God.) there were about seven bands, family-themed activities and a lot of local artists were exhibiting their work. The crowd grows by the hundreds as the hours go by, everyone sampling the riches stuffed into french bread loaves. I really wanted a commemorative T-shirt, but the only sizes available were small and 2XL. Believe me, I see no irony that the extra large tees were the first to disappear at The Po Boy Preservation Festival.

Amster-goddam

2009-11-20T00:09:00.002-06:00

"Throughout the city, there are as many canals and drawbridges as there are bracelets on a Gypsy's bronzed arms."

-Felix Marti-Ibanez

I am taking a departure from my typical writing of New Orleans and the glories within, to bring you a very specific memory that I have of my visit to Amsterdam.

I started my day rather late by most standards today, and after coffee and checking comments from a certain "social-networking" site that I belong to, I began in earnest to clean my apartment. I would have liked to wipe my ceiling fan blades of their own grime, but my ladder is still in Toenisha's keep, so I concentrated on other tasks at hand that haven't been dealt with since mid-summer, at least. In a freshly organized Treme apartment (other people who live in this divided house refer to their spaces as "condos", but, as I am the only renter in the house, I call it "my apartment"), I watched a very interesting documentary about regional sandwiches that included po-boys from Domilise's and Central Grocery's Original Muffaletta (ya heard me, Y'all?). See, I give a nod to the city that I love most of all, even in a non-designated post! I am so consistent. After the doco, I prepared taco meat to be enjoyed with the fixin's I like the most inside of a soft flour tortilla. Fresh tomato, grated cheese, lettuce and sour cream. I, regretfully am not enjoying beans tonight, as I forgot them in my order from Matassa's Grocery for delivery this afternoon. See, there I go again. (Shout out! Give it up to New Orleans, Y'all!) Anyway, after the sandwich movie, I started to prepare dinner around 9:00pm and had a glass of wine while listening to Cowboy Junkies croon on "Trinity Sessions". This only fueled my craving for more red wine, blues and cigarettes. Dinner is still unconsumed. (Hell, it is taco-meat. It can be reheated, effortlessly.) I picked up Nigella Lawson's new "look-book" titled Nigella Christmas. I have to tell you, it is a masterwork. I adore her cookbooks. I would never go in for such a book designated for seasonal cooking but hers. I read her seven books over and over as if they are novels. I love her use of language above all. "Bring the brownies, studded with candles, to the table set gloriously and seasonally alight." She is marvelous. I practically worship her.

In one of her chapters, devoted to sauces that can be stirred together from ready-made ingredients, she talks about Dijonaisse, which is really, just mayonnaise and mustard whisked lovingly together, to create a dip for veggies or a sauce to be served alongside carved meats or as a spread for sandwiches. She enjoyed a version of this sauce with pomme frites in Amsterdam, which inspired this post. Finally!

I visited Amsterdam a few years ago with a dear and former lover who was quite aquainted with the city. We stayed at a lovely gay B&B called "The Golden Bear". We arrived in Amsterdam around 9:30 am, and were unable to check in to the place until 1:00. I only had coffee on my mind, so we left our bags and headed out to a charming cafe on a canal and had sweet milky coffee accompanied by crisp pastries while looking at the reflections of canal houses on the water and romantically imagined our anticipated time in that great and beautiful city. We walked around a bit and took in the unusual sights that were familiar to my partner, but new to me. Eventually, we made our way back to the hotel and found our room on the third floor following a narrow and winding staircase. The room itself was very modernly appointed and decidely masculine in its decor. A hidden vanity behind what seemed to be a closet door, revealed such a wonderment to me: a stainless steel sink and fixtures imbedded in fine blonde oak accompanied by minimalist, but effective lighting with a three way mirror designed into the doors. Everything was either wood or black or chrome tying it all together. The toilet was across the narrow hall, as was the shower facility, to be shared between four different rooms on the floor. Finding the accommodations lovely, we made love and napped for a few hours. We awoke and found ourselves very hungry. Bill insisted that the only thing he would eat while in Holland were the pomme frites that the city is renowned for. I accepted and was led to a fry-stand where crisply fried potatoes are prepared to order, and served in a paper cone positively doused with whatever sauce you would like. I chose the ubiquitous mayonnaise, knowing that I would have opportunities to try the different varieties in the days to come. They were more delicious than I ever thought french-fries could be. Crisp and golden and as satisfying as I was told they would be. We proceeded to a place known as April, where there was a revolving bar and the loosest happy-hour on the planet. Immediately upon arrival, Bill was greeted by a smilin' Irish lass known as Kelly (go figure), who remembered him from previous debaucheries in the place. I decided to stick with white wine, you know, to keep myself in check, right? All was fine and mellow. The crowd was jovial and friendly and the good times rolled. The revolving bar opened up in the mirrored back of the bar at 7:00, so why not? We were seated with the fair Irish gal as the barkeep at the carouselled bar, and continued our happy hours. Every fucked-up or refused drink passed our way, due to my lover's association with the place. Red vermouth? Really? Oh, it's a shot! Glug glug glug....When Kelly asked us if we smoked, we both said, "not cigarettes, Kelly." (See, I didn't smoke Marlboro's at the time. I had stopped.) She promptly produced a hash cigarette for us to enjoy. Everything after this point is kind of hazy...I remember Kelly recommending places for late night eats. Finding the toilet was a challenge with the revolving bar and all. The bar actually increased in RPH as the evening wore on. I recall emerging from the bar to a light, cold mist of rain and then eating pizza somewhere...

I awoke in our room somewhere around dawn, in our bed, in my underwear, completely soaked with my urine. Full bladder release had occurred and I was sure that it was mine. Never a signal, never an "I'm-standing-in-front-of-the-toilet-peeing" dream to wake up from suddenly or anything. Full bladder release in my sleep. I uneasily pulled over to Bill's side of the bed and dozed off. We awoke with the problem. "What do we do?", I asked. Bill said, "Just pull the bedding off and it will be alright. Let housekeeping take care of it." I did as my lover recommended, and we set off on our second adventurous day in Amsterdam. Of course, we started the day with pomme frites. This time, I tried mine with the mustard sauce that stained my mouth yellow with a brilliant golden color. Although delicious, I had to take care of the yellow teeth situation. In my mind I could recover from that by buying some chewing gum and chewing the stains away. Let me tell you, European gum is different from our tender, intensely pepperminty kind. It is hard and waxy and hardly amounts to a tiny tooth-sized lump in your mouth, doing no good at all. Regretful in fact...European drugstores are a different matter altogether. More on that later.

We arrived at Anne Frank's House and toured the hallowed place where they hid for so long before being ratted out to the Nazis. I wondered what she was complaining about. The attic was huge! Much bigger than any apartment I have ever had! I remembered reading about David Sedaris's visit to the same place. He raced from room to room with the same idea. "Have you seen this toilet?", he exclaimed when he saw the polite Delft porcelain potty in it's own little enclosed closet. Upon leaving the museum, you are confronted with an interactive feature designed to determine how much of an intolerant racist you are...I figured a 6-out-of-10. Not bad, I think. Afterward, we sought out a restaurant famous for Dutch-style pancakes. The Dutch bake anything into a thin, big-as-a-spread-out-newspaper pancake that you can imagine. I had mine with ham, caramelized red onion and Gouda. The friendly and very handsome waiter told us to try the beet syrup on the table that resembled a thin molasses. It was divine on the meat and sweetly studded, folded paper-thin lunch I enjoyed. It's flavor cannot be compared with anything that I can think of. Deep and minerally comes to mind when I consider wine-tasting terms.

Afterward, we walked through a few shops. One was a deluxe drug-store. If only America had pharmacies such as these! Contact lenses and pain killers readily available without a prescription! I would have bought some new contacts, if only I had my prescription. Dammmit!

Instead I purchased some salty licorice for Gyps and some chocolates for later.

We retired to The Golden Bear for a nap before re-entering the decadent world of Amsterdam. Upon entry to the room, I discovered a note on the bed that asked me personally, to see Management at my earliest convenience. I assumed that it had something to do with international billing, and we made love in the raunchy reflection of the three-way mirrors. When we were ready to emerge from our love nest, we descended the winding stairs, and I approached the front desk about the note that was left on our bed. The conversation went something like this:

Innkeeper: "Housekeeping was very surprised to find your bed wet, very wet this morning when they went in to service the room."

Me: " Oh. Sorry about that. We got very drunk last night and the jet-lag and everything..."

Innkeeper: "It doesn't matter. What matters is that we need you to pay for the cleaning of the bed. It is going to be 125 Euros."

Me: "Oh...OK, Um...can I pay when I check out or.."

Innkeeper: "We need you to pay as soon as you can. This room cannot be let again with a urine soaked mattress. We have to have it cleaned and replaced and..."

Me: "I understand."

I left that hotel completely mortified. Bill was on the street in front of The Golden Bear. When I told him what had transpired, he was amused. All I could think about was my shame in front of that desk at The Golden Bear. We walked into a completely different area of town that was filled with huge and imposing structures. I'm not aware of what I was looking at, they must have been government buildings or something. We went to a cafe where I ordered a Coca-Cola and a hash cigarette, like the one Kelly presented us with the night before. After two tokes, I needed to deal with the new monetary responsibility I had. I decided that it was better to withdraw the funds now and present them to the hotel desk before there was a shift change and I had to talk to a new attendant about the situation. I went to an ATM, took out the cash required by The Golden Bear for my accident. Stoned as Hell and high as Heaven's clouds, I approached the desk with the money in shaking hands. The conversation went as follows, with Bill by my side:

Me: "i have brought the money you require..."

Innkeeper: "Thank you. You know, sometimes people think they can come here and do whatever they please. That is fine, but, the next time you want to do that sort of thing, there is a shower directly across the hall fro your room."

Me: " Uhhh....(mouth agape) OK"

Again, I was mortified leaving the hotel. Again, Bill was amused, "Did you hear that?" he said. "That guy thought that we were pissing on each other!" I was not amused, until I told the story later. Not only was I out about $200, but I was labelled as a piss-queen in Holland. Oh dear. Thankfully, our stay at The Golden Bear was limited as we were leaving Holland for Scotland in the next two days. I mean, you couldn't enter or leave the hotel without walking past that front desk. Forget about enjoying the breakfast that was inclusive with your stay. Who knows what kind of new "friends" we would have made. Golden Bears, no doubt.

The Good, The Bad And The Fugly

2009-11-09T00:50:00.005-06:00

"There ain't nothin' big or easy about it."
-random bar guy

As a New Orleans blogger, I have committed to celebrating the glories of this Enchanted City, not because I haven't experienced anything negative, but because I still believe that the city that I fell in love with long ago still exists amid the staggering crime rate and abject poverty that is constantly reported or covered up by a notoriously corrupt local government or ridiculously unprofessional media. Have you read the Picayune? I mean, there are some very informative and smart reporters out there, but come on. The paper generally reads like some backwater Pentecostal church bulletin. To adequately report the crime here in the Crescent City would probably require a weekly gazette the size of a Sunday paper without the funnies and Best Buy and Target circulars.

I moved to New Orleans in the Spring of 2008 with the full knowledge of the crime level of the city. I took an apartment in the Faubourg Treme knowing that it is a tough neighborhood. Across Esplanade Avenue from my house there is a church that displays a Murder List. It must be up to 175 murders so far in November (slow year). Still, I behaved as though I was untouchable. If I was careful to notice any suspicious cretin walking behind me on my way home from the bars at 2:27 am, I would rob any would be assailant of their greatest power, the element of surprise, before they could rob me. The other night as Toenisha and I parted at my stoop on Marais Street and she headed toward her own tony Esplanade address (immediately around the corner), she was accosted by some thug who thinks it is far quicker to stick a gun into someones back and then forehead instead of working an "honest" job to get whatever he can. Unfortunately, he is right. In less that a minutes work, he got away with a single dollar, some shoes and a cell phone amongst other things that would eventually prove absolutely useless to him. The greatest of his spoils was an iPod that any honest person can probably pick up at Wal-Mart for $50. Even though Toenisha carries herself like a person of immense wealth, it is purely charisma. Wealth of talent and character. Yes. Try as you might, you will never steal that from my dear companion.

My dear friend Angelique, who, by the way is turning into Earth Mother Angie by the day due to her common sense and frugality with a buck and affinity for organic anything, has been offering me the sagest (is that a word?) of advice since I moved to New Orleans. "Take cabs. We live in a city where things like muggings and jackings are commonplace. You better start acting like you live in a city like that, because you know what? You do." Really, it makes the most sense. What business on Earth does a white guy, gay or otherwise, have to walk home under the influence of alcohol into one of the most dangerous areas in the city? I mean, New Orleans is the most pocketed city in the country as far as crime and income levels go. Even our friends who live above Canal Street have the same outlook and they have lawns! I happen to think that I live on the most gentrified and beautiful street in the Treme, but right next door a few months ago, a drive by shooting occurred and it shook me apart. Obviously it was what is known widely as retaliation crime, but what the fuck? When I reported it to the police I was called a "snitch" at work by the guys who fit the description of Toenisha's attacker to the T. Shoulder length braids, dark complected, medium build, about 5' 11", around 26 years of age wearing a black hoodie. I have just described about 35% of the black male population in New Orleans. Shit! I work with two of that guy!

Within my first year in New Orleans, I was confronted with a most dastardly crime that hit so close to home and threatened to alter my view of this lovely place. A beloved French Quarter bartender that seemingly everyone knew was gunned down on Governor Nicholls in the residential area of the Quarter by kids for about $40. I did not know Wendy personally. I mean, she served me drinks a time or two at The Starlight Lounge, and I saw her performance as a naughty Dorothy Gale in a turn-about-show, but her tragedy affected me deeply. "This is a person in my community", I thought as I grasped for answers as everyone else did. I walked that same beat alone most nights, and she was shot to death around eight p.m. Still, I walked these streets, determined not to give into fear. Out of that horrible instance, I got to experience one of the most revered and beautiful of New Orleans customs: The Jazz Funeral. Literally hundreds of people showed up that day to demonstrate respect and support for the unfortunate demise of a well loved lady. The second-line route was lined with mourners who, if they weren't marching, were waving hankies like snow white doves in the streets of the French Quarter. We observed a moment of silence where she died to the strains of "Just A Closer Walk With Thee" played simply and mournfully on a trumpet. Afterwards, the music gained in glorious tempo and we marchers filled the streets in celebration of life. I will never forget hearing a choir of 300 singing the chorus of "St. James Infirmary" on Decatur Street that afternoon. Not an eye was dry, I can tell you. Even in writing this, I am wiping tears from my eyes from the overwhelmingly emotional experience that it was and obviously still is.

Even though I am disgusted by the incident and so sorry for my sister's experience within the first few days of her own independent New Orleans life, I am greatly heartened by her insistence to progress in the wonderful place that we call home. I am grateful to God for not allowing it to have been any worse. I believe that good always triumphs over evil. I think that no one gets away with anything for very long, and I still believe that New Orleans is the place that I love the most.

Autumnal Indulgence

2009-10-30T23:51:00.020-05:00

"New Orleans food is as delicious as the less criminal forms of sin."

-Mark Twain

New Orleanians have long enjoyed a lusty love affair with food. Of course this City is famous world over for it's cuisine and reputation for sensual over-indulgence. We are as famous for our desserts as we are for our extremely relaxed liquor laws. I think it is the way we approach eating with such unabashed revelry that I enjoy of all of the indulgences here. It is commonly observed that when we are eating lunch, we are discussing what we are having for dinner. My regular readers will remember a previous post entitled "Of Friends and Pot Roast", where I entertained my dear friends and recent newlyweds, Angie and Zak along with my glamorous houseguest, La Shabazz. I recently had the pleasure of combining that marvelous company once again. This time, we congregated over a lot of pleasing and hearty appetizers. Angelique has conquered any notions that you may have about cheese balls and has taken both the idea and the execution to new and dizzying heights. Her cheese balls are about the size of a six year old boy's head and boast twice the heft. They are constructed from an assortment of high quality fromages, scented with roasted garlic and rolled unapologetically in Neuske's bacon (a particularly divine example of the applewood smoked variety from Wisconsin). This was served along with some water crackers and crisply roasted potatoes to drag through the cheese ball. Also featured on our beautiful and enticing buffet was a Nigella Lawson inspired onion pie, redolent with the sweetness of caramelized red onion and the scintillating perfume of thyme. Angelique also brought some rillettes accompanied by fresh bread-and-butter pickles from Cochon Butcher, an offshoot of Donald Link's wildly successful restaurant in the Warehouse District, Cochon. We doused the evening with quite a few bottles of vin rouge, and Toenisha and I led the singing for the occasion with a moving rendition of "I'll Fly Away" with Angie as our special vocal guest. This of course led to another of our high-spirited musicales, singing late into the evening long after our guests had gone home.

When I first returned to New Orleans after Katrina, I remember feeling a little disheartened that the French Market no longer had a bewildering array of produce. I remember on previous visits buying a slice of fresh watermelon from a vendor and walking around enjoying the sweet coldness of my favorite summer melon. I'm glad to report that the newly renovated front portion of the market boasts fresh produce, fresh local seafood, a spice market and a full-service lunch counter that specializes in authentic local fare. The produce section was bursting with an assortment of Autumnal pleasures. The bins were filled with sugar cane, ready to be pressed into juice and berled into the darkly haunting syrup that Louisianians seem to prefer over it's smokily robust sibling, molasses. Pumpkins and gourds also heralded the arrival of Fall with their warty and clementine-hued figures. More nuts than a stick could be shaken at were also a feature of the cornucopia that is The French Market.

Of course, The Eve of All Hallows is upon us. This is such a well regarded holiday in the Crescent City, not that anyone here needs a reason to dress up. What does astonish me, however, is how people decorate their homes with false gauzy cobwebs and spiders and representations of ghosts and ghouls seemingly floating above the Gothic balconies. So much of the gentle decay of this haunted place seems to render such embellishments unnecessary.This place has always had a rather dark and creepy atmosphere anyway. Many examples I've seen of this decor closely resemble the horrors that lie under my bed. That bunny hutch is blood curdling, trust me.

Oh my God! I Live In Louisiana!

2009-10-12T13:21:00.016-05:00

"I want to play white trash. I swear to God!"

-Joan Van Ark

Yesterday marked my second trip to Angola Penitentiary as part of a tour group from New Orleans to take in the sights and sounds and indeed the smells of the Angola Prison Rodeo, which is the largest prison rodeo in North America, and possibly the world. The bus trip is beautifully organized by Lance Pippen, our bartender at Tubby's Golden Lantern as a fund-raiser for LSGRA, (Louisiana State Gay Rodeo Association) and included about fifty homosexuals from New Orleans. Oh, what a time was had! What is the allure, you may ask? Well, a busload of homosexuals being served cocktails en route to see hardcore prisoners cum cowboys get the shit knocked out of them by charging bulls for a couple of hours of course.. It does sound appealing, I know. We boarded the bus around 9 a.m., leaving behind the City of New Orleans and began drinking cheap cocktails all in the name of charity. Of course, drinking without cigarettes kind of diminishes the pleasure of drinking in the first place, as no smoking is allowed on the bus. Needless to say, by the time of our disembarkation, I was ready to kill. Surly with drink, what better way to enter one of the most notorious maximum security prisons in the world? I can't think of another. It's a good thing I was reared to know how to behave when you are a guest in someone else's home, or my desire to become a pen pal with a prisoner may well have been as simple as passing a desperately scrawled note to a no doubt handsome recipient in the cell next door. A cig and something to eat were truly my only desires at this point while rain sheeted on the terra-cotta clay of Louisiana.

Upon entering the gates there is an instant sense of malice when you realize that these guys did some pretty bad stuff to get to spend time, all of their time here. They didn't just pass a bad check or run out on a cabbie without paying the fare. What astonished me most was how this is considered to be highly anticipated family entertainment in Louisiana.And Texas, Arkansas and Mississippi. Some families drove overnight to attend the event. When I say "families", I mean Mom, Dad, Gramma in a Hover-Round, pre-teens, toddlers, babies and one on the ways. My family didn't take vacations when I was a child, but I can't imagine that I would have considered communing with pure, unadulterated white-trash to be all that glamorous. I had to wait until adulthood to experience that pleasure. Dear Readers, let me assure you that if you thought that inbreeding was some colossal outhouse joke relegated to Appalachia, let me assure you that it is alive and well in the State of Louisiana. Never in my life have I seen so many eyes spaced so close together, nor have I seen so many ears spaced so far apart. Women with beards, pregnant 15 year olds and more morbid obesity than you can shake a stick at. Want some Fried Coke? Get it and alot more at the prison rodeo, my friends.. After entering the stands to watch the rodeo, I was often distracted by the spectators, and didn't raise my eyes to the action in the ring until the crowd let out a mighty roar as a prisoner was trampled by a Brahma bull or thrown from a horseI didn't miss out on much. My glamorous houseguest will confirm that I ritually seek out the vile and repugnant on the internet, so I indeed had a visual feast as I scanned the crowd for contestants in my quest to see if I recognized anyone from http://thepeopleofwalmart.com/. It's that fantastic.

One of my favorite features of the rodeo is checking out is the hobby-craft portion of the affair. This is how these guys spend the copious amount of time behind bars. Aside from the hand-tooled leather Bible cases and belts, there is a plethora of furniture that only has it's place in rural Louisiana. Double wooden rockers with a table between to hold your favorite beverage while you watch the gnats rise in great clouds from your back porch. My favorite things are the bits of furniture designed with small children in mind. There are wooden potty chairs emblazoned with both the logo and the image of Hannah Montana in all her pure, virginal sugary goodness that I can't help but imagine that some convict has masturbated over. Likewise with the hoochie images of The Bratz, or Dora the Exporer for that matter. There was a line of wooden coin banks that looked like fairy-tale wishing wells with handpainted representations of the Disney Princesses on the front. One passenger on our bus actually purchased one that presented a likeness of Cinderella, but with enormous boobs and crossed eyes. "Someday My Prince Will Come". Not for you Cindy, but probably from the $10 tuggie you'll give him in the parking lot.

Louisiana is a Sportsman's Paradise. This was reinforced by my witnessing people proudly walking away with beautifully hand-carved representations of mounted catfish and (my design friends will love this) a circular saw blade with a stag's head painted on it, mounted to a piece of wood. I mean, the image was very true and realistic to what a ten-point buck looks like, but it's painted on a circular saw blade. What must the interior of your home look like for this to blend in to your decor? I'm picturing full gun racks, stained recliners, everything Budweiser and an old Community Coffee can to spit your chaw into. As we were leaving the prison grounds, high above most people in our chartered bus, I got to witness a pick-up truck with two LSU rocking chairs in the bed with guys sitting in them ready for backroads travel. I hope they waited until they left the prison grounds before popping the tops of the PBR cans they no doubt had in the ice chest between them. Even though the things I saw were completely foreign and bludgeoning to my personal aesthetics, I couldn't help but envy the carefree way these people found such pleasure in such simple things. If I wasn't raised with the specter of being aware of what people thought of me, I too may have been perched on a chair in the bed of a pick-up truck, happily imagining where my new LSU chair might look best while feeling the wind in my face with a cousin next to me, sharing the same idea.

The skyline of New Orleans had never looked so beautiful as we approached the city from the freeway. We disembarked from our adventure, sleepy, tired and dirty and went our separate ways. I arrived home in need of a hot shower and a cold drink. Sleep came easily with my dreams full of wooden cabinets with separate bins marked "Bread", "Onions" and "Potatoes". Actually, I think my mom would have loved that one.

New Orleans Recovery Lies In Fried Chicken

2009-10-01T12:16:00.007-05:00

"I should be back in Macon takin' it easy.
If a mans gonna eat fried chicken he's gotta
get greasy."
-from Tulsa Turnaround, Kenny Rogers

My days off this week were completely fraught with fun, excitement, disgrace, and as always tons and tons of laughs. Tuesday saw me with the doors and windows of the house completely flung open to take advantage of the cool near-autumnal breezes and the low humidity that we in the South have been craving. I had one of my extended telephone conversations with someone who I think is my oldest friend. Tonya and I have known each other since ninth-grade and she is really the only person from that long ago who I still keep in contact with. We don't speak that often, but when we do, it's as if no time has passed at all. Utter shock sets in when we realize that we are pushing forty. "How the fuck did this happen?" It seems like just yesterday we were skipping school in god forsaken places where we should have met our peril and demise: abandoned houses in the St. Petersburg Southside, Interstate overpasses and tiny clearings amid bushes and trees where we could sing, smoke cigarettes and avoid the social confines of high school. I had to repeat the tenth grade because of these escapades into the unknown. Ahhh, the folly of youth. I wouldn't have changed it for the world.

When Kevin came home from work, we set off on one of our grand tours of the French Quarter bars that I will here on out refer to as working the chitlin' circuit. Our first stop on the chitlin' circuit is a bar known as the Double Play. The Double Play is a rather low bar that I have been frequenting recently. It is known for the availability of black transsexuals and rough trade hustlers. Until I came to New Orleans, I didn't realize that there was no age limit to be a prostitute. Nor is there a number of teeth standard. Just sport some India ink tattoos and have perpetual hard luck and you too can make a living in the Upper Quarter. It is really one of the only bars left where the scent of the surreal pervades the mind. Having found the Double Play a bit more depressing than entertaining, we moved on to the more homey atmosphere of the Golden Lantern. It too has it's surrealistic ambiance, but, being regulars, it just seems rather everyday. After a few polite tipples and funtime conversation, we decided to head to Good Friends for karaoke so that the entire world could grow rich from our song stylings. After all, we had a marvelous time a couple of weeks ago. Frankly, we found the so called "Karaoke DJs" to be vulgar and not at all aware of what true talent lies in the Crescent City. After a few songs and a rather regretful shot that was given to us, we left. Actually, my delicate system found the shot so unacceptable that I had to walk outside so that it could be violently expelled from my gut. Unfortunately, while in mid-retch, an officer of the NOPD rolled by and shone his light in my direction. Having mistaken it for a tiny pinspot on my tear-streaked face, I returned to the bar, ready to take the stage for "Over The Rainbow." When the DJs did not call us up for our last number, we denounced them for the terrible hacks they are and decided that karaoke at Good Friends was no longer good enough for these friends. We fell into a cab to go home, never to return for DJ P and Ricki Dee's perversion of a marvelous and misunderstood artform.

We met the next morning with deep regret and phrases like "Can't blame anyone but me. I did this to myself",and "Oh God", and "We are terrible alcoholics". Toenisha greeted the day with some mystery injuries that we may never know the origins of. We had planned a day of shopping at Dorignac's Food Center in Metarie and kicked it off with a delightfully restorative luncheon at Willie Mae's Scotch House. Willie Mae's is a historic restaurant in the Treme that has the prestigious distinction, according to The James Beard Foundation and The Southern Foodways Alliance of serving the best fried chicken in the United States. I absolutely cannot disagree.The exterior is airy and crisp with an interior that is both melting and toothsome at the same time. No wonder people from all over the world seek out this old renovated house in a bad neighborhood to savor the riches of the skillet. The menu is brief but wonderfully authentic. The sides are generous and display the beauty of simplicity that great Southern food is celebrated for

Feeling human again, we left the city for the suburb of Metarie. Dorignac's Food Center is a unique shopping experience that has been serving the New Orleans Metro area since 1947. I would consider it to be a "boutique" grocery with all of the things you would find in a corporate supermarket but joyfully filled with artisanal items and fantastic meat and produce departments. It was a real treat to find such beautiful cheeses like a super sharp cheddar from Australia and goats cheese from Wales among so many others. The liquor department is quite extensive, taking up the back third of the store. There are lots of prepared foods that can be taken home and enjoyed or savored in house in a casual old New Orleans way. We left the store, laden with groceries and headed home to relax and see out the rest of the day in the comfort of a humidity free, late September afternoon. My neighbors have thoughtfully placed a table and chairs in our courtyard. Imagine, finally enjoying the lush, sun dappled courtyard beneath the yawning banana trees that grace the charming enclosure and indeed, our lives. New Orleans living at it's most casual and comfortable is what I have always dreamed of.

Silliness, A State Of Grace

2009-09-20T12:31:00.018-05:00

"Entertainment and art are not isolated."

-Martin Kippenberger

When I came to New Orleans to live, I decided that I was going to do without cable television. I had cable TV in my last apartment in Florida, and realized that when I was at home, the TV was on constantly. I had about 700 channels and never found anything worthwhile to watch. I rarely read books or magazines, I have an enormous CD collection that was barely ever explored or listened to. Since I began this rather daring "experiment", I am pleased to say that I always have something to read, my periodicals do not get backed up and the pleasure of having music on in the background is infinitely better than hearing the hacksaw voice of Rachel Ray, ever.

I still enjoy some visual entertainments, however. I have a Netflix account that really gives me my money's worth. I receive television series from time to time, but the difference is that I choose what I want to watch and when. Some episodic series are very addictive. For instance, I just concluded the fifth season of Nip/Tuck. The depravity is staggering...This of course does not hold a candle to the fabulous melodramas and comedies that appear live on stage any given day of the week at 1239 Marais Street. I am speaking of the improvisational antics of myself and my glamorous houseguest.

We constantly entertain each other. The common goal of everyday life is for one to crack the other one up. Sometimes costumes and mouth props are employed to great effect. We enjoy each others well-developed sense of the absurd and general silliness. The entertainments typically commence with the tiniest drop of alcohol, savored in such pristine amounts as though it were the last of Aunt Pittypat's fine Madeira. There is much singing and our unique harmonies fill the air. These occasions I shall here on out refer to as musicales. We frequently hold musicales in my kitchen while waiting for dinner to be prepared or a delectable dessert to be pulled from my lovin' oven. During one such musicale, I prepared a cherry pie. As there was Southern Gospel crooning from the surround-sound, we adopted a Plantation theme. I don't think that antebellum house-workers ever had such fine, golden grilles as we do. So flashy! What a strange reality we inhabit. Seriously. By the way, the grilles were extravagantly bestowed upon us several Christmases ago by our dear sister Gyps, who was often in attendance for past musicales. Gyps, as you read this, please know that there is no earthly way of displaying our gratitude. The grilles really are a gift that keeps on giving.

One day, as Kevin returned from work, he was greeted by none other that Little Edith Beale, The Worlds Greatest Danseur.

Unfortunately, no genuine photographs exist of this instance, but you get the idea. Imagine, a chenille throw and a t-shirt improvised as a head scarf can create enchantment. As Hallowe'en is fast approaching, and is a well loved and eagerly anticipated holiday in New Orleans, you, dear readers, should be absolutely beside yourselves with the maddening thrill of seeing the New Beales of Grey Gardens in a very tasteful photographic essay. More to come! You'll have never dealt with such staunch characters!

A more recent musicale saw a loving tribute to Sister Wendy, the beloved bucktoothed British nun/art historian. She had a very profound effect on us when we watched her eloquently explain important artworks in galleries and museums world-over. See how we appear to explain important artworks in my home?
We realize that this is a rather obscure reference, but those in the know will no doubt be touched by this moving series. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

It is non-stop, madcap fun. I imagine that our musicales and theatre were quite similar to how the world entertained itself before the advent of radio or television. Generations of people world over sang, danced, performed morality plays and struck interesting tableaux for the sake of fighting ennui.
From shadow puppetry projected by firelight onto cave walls to Live! With Peaches and Toenisha! Frankly, Cox Cable can suck it...

Post-Decadence Blues

2009-09-08T12:40:00.023-05:00

"I have always thought of sophistication as a rather feeble substitute for decadence."

-Christopher Hampton

As Southern Decadence has come to a close, and my vacation time shrinking by the minute, I am experiencing that post-event let-down that I can only equate with how one feels the day after Christmas. After all the planning, preparation and anticipation, it ends before you've even realized the joy of the day itself and you ask yourself, ala Peggy Lee, "Is that all there is?"

Don't get me wrong. I had a wonderful weekend! I embarked on a lovely romance with a handsome Texan (wink wink), took in a parade with my glamourous houseguest and Angelique, and really got an eye-full of what gives this beloved holiday it's name. It truly is the Greatest Show On Earth for an avid people-watcher/voyeur like myself. Cocktails go down and inhibitions be damned. This city does that to people.There is literally something for everyone to enjoy on this most festive of weekends. For my readers who weren't in attendance for the spectacle, I render a Decadence Diorama:

Miss Rikki Redd looks stunning in her ensemble for the day. Feathery!

The Belle Of Carroll County. Twangy!

Fantasia in Yellow. Booby!

Some cute Maritime Bears. Grrrrrowly!

Fruit Stripe Gum Panties. Chewy!

Southern Decadence '09

2009-09-04T12:49:00.003-05:00

Welcome to New Orleans, Y'all.

Have An Eggroll, Mr. Goldstone

2009-08-29T13:18:00.012-05:00

"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

2009-08-20T14:51:00.005-05:00

ANGELIQUE IS AFRAID OF HUGE RABBITS

Where Beauty Lives In Memory

2009-08-20T13:11:00.008-05:00

"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

2009-08-09T12:53:00.005-05:00

"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

2009-08-02T13:29:00.000-05:00

"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.

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

2009-07-24T11:54:00.000-05:00

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

2009-07-21T09:20:00.000-05:00

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

2009-07-14T23:36:00.000-05:00

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

2009-07-14T22:07:00.000-05:00

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

2009-07-11T13:21:00.001-05:00

"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

2009-07-08T16:19:00.000-05:00

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!"