O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.
--William Shakespeare
King Henry V. Prologue.
I would especially like to recourt the Muse of poetry, who ran off with the mailman four years ago, and drops me only a scribbled postcard from time to time.
--John Updike
February 15, 2007
9:27PM
I stepped out of work briefly, around 9pm, to catch site of the Krewe de Muse parade.
The Krewe of Muse is the only all girl parade that travels at night. See more about it here:
http://www.kreweofmuses.org/
(note: these are last years floats)
Fun fact: In this part of Uptown all the streets are named after famous muses. As Krewe of Muse points out, this is a city that pronounces almost all of them incorrectly. For example, and something I find very ironic, the muse of eloquence and poetry, Calliope, is the name of a major street here that runs under the 90 connector & i10. They pronounce Calliope: Kal-ee-ope. Hm, eloquent.
Other muses now streets are Clio (pronounced Kly-oh), Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene (pronounced Melp-oh-mean), Polyhymnia, Terpischore, Thalia and Urania)
Our offices are about one block from St. Charles (on Prytania between Clio & Erato).
In that little corner of St. Charles next to Emeril’s Restaurant and across from the Popeyes (yes they’re on the same block) the crowds are fairly thin, so it’s easy to hop out of work and see a bit of the parades as they go by. If not, they are viewable from the POC’s office window. If there were a balcony there it would be prime real estate in a city that rents them out by the day during the Mardi Gras season.
That corner is not the best place for beads as most Krewe’s seem to save them, fearing they won’t have enough for the end, until they hit Lee Circle and then a bit later, Canal. Of course when they reach the end, usually on Canal or right off, they go nuts unloading everything that’s left. I need to see one parade down there before I leave.
Mardis Gras is not about amateur drunks and tourists, about Bourbon Street and under age boobies and gaudily decorated décolletage, made only more apparent b/c the ladies faces are masked. Its about political statements and community, about family and neighbors…or at least up until they body-check one another in a full out rugby tackle for some plastic baubles.
9:38pm
Back in the office. We still haven’t wrapped. I was warned that when in a controllable atmosphere, Fincher will shoot until everyone drops dead if he is allowed. Crew call was at 9:30am, so theoretically we should be wrapping shortly, actually around now, but the first shot after lunch wasn’t until 4:53pm, so in the sarcastic words of Tyler from editing, “Ah, have fun guys” Yes, that’s right, I see images of 2am and it ain’t pretty. Theo’s pizzas are probably being rushed to set by either Hiro or Derrick or Nathan as I write this, or whatever pizza joint is out there in Harahan as they’re at the NIMS center today. This might be a $200MM picture, but Fincher still shoots like he’s on a $6MM budget, most of the money is going on the screen, and its pizza as second meal.
10:14pm
Ah, we’re on the Abbey. Hallelujah. Yet, that doesn’t really mean much. He could be on that for the next two hours. I’ll get excited when I hear we’re on the Martini.
10:25pm
I find that any day that Brad is shooting is a much longer day. I’ve heard rumors of the arduous hours in make-up. Since he ages backwards, making him look 60 and 30 in the same day takes serious prosthetics and fabulous lighting, all of which takes a significant amount of time.
Back in the office, away from the energy of the parade, it’s a strange sensation to sit in dim light (the Christmas lights being our majority source; we now call them Mardis Gras lights) with only Justin, the hum of the heating vent (yes its actually 32 degrees outside) and this computer to keep me company. It’s quiet in here, except for the muted noise of revelers and brass, baton twirler’s chants and drum lines emanating through the blinds.
Peaceful and uplifting in a city of chaos and travesty; New Orleans, my consummate contradictory muse.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
February 13th 2007- Come High Water or Hell
2:30am my alarm is going off.
I don’t understand it, I set the damn thing for 8am. I double check the battery run contraption that I’ve had for ages, and yes, it says 8am. So what the heck?
It’s at this point that I hear what I must’ve subconsciously heard for the past half an hour, a loud thundering of rain, or what I would later find out is hail. It sounds almost comforting and starts to lull me back to sleep. The lightening is so white that it seems like a cavalcade of cars driving past my window, almost every second. I grab my flannel encased pillow and cuddle it, about to drift back into slumber when the explosions begin. Loud pops that crash through my head like a mallet. Has a transformer exploded? I peer through the blinds, rain is coming down hard enough that it’s blinding my view. I think things are strewn about, but I can’t quite tell.
The power goes out outside, quickly comes back on. I sigh, then hold my breath. Maybe what I feared the last time (when the power went off in my office) is what will happen; maybe it won’t stay on. As quickly as the thought flashed through my head the lights were out. And they were staying out. Silence, except for the rain. The booms have ceased.
I’m alone. Rob is in Massachusettes. I’m alone with the sound of the rain, and the sudden scratching and scampering within the walls. Damn rats.
I peer out my blinds and turn on my phone for light. I rush to find the one candle on the coffee table. I light it. Wait. Listen.
I’ll be honest. I’m scared. This is not the city I want to be in when a black-out happens.
I go back to the window. Peer out. Checking on my Foxy Jilopi.
A man approaches from the right side of the frame, seems to see the light in my apartment. Stops. I close the phone, hold my breath, let the blind gently slip shut. He seems to be trying to look into my window. Damn it, I forgot it was pulled up at the bottom, above the air conditioner. As he’s about to walk away, the candle flickers (stupid, I should’ve blown it out) and he pauses again. Perhaps he too is spooked, maybe by the light, because he then quickly heads out into the street. I hear another man join him. The lightening seems to be moving further away, behind us toward the i10, up toward Lake Pontchatrain. The light casting his shadow across the street, he disappears into the haze of the black and greys of the night which camouflage him. I can’t see him any longer, although I know he’s out there. He was standing still looking down the street, but now my eyes have blended him into the background, are playing tricks on me. Maybe he has moved on. I don’t know.
My phone rings, shattering the silence.
More voices. They join the man that was outside. Yes he’s still there. I see their heads turn toward the other window, which is open 4 inches. I drop the blinds, and answer the call. (As my friend Jason always quipped: “You could be getting mugged and would still answer your phone” I curse the fact that he’s right as I press the Send button)
The voice on the other end urgently says:
“Are you alright?!”
asks Brent Joseph, from editing.. It’s about 3:15am, I think, I don’t know. I haven’t looked at the clock in awhile.
I lie down in my bed. I think I hear a siren far away.
“Are you alright? Did the tornado hit you too? I figure you’re three blocks away, and…”
“What? Tornado?” I wasn’t expecting to hear that.
“I woke to my windows blowing out around me, glass everywhere. My car. My car has no windows.” He says in a rush.
I seem to make him repeat this. Much to his exasperation he does, a few times, with more detail each time.
‘As far as I know I’m just without power.” I finally mutter, meakly. I suddenly feel guilty.
“It’s like Katrina all over again here. If you want to see what it was like, just walk down Carollton Naomi. It looks just like Katrina again. I can’t believe this.” There’s a momentary pause and then quickly, “I’ve gotta go, I’ve gotta take care of stuff.”
And he hangs up abruptly. I look at the alarm clock that wanted me so desperately to wake up earlier, ringing before its time. It tells me it’s 4am.
Wow, time flies when the world is coming to an end. How was it 2:30am only minutes ago?
Tornado?
I lie back down, wonder what I’m going to do.
That’s it. I’m having a cigarette. This town is driving me nuts. I scramble around the apartment, finding one and venture to the door, and like in a scary movie, pause, my hand held out towards it. Do I dare?
The men that were outside have been gone for about 20 minutes, but what if they return? And just as I think that and peer out the adjoining window, he rounds the bend and walks down the alley by my door. He’s my neighbor. Definitely. I’m definitely staying inside.
I had a no smoking rule in the home that I enforced upon Rob and now me, I, I’m about to break it! But I’m crumbling and I don’t give a shit and I don’t dare go out. I take the cigarette and stand in the kitchen, inhaling and regretting simultaneously. The candle is apple cinnamon. It should be rotted refrigerator, from what I’ve heard. Post Katrina that was the eux de cologne of N’awlins.
Great, now the apartment smells like crap and I feel worse.
I hear a woman’s voice or two outside. I look out, again as before, again for the first reason: to check on Foxy. A large tree branch seems to be in front of him. A couple with a flashlight and what looks like a long-haired golden lab, can’t tell its still too dark, heave it out of the way and onto the other side of the sidewalk. In so doing, I see that it missed Foxy by about 3 inches to a foot.
That’s it I have to go out and get the flashlight. I wait until the voices dissipate. The only ones that remain, that I can tell, are on the balcony of the house to my right. I venture into the muggy air, drops still coming down but with infrequency, and venture to the car to retrieve the only thing I have of any use right now: My flashlight.
I get back inside. Who is out there that I’m not checking on? I don’t wish to relive my 9/11 mistakes where I neglect someone and find out the horror a fortnight later.
Brent called Tyler, said they had nothing but a little rain up in the Marigny and French Quarter and all my co-workers live in that direction or out of New Orleans proper, so they’re fine. Who’s here? Oh, good Christ.
I text Logan. I figure, just in case, if everything is fine I won’t disturb him. You can ignore a text.
R U Ok? Did Tornado hit U?
As soon as I’ve hit send it seems the phone rings.
“Hey, Naomi”
It’s Logan.
“Uh, yeeah, I have no house. The roof is gawn and all the windows are blown out. Woke to glass shattern and then the house started swayn back and forth”
His Baton Rouge accent somehow brings me comfort; I doubt I’m doing the same for him.
“Everyones alright tho’” he continues.
I sigh., relieved and also because, sadly, I have nothing to say and don’t know what else to do. A noise seems necessary, so a sigh instead. What do you say? “I’m sorry”? You can’t, it’s not your fault. Awkward silences.
“Rob’s not here, there’s plenty of room if you guys need someplace to crash” I venture.
“Thanks, but, naw its okay, my families on their way down from Baton Rouge, I have family in the area. I don’t know.” The silence again. I can’t find words.
He continues, ”Nothing really to do, you know, but stand here and wait for em” He pauses again, clearing his throat as if he’s at a loss of what to say also. His pause seeming to linger with the words not spoken: “I mean, she’s fine, what can I say to her?”
Then: “Naomi. It looks like Katrina. You’re welcome to come join us up here on St. Charles if you’re alone, witness the madness.”
The sirens come now. It’s 4:50am What took them so damn long? It’s been over and an hour and a half. It’s all I keep thinking. Why is everything in New Orleans inept?!
“Ah, thanks, but I think I’m going to sit tight for now. Call me if you need anything though, if there’s anything I can do.”
“Yeah, alright. Bye.” His voice, always a bit forlorn sounds even further away, and the far off sound is only highlighted by his southern gentleman’s twang. I feel I haven’t done enough, but I don’t know what to do.
I peer out the blinds, contemplating going to see if they’re truly ok. He did sound like he was in shock. Before I do though, I check the outside world again, peering through the blinds. As I do I see a tall black man, walking in jeans and a white t-shirt down the middle of Maple St., a woman’s white clutch purse in his hand. It looks like Night of The Living Dead outside, full of sporadic moments filled with aimless wanderers.
I think better of it.
There’s nothing I can do now, nothing, but sleep.
I lie down and wait to assess everything in the light of day.
It’s 6am when I think I finally start to doze off and disappear.
The phone rings at 7:30am, my mother asking if I’m alright, she just heard on NPR about a Tornado. I’m overtired and snap at her that yes, I’m fine, but I haven’t had much sleep and am “explitive” expected into the office come hell or high water. That phrase, that cliché, has never meant more to me than here and now.
Come hell or high water. Should be the other way around, at least here in New Orleans.
The daylight brings images of neighbors garbage cans and deck chairs at my window and blocking in my neighbors cars; trees downed, one on Rob’s Alpha Romeo behind The Uptown Cajun which luckily still stands, unlike the Starbucks hit beside it; neighbors and workers standing outside looking at the downed and entangled power-lines, the fire trucks and utility workers and the shattered windows and missing roof of my Laundromat three doors down; the new Mardis Gras parade on Maple has begun, but its in the form of the treo of National Guard vehicles and soldiers that slowly creep past the front of my house, blue lights flashing; the helicopters flying low overhead, first the Guard only 20 feet above the top of the roof and then Fox News and Channel 4 a bit more at a distance. Ray Nagin must be somewhere around. I sneer. This town needs a Guiliani and then a Bloomberg, or both. Simultaneously.
From one disaster city to the next, Naomi. You sure know how to pick ‘em. Who was that genius who came up with the blessing:
“May you live in uninteresting times.”
I don’t know, I haven’t experienced it yet, but Amen to that one (although what would one write about then?)
I get into my car and travel towards work, knowing I’ll pass Logans’ home, or what was. It’s a mess, but not as bad as I thought. The windows are all shattered, but some semblance of a roof still exists, at least on part of it, unlike his neighbor to the right where the whole front end seems to have caved. The neighboring house to the left, however, is perfectly fine and intact. Travel only a house further down St. Charles towards downtown, or Audubon Park and you’re in a land of purity and calm. You would never know a Tornado had ever been in the city. I saw Logan and his family outside and pulled over to give my condolences and reiterate my offer. We parted with us agreeing to see each other soon, hopefully for Mardis Gras this weekend, although his red beans & rice “pre-parade” party would no longer be.
I drove away, my mouth agape at the absurdity, watching the cars traveling in the opposite direction, going to from whence I came. Better them than me.
I wondered if they would have the opposite reaction. And would they or one of them at least, have the same realization I just had… but in reverse.
PHOTOS COURTESY OF BRENT JOSEPH OF AUSTIN, TX VIA NEW ORLEANS, LA
I don’t understand it, I set the damn thing for 8am. I double check the battery run contraption that I’ve had for ages, and yes, it says 8am. So what the heck?
It’s at this point that I hear what I must’ve subconsciously heard for the past half an hour, a loud thundering of rain, or what I would later find out is hail. It sounds almost comforting and starts to lull me back to sleep. The lightening is so white that it seems like a cavalcade of cars driving past my window, almost every second. I grab my flannel encased pillow and cuddle it, about to drift back into slumber when the explosions begin. Loud pops that crash through my head like a mallet. Has a transformer exploded? I peer through the blinds, rain is coming down hard enough that it’s blinding my view. I think things are strewn about, but I can’t quite tell.
The power goes out outside, quickly comes back on. I sigh, then hold my breath. Maybe what I feared the last time (when the power went off in my office) is what will happen; maybe it won’t stay on. As quickly as the thought flashed through my head the lights were out. And they were staying out. Silence, except for the rain. The booms have ceased.
I’m alone. Rob is in Massachusettes. I’m alone with the sound of the rain, and the sudden scratching and scampering within the walls. Damn rats.
I peer out my blinds and turn on my phone for light. I rush to find the one candle on the coffee table. I light it. Wait. Listen.
I’ll be honest. I’m scared. This is not the city I want to be in when a black-out happens.
I go back to the window. Peer out. Checking on my Foxy Jilopi.
A man approaches from the right side of the frame, seems to see the light in my apartment. Stops. I close the phone, hold my breath, let the blind gently slip shut. He seems to be trying to look into my window. Damn it, I forgot it was pulled up at the bottom, above the air conditioner. As he’s about to walk away, the candle flickers (stupid, I should’ve blown it out) and he pauses again. Perhaps he too is spooked, maybe by the light, because he then quickly heads out into the street. I hear another man join him. The lightening seems to be moving further away, behind us toward the i10, up toward Lake Pontchatrain. The light casting his shadow across the street, he disappears into the haze of the black and greys of the night which camouflage him. I can’t see him any longer, although I know he’s out there. He was standing still looking down the street, but now my eyes have blended him into the background, are playing tricks on me. Maybe he has moved on. I don’t know.
My phone rings, shattering the silence.
More voices. They join the man that was outside. Yes he’s still there. I see their heads turn toward the other window, which is open 4 inches. I drop the blinds, and answer the call. (As my friend Jason always quipped: “You could be getting mugged and would still answer your phone” I curse the fact that he’s right as I press the Send button)
The voice on the other end urgently says:
“Are you alright?!”
asks Brent Joseph, from editing.. It’s about 3:15am, I think, I don’t know. I haven’t looked at the clock in awhile.
I lie down in my bed. I think I hear a siren far away.
“Are you alright? Did the tornado hit you too? I figure you’re three blocks away, and…”
“What? Tornado?” I wasn’t expecting to hear that.
“I woke to my windows blowing out around me, glass everywhere. My car. My car has no windows.” He says in a rush.
I seem to make him repeat this. Much to his exasperation he does, a few times, with more detail each time.
‘As far as I know I’m just without power.” I finally mutter, meakly. I suddenly feel guilty.
“It’s like Katrina all over again here. If you want to see what it was like, just walk down Carollton Naomi. It looks just like Katrina again. I can’t believe this.” There’s a momentary pause and then quickly, “I’ve gotta go, I’ve gotta take care of stuff.”
And he hangs up abruptly. I look at the alarm clock that wanted me so desperately to wake up earlier, ringing before its time. It tells me it’s 4am.
Wow, time flies when the world is coming to an end. How was it 2:30am only minutes ago?
Tornado?
I lie back down, wonder what I’m going to do.
That’s it. I’m having a cigarette. This town is driving me nuts. I scramble around the apartment, finding one and venture to the door, and like in a scary movie, pause, my hand held out towards it. Do I dare?
The men that were outside have been gone for about 20 minutes, but what if they return? And just as I think that and peer out the adjoining window, he rounds the bend and walks down the alley by my door. He’s my neighbor. Definitely. I’m definitely staying inside.
I had a no smoking rule in the home that I enforced upon Rob and now me, I, I’m about to break it! But I’m crumbling and I don’t give a shit and I don’t dare go out. I take the cigarette and stand in the kitchen, inhaling and regretting simultaneously. The candle is apple cinnamon. It should be rotted refrigerator, from what I’ve heard. Post Katrina that was the eux de cologne of N’awlins.
Great, now the apartment smells like crap and I feel worse.
I hear a woman’s voice or two outside. I look out, again as before, again for the first reason: to check on Foxy. A large tree branch seems to be in front of him. A couple with a flashlight and what looks like a long-haired golden lab, can’t tell its still too dark, heave it out of the way and onto the other side of the sidewalk. In so doing, I see that it missed Foxy by about 3 inches to a foot.
That’s it I have to go out and get the flashlight. I wait until the voices dissipate. The only ones that remain, that I can tell, are on the balcony of the house to my right. I venture into the muggy air, drops still coming down but with infrequency, and venture to the car to retrieve the only thing I have of any use right now: My flashlight.
I get back inside. Who is out there that I’m not checking on? I don’t wish to relive my 9/11 mistakes where I neglect someone and find out the horror a fortnight later.
Brent called Tyler, said they had nothing but a little rain up in the Marigny and French Quarter and all my co-workers live in that direction or out of New Orleans proper, so they’re fine. Who’s here? Oh, good Christ.
I text Logan. I figure, just in case, if everything is fine I won’t disturb him. You can ignore a text.
R U Ok? Did Tornado hit U?
As soon as I’ve hit send it seems the phone rings.
“Hey, Naomi”
It’s Logan.
“Uh, yeeah, I have no house. The roof is gawn and all the windows are blown out. Woke to glass shattern and then the house started swayn back and forth”
His Baton Rouge accent somehow brings me comfort; I doubt I’m doing the same for him.
“Everyones alright tho’” he continues.
I sigh., relieved and also because, sadly, I have nothing to say and don’t know what else to do. A noise seems necessary, so a sigh instead. What do you say? “I’m sorry”? You can’t, it’s not your fault. Awkward silences.
“Rob’s not here, there’s plenty of room if you guys need someplace to crash” I venture.
“Thanks, but, naw its okay, my families on their way down from Baton Rouge, I have family in the area. I don’t know.” The silence again. I can’t find words.
He continues, ”Nothing really to do, you know, but stand here and wait for em” He pauses again, clearing his throat as if he’s at a loss of what to say also. His pause seeming to linger with the words not spoken: “I mean, she’s fine, what can I say to her?”
Then: “Naomi. It looks like Katrina. You’re welcome to come join us up here on St. Charles if you’re alone, witness the madness.”
The sirens come now. It’s 4:50am What took them so damn long? It’s been over and an hour and a half. It’s all I keep thinking. Why is everything in New Orleans inept?!
“Ah, thanks, but I think I’m going to sit tight for now. Call me if you need anything though, if there’s anything I can do.”
“Yeah, alright. Bye.” His voice, always a bit forlorn sounds even further away, and the far off sound is only highlighted by his southern gentleman’s twang. I feel I haven’t done enough, but I don’t know what to do.
I peer out the blinds, contemplating going to see if they’re truly ok. He did sound like he was in shock. Before I do though, I check the outside world again, peering through the blinds. As I do I see a tall black man, walking in jeans and a white t-shirt down the middle of Maple St., a woman’s white clutch purse in his hand. It looks like Night of The Living Dead outside, full of sporadic moments filled with aimless wanderers.
I think better of it.
There’s nothing I can do now, nothing, but sleep.
I lie down and wait to assess everything in the light of day.
It’s 6am when I think I finally start to doze off and disappear.
The phone rings at 7:30am, my mother asking if I’m alright, she just heard on NPR about a Tornado. I’m overtired and snap at her that yes, I’m fine, but I haven’t had much sleep and am “explitive” expected into the office come hell or high water. That phrase, that cliché, has never meant more to me than here and now.
Come hell or high water. Should be the other way around, at least here in New Orleans.
The daylight brings images of neighbors garbage cans and deck chairs at my window and blocking in my neighbors cars; trees downed, one on Rob’s Alpha Romeo behind The Uptown Cajun which luckily still stands, unlike the Starbucks hit beside it; neighbors and workers standing outside looking at the downed and entangled power-lines, the fire trucks and utility workers and the shattered windows and missing roof of my Laundromat three doors down; the new Mardis Gras parade on Maple has begun, but its in the form of the treo of National Guard vehicles and soldiers that slowly creep past the front of my house, blue lights flashing; the helicopters flying low overhead, first the Guard only 20 feet above the top of the roof and then Fox News and Channel 4 a bit more at a distance. Ray Nagin must be somewhere around. I sneer. This town needs a Guiliani and then a Bloomberg, or both. Simultaneously.
From one disaster city to the next, Naomi. You sure know how to pick ‘em. Who was that genius who came up with the blessing:
“May you live in uninteresting times.”
I don’t know, I haven’t experienced it yet, but Amen to that one (although what would one write about then?)
I get into my car and travel towards work, knowing I’ll pass Logans’ home, or what was. It’s a mess, but not as bad as I thought. The windows are all shattered, but some semblance of a roof still exists, at least on part of it, unlike his neighbor to the right where the whole front end seems to have caved. The neighboring house to the left, however, is perfectly fine and intact. Travel only a house further down St. Charles towards downtown, or Audubon Park and you’re in a land of purity and calm. You would never know a Tornado had ever been in the city. I saw Logan and his family outside and pulled over to give my condolences and reiterate my offer. We parted with us agreeing to see each other soon, hopefully for Mardis Gras this weekend, although his red beans & rice “pre-parade” party would no longer be.
I drove away, my mouth agape at the absurdity, watching the cars traveling in the opposite direction, going to from whence I came. Better them than me.
I wondered if they would have the opposite reaction. And would they or one of them at least, have the same realization I just had… but in reverse.
PHOTOS COURTESY OF BRENT JOSEPH OF AUSTIN, TX VIA NEW ORLEANS, LA
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
January 21st 2007 - Copboys & Injuns, Nola through Anu's Eyes
Friday night was a brutal late one at work and after wrapping up I think my head hit the pillow, hard, around 4am. The alarm went off a few hours later, giving me enough time to pick up one of my oldest friends from the airport at 9am.
Anu was coming to celebrate my 30th birthday that weekend as the big day was set to arrive mid-week, and although you can party mid-week, it doesn’t make for much fun the following morning at work.
I picked her up and drove her to the first place I needed to go to finish up some errands, and the historic landmark of one of Katrina’s biggest lootings…Walmart.
Walmart the monstrosity on Tchoupitoulas that relocated a low income neighborhood five blocks closer to St. Charles, with the promise to build them a town. As I understand it they just relocated them and it wasn’t until post-Katrina that with FEMA assistance, the new neighborhood was created on Annunciation. Annunciation, the same street that when I first stumbled upon it, I was so frightened because I was convinced I’d just driven onto the set of another film. The houses, all double and single shotguns, were so pristine that they didn’t seem to belong, but pristine in the same way MacMansions are to old colonials. The only thing that reminded me I was going through a ghetto were the people sitting on the front steps of these pristine new homes. I wonder what they’ll look like half a year from now. Regardless, Anu had the same deer in the headlights expression on her face when she walked into Walmart that I did the first time. The place is so huge that the information overload stupefies you.
“We don’t have anything this size in New York”
I smiled. I know, Anu, I’m from there remember?
After we got everything we needed I dropped her off at the hotel to freshen up while I ran some errands. I picked her up around 11am and we decided that we were too famished to do anything without eating first.
I knew that the best, although touristy, thing to do was to hit ACME on Iberville and Bourbon (across from the old and still closed Felix’s)
We waited in line for about 20 minutes before being seated. We knew what we wanted right away. Two beers, some étouffée for Anu to try, a dozen oysters and two pounds of boiled crawfish (not on the menu by the way)
The waitress was gone a long time before she returned, sans our drinks.
With an air very matter of fact she stared down at us and said:
“Our septic tank has backed up so we’re closing. Sorry about that, but we can’t serve any food until we have it cleaned up. Feel free to come back at 4:30, we’ll be open then.”
I looked behind her as one of the kitchen help dragged out a dirty bucket and mop.
Anu looked at him too, then looked at me and bust out in the hugest grin and then that great belly laugh of hers.
“I can’t believe that. Come back at 4:30? Are you kidding? You’ve got sewage in the kitchen, I’m not coming back at 4:30, she just said that so matter of factl. I can’t believe that, can you believe that?”
It was perfect actually. I couldn’t have come up with a better first introduction for Anu of this crazy town.
“Welcome to New Orleans” I said and we both had a good laugh as we skipped out of the restaurant.
We wondered around for awhile before deciding on Desire, or as Anu pronounced it, Des-ah-ray. I looked at her sideways when she said it and blinked twice:
“I can’t believe how quickly you’ve adapted to this town, Anu. You fit right in.” And told her of all the mispronounced streets and names that exist in New Orleans.
We walked in to be greeted by a dazed older waitress who seemed to stare past us, but eventually realized we were there and seated us by the door. I didn’t care as I just wanted to eat something. Unlike Acme which has a very touristy feel that makes in indistinguishable from your local TGIFridays, i.e. kitsch cluttered walls and gingham cloth covered tables, Desire gave you the feeling of stepping back in time. The floor seems to be the same one laid many years ago (although being in the movie business I know that doesn’t have to be the case) in small black and white tile. The lamps were made to look like old ironwork fans, the tables were marble topped and an ornate tin ceiling was surrounded by cabaret lights.
I asked for crawfish and the the waitress looked at me a bit dumbfounded, and for a bit too long without saying anything. I took it upon myself to direct her and turned and looked at the table behind us at their heaping mounds of mudrakers.
“How much is that, that they have? Is that a pound?”
She stared at them and then walked over and stood over their table, continuing to stare. She didn’t say anything to them either. Anu looked at me and I at her, both a bit perplexed.
“What is she doing?” Anu asked. I had no idea.
The people at the table looked at her and she looked at them. There was a moment of discomfort before she finally told them she was assessing their plates. This went on for over 10 minutes before she walked away and grabbed the manager.
“Now what is she doing?” Anu queried, I still had no idea.
The manger walked over to us and asked what it was that we wanted. I told him.
“Crawfish”
“Oh! Okay, how much would you like?”
After going through the entire poundage discussion again, I finally said that Anu and I would split a serving (about 2lbs) We ordered a small cup of jambalaya for Anu, a bean and rice for myself, a dozen oysters and the shared crawfish. Of course, the waitress came back with two plates of crawfish, but at this point I didn’t care. I assured Anu that if she didn’t like them that I would most likely finish eating her share.
Regardless of the bazaar service, the food was okay, the crawfish sufficiently spicy and the Bloody Mary’s, thank goodness, likewise. Overall I recommend going even if it is a bit of a run-off tourist trap, it has personality and plenty of personalities.
300 Bourbon St
New Orleans, LA 70130
(504) 586-0300
After Desire we walked around a bit, landing at Café Du Monde on Jackson Square for beignets and Café Lattes (or hot chocolate for Anu) which poor Anu would obsess over until she was able to get them again before leaving. We then ventured back to Bourbon for drinks.
Loud music came bounding out of The Crocodile Opera House on the corner of Toulouse as a live band rocked for an audience of three. Since it was still early afternoon the creatures of the night, the revelers from the evening before probably hadn’t woken yet so the place was pretty empty. As we sat down and ordered a drink from the greasy haired, half naked and overly fleshy waitress, the band (complete with washboard percussionist) went into a cover of Willie Nelson’s “City of New Orleans”, and it was just about perfect. Anu giggled as the guitarist made eyes at me and we settled into our three for one drink special of Abita Amber.
After having our fill of flirtatious eyes and ear piercing country I escorted Anu up Bourbon to Lafitte’s Blacksmith Bar on the corner of St. Philips.
As far as bars go you can’t get much better than the atmosphere at Lafittes (minus the bartenders who seem a bit too commercial and out of place, as they look like they should be the waitstaff at Tequillaville) Bi-level by only three steps the bar, on the first level, and the seating area with its old warn wooden tables on the second revolves around an old fireplace in the center. Large windows you could walk through that go from floor to ceiling in a style common here let in the cool breeze of night airing out the sometime cigar smoke that wafts from around the piano player in back, lit only by candles atop the piano and the firefly glow of cigarette buttes held by tipsy women. It is a place where you almost would expect Michele Pfeiffer’s character in The Fabulous Baker Boys to be lounging on the piano singing a ballad while one of Captain Jack’s cohorts hit back a few shots of Jaeger with a chaser of rum. Either that or it should be in a back-alley somewhere in Tolouse Lutrec’s Montmarte of time long passed. Suffice it to say, Anu loved it. Read more about its history here:
http://www.atneworleans.com/body/blacksmith.htm
After we’d had our fill of Bloody Mary’s and Dirty Martini’s we ventured back to the Hotel Duprey so that Anu might freshen up before we had dinner at Jacques Imo’s. Granted the key didn’t work and poor Anu had to urinate so badly she finally used the public bathroom on the first floor, but overall we ended up not being that late heading out and got to dinner around 9pm.
On our way out we shared the elevator with a lady dressed like Scarlett O’Hara in a wedding gown, on her way to her future. Something old, something new (but old), it’s the mantra of this town.
At Jacques Imo’s we were informed that it would be about an hours wait. We settled into the small and crowded bar with some red wine to bide our time with good conversation and people watching.
Jacques Imo’s is on Oak Street, on the river side of Carrollton, and run by the chef and proprietor of the same name, Jacques “Jack” Leonardi.
He serves up a medley of Cajun and Creole fusion dishes, what he calls “Real Nawlins Food”, in a space about the size of a large living room which one must walk through the kitchen to reach. Local art covers the walls (the gallery from which it comes a hop skip and a jump across the street, Frenchy’s) which themselves are painted in warm earthy tones of orange and yellow and scenes of the Bayou. Outside the restaurant is probably the best and most unique “seat in the house”. A run-down, beat-up mini pick-up truck is stationed out front with two seats and a small table sometimes situated in the truck bed. Graffitied with acrylic polka dots and a long green gator the blue truck is emblazoned with the hand painted announcement of where you are, definitely not where you’re going as the truck doesn’t move. Lucky couples in the know can ask to be seated there in front of the restaurant to enjoy their meal.
I can’t even remember everything we ate. I know that we had the gator cheesecake
and I had the seafood bouillabaisse which I couldn’t come remotely close to finishing. Everything was rich and delectable and served with panache by a flamboyant waiter with a shaved head sans the the Fleur de Lis of hair that remained like a Big Easy brand at the back of his skull.
At the end of the meal, Anu the little minx, who had told them it was my birthday, had our tremendously energetic waiter come out singing and he was soon joined by the entire restaurant in a Nawlins version of Happy Birthday. Mortified at the public attention, and only a day before the big game vs. the Bears I deflected as soon as possible and started chanting “Who Dat” which soon overtook my birthday song as the waiter took the cue and ran with it at full chorus.
http://www.jacquesimoscafe.com/
Jacques-Imo's Café
8324 Oak Street
New Orleans, LA 70118
504-861-0886
(There’s a Jacques Imo’s in Grand Central station in NYC and eventhough I haven’t eaten there I don’t recommend it. And here’s why: You want the real thing, and you can only get that in Nawlins)
Before dinner Tyler “Durden” Nelson from editing invited us to join a bunch of fellow workers (Eddie Cox and Jon Manochia from G&E, Marc Hammer the POC and Lisa DiSanto the Art Dept.Coordinator) at Rock n’ Bowl for some bowling et al.
Rock n’ Bowl is lucky to be standing. During Katrina it was under 8 feet of water, but luckily it’s a multi-storied building and the main action is two flights of long stairs up, the first floor not used from what I can tell. Walking in to the dingy building you feel like you’re entering a scene from Footloose. People from all age groups and nationalities (predominantly White, Mexican and Black) were inside, cowboy hats and acid washed jeans mixed with elegant elders and babydoll frocked hipsters all of whom were stamped ORLEANS upon admission. Anu and I once again shared one of our incredulous looks.
By the time Jacques Imo’s loosened its Cajun grasp and we were on our way we had missed the bowling by a few strikes. So I introduced Anu around and Eddie grabbed us each a beer.
As we were talking a strange hush came across the crowd and then a surging and the levels once again rose as you heard “They’re here!” and “Ohmygod its them”
Camera phones and little digital cameras appeared out of every pocket as they began to photograph men covered in outfits of feathers and sequins of ornate design.
“The Mardi Gras Indians are here!!!” http://www.mardigrasneworleans.com/mardigrasindians/ or
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mardi_Gras_Indians
We followed the crowd to see what all the commotion was about. They began singing James Sugar Boy Crawford’s Jock O Mo (Iko Iko) and combining it with the lyrics “Happy Birthday Bo”
Anu was then determined and there was no stopping her. She grabbed a large black bodyguard that was with the band and told him that it was my birthday too and could they please get me up there to sing to me. The man asked me if it was indeed my birthday. In the back of my mind I was feeling guilty with the knowledge that it wasn’t for another four days, but I said “yes”. And up there I went.
I would later find out that I was boogeying with not just any Mardi Gras Indian tribe, but THE tribe, the Wild Magnolias with the famed Bo Dollis http://www.wildmagnolias.net/
Unfortunately, the pictures I have just has his gold shirted elbow exiting fame (Anu, do you have better ones from your digital camera?) But it was a once in a lifetime experience.
From there we agreed to head out and meet Brent Joseph at Mimi’s in the Marigny for some dancing. We got there around midnight or so and danced until wee into the morning hours, around 4am or later.
I was exhausted and as I got to my car to drive realized that I had been drinking for 8 hours shy of a day.
The cop sitting outside of Mimi’s enjoyed following us to our car and then sitting in his car behind us for over 20 minutes. Anu and I dawdled, chatting with people who walked by until he became bored and drove off. As I’ve said before, cops here don’t like catching the bad-guys, but they sure like catching revelers as they drive away from bars. Kind of like shooting fish in a barrel
Anu was coming to celebrate my 30th birthday that weekend as the big day was set to arrive mid-week, and although you can party mid-week, it doesn’t make for much fun the following morning at work.
I picked her up and drove her to the first place I needed to go to finish up some errands, and the historic landmark of one of Katrina’s biggest lootings…Walmart.
Walmart the monstrosity on Tchoupitoulas that relocated a low income neighborhood five blocks closer to St. Charles, with the promise to build them a town. As I understand it they just relocated them and it wasn’t until post-Katrina that with FEMA assistance, the new neighborhood was created on Annunciation. Annunciation, the same street that when I first stumbled upon it, I was so frightened because I was convinced I’d just driven onto the set of another film. The houses, all double and single shotguns, were so pristine that they didn’t seem to belong, but pristine in the same way MacMansions are to old colonials. The only thing that reminded me I was going through a ghetto were the people sitting on the front steps of these pristine new homes. I wonder what they’ll look like half a year from now. Regardless, Anu had the same deer in the headlights expression on her face when she walked into Walmart that I did the first time. The place is so huge that the information overload stupefies you.
“We don’t have anything this size in New York”
I smiled. I know, Anu, I’m from there remember?
After we got everything we needed I dropped her off at the hotel to freshen up while I ran some errands. I picked her up around 11am and we decided that we were too famished to do anything without eating first.
I knew that the best, although touristy, thing to do was to hit ACME on Iberville and Bourbon (across from the old and still closed Felix’s)
We waited in line for about 20 minutes before being seated. We knew what we wanted right away. Two beers, some étouffée for Anu to try, a dozen oysters and two pounds of boiled crawfish (not on the menu by the way)
The waitress was gone a long time before she returned, sans our drinks.
With an air very matter of fact she stared down at us and said:
“Our septic tank has backed up so we’re closing. Sorry about that, but we can’t serve any food until we have it cleaned up. Feel free to come back at 4:30, we’ll be open then.”
I looked behind her as one of the kitchen help dragged out a dirty bucket and mop.
Anu looked at him too, then looked at me and bust out in the hugest grin and then that great belly laugh of hers.
“I can’t believe that. Come back at 4:30? Are you kidding? You’ve got sewage in the kitchen, I’m not coming back at 4:30, she just said that so matter of factl. I can’t believe that, can you believe that?”
It was perfect actually. I couldn’t have come up with a better first introduction for Anu of this crazy town.
“Welcome to New Orleans” I said and we both had a good laugh as we skipped out of the restaurant.
We wondered around for awhile before deciding on Desire, or as Anu pronounced it, Des-ah-ray. I looked at her sideways when she said it and blinked twice:
“I can’t believe how quickly you’ve adapted to this town, Anu. You fit right in.” And told her of all the mispronounced streets and names that exist in New Orleans.
We walked in to be greeted by a dazed older waitress who seemed to stare past us, but eventually realized we were there and seated us by the door. I didn’t care as I just wanted to eat something. Unlike Acme which has a very touristy feel that makes in indistinguishable from your local TGIFridays, i.e. kitsch cluttered walls and gingham cloth covered tables, Desire gave you the feeling of stepping back in time. The floor seems to be the same one laid many years ago (although being in the movie business I know that doesn’t have to be the case) in small black and white tile. The lamps were made to look like old ironwork fans, the tables were marble topped and an ornate tin ceiling was surrounded by cabaret lights.
I asked for crawfish and the the waitress looked at me a bit dumbfounded, and for a bit too long without saying anything. I took it upon myself to direct her and turned and looked at the table behind us at their heaping mounds of mudrakers.
“How much is that, that they have? Is that a pound?”
She stared at them and then walked over and stood over their table, continuing to stare. She didn’t say anything to them either. Anu looked at me and I at her, both a bit perplexed.
“What is she doing?” Anu asked. I had no idea.
The people at the table looked at her and she looked at them. There was a moment of discomfort before she finally told them she was assessing their plates. This went on for over 10 minutes before she walked away and grabbed the manager.
“Now what is she doing?” Anu queried, I still had no idea.
The manger walked over to us and asked what it was that we wanted. I told him.
“Crawfish”
“Oh! Okay, how much would you like?”
After going through the entire poundage discussion again, I finally said that Anu and I would split a serving (about 2lbs) We ordered a small cup of jambalaya for Anu, a bean and rice for myself, a dozen oysters and the shared crawfish. Of course, the waitress came back with two plates of crawfish, but at this point I didn’t care. I assured Anu that if she didn’t like them that I would most likely finish eating her share.
Regardless of the bazaar service, the food was okay, the crawfish sufficiently spicy and the Bloody Mary’s, thank goodness, likewise. Overall I recommend going even if it is a bit of a run-off tourist trap, it has personality and plenty of personalities.
300 Bourbon St
New Orleans, LA 70130
(504) 586-0300
After Desire we walked around a bit, landing at Café Du Monde on Jackson Square for beignets and Café Lattes (or hot chocolate for Anu) which poor Anu would obsess over until she was able to get them again before leaving. We then ventured back to Bourbon for drinks.
Loud music came bounding out of The Crocodile Opera House on the corner of Toulouse as a live band rocked for an audience of three. Since it was still early afternoon the creatures of the night, the revelers from the evening before probably hadn’t woken yet so the place was pretty empty. As we sat down and ordered a drink from the greasy haired, half naked and overly fleshy waitress, the band (complete with washboard percussionist) went into a cover of Willie Nelson’s “City of New Orleans”, and it was just about perfect. Anu giggled as the guitarist made eyes at me and we settled into our three for one drink special of Abita Amber.
After having our fill of flirtatious eyes and ear piercing country I escorted Anu up Bourbon to Lafitte’s Blacksmith Bar on the corner of St. Philips.
As far as bars go you can’t get much better than the atmosphere at Lafittes (minus the bartenders who seem a bit too commercial and out of place, as they look like they should be the waitstaff at Tequillaville) Bi-level by only three steps the bar, on the first level, and the seating area with its old warn wooden tables on the second revolves around an old fireplace in the center. Large windows you could walk through that go from floor to ceiling in a style common here let in the cool breeze of night airing out the sometime cigar smoke that wafts from around the piano player in back, lit only by candles atop the piano and the firefly glow of cigarette buttes held by tipsy women. It is a place where you almost would expect Michele Pfeiffer’s character in The Fabulous Baker Boys to be lounging on the piano singing a ballad while one of Captain Jack’s cohorts hit back a few shots of Jaeger with a chaser of rum. Either that or it should be in a back-alley somewhere in Tolouse Lutrec’s Montmarte of time long passed. Suffice it to say, Anu loved it. Read more about its history here:
http://www.atneworleans.com/body/blacksmith.htm
After we’d had our fill of Bloody Mary’s and Dirty Martini’s we ventured back to the Hotel Duprey so that Anu might freshen up before we had dinner at Jacques Imo’s. Granted the key didn’t work and poor Anu had to urinate so badly she finally used the public bathroom on the first floor, but overall we ended up not being that late heading out and got to dinner around 9pm.
On our way out we shared the elevator with a lady dressed like Scarlett O’Hara in a wedding gown, on her way to her future. Something old, something new (but old), it’s the mantra of this town.
At Jacques Imo’s we were informed that it would be about an hours wait. We settled into the small and crowded bar with some red wine to bide our time with good conversation and people watching.
Jacques Imo’s is on Oak Street, on the river side of Carrollton, and run by the chef and proprietor of the same name, Jacques “Jack” Leonardi.
He serves up a medley of Cajun and Creole fusion dishes, what he calls “Real Nawlins Food”, in a space about the size of a large living room which one must walk through the kitchen to reach. Local art covers the walls (the gallery from which it comes a hop skip and a jump across the street, Frenchy’s) which themselves are painted in warm earthy tones of orange and yellow and scenes of the Bayou. Outside the restaurant is probably the best and most unique “seat in the house”. A run-down, beat-up mini pick-up truck is stationed out front with two seats and a small table sometimes situated in the truck bed. Graffitied with acrylic polka dots and a long green gator the blue truck is emblazoned with the hand painted announcement of where you are, definitely not where you’re going as the truck doesn’t move. Lucky couples in the know can ask to be seated there in front of the restaurant to enjoy their meal.
I can’t even remember everything we ate. I know that we had the gator cheesecake
and I had the seafood bouillabaisse which I couldn’t come remotely close to finishing. Everything was rich and delectable and served with panache by a flamboyant waiter with a shaved head sans the the Fleur de Lis of hair that remained like a Big Easy brand at the back of his skull.
At the end of the meal, Anu the little minx, who had told them it was my birthday, had our tremendously energetic waiter come out singing and he was soon joined by the entire restaurant in a Nawlins version of Happy Birthday. Mortified at the public attention, and only a day before the big game vs. the Bears I deflected as soon as possible and started chanting “Who Dat” which soon overtook my birthday song as the waiter took the cue and ran with it at full chorus.
http://www.jacquesimoscafe.com/
Jacques-Imo's Café
8324 Oak Street
New Orleans, LA 70118
504-861-0886
(There’s a Jacques Imo’s in Grand Central station in NYC and eventhough I haven’t eaten there I don’t recommend it. And here’s why: You want the real thing, and you can only get that in Nawlins)
Before dinner Tyler “Durden” Nelson from editing invited us to join a bunch of fellow workers (Eddie Cox and Jon Manochia from G&E, Marc Hammer the POC and Lisa DiSanto the Art Dept.Coordinator) at Rock n’ Bowl for some bowling et al.
Rock n’ Bowl is lucky to be standing. During Katrina it was under 8 feet of water, but luckily it’s a multi-storied building and the main action is two flights of long stairs up, the first floor not used from what I can tell. Walking in to the dingy building you feel like you’re entering a scene from Footloose. People from all age groups and nationalities (predominantly White, Mexican and Black) were inside, cowboy hats and acid washed jeans mixed with elegant elders and babydoll frocked hipsters all of whom were stamped ORLEANS upon admission. Anu and I once again shared one of our incredulous looks.
By the time Jacques Imo’s loosened its Cajun grasp and we were on our way we had missed the bowling by a few strikes. So I introduced Anu around and Eddie grabbed us each a beer.
As we were talking a strange hush came across the crowd and then a surging and the levels once again rose as you heard “They’re here!” and “Ohmygod its them”
Camera phones and little digital cameras appeared out of every pocket as they began to photograph men covered in outfits of feathers and sequins of ornate design.
“The Mardi Gras Indians are here!!!” http://www.mardigrasneworleans.com/mardigrasindians/ or
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mardi_Gras_Indians
We followed the crowd to see what all the commotion was about. They began singing James Sugar Boy Crawford’s Jock O Mo (Iko Iko) and combining it with the lyrics “Happy Birthday Bo”
Anu was then determined and there was no stopping her. She grabbed a large black bodyguard that was with the band and told him that it was my birthday too and could they please get me up there to sing to me. The man asked me if it was indeed my birthday. In the back of my mind I was feeling guilty with the knowledge that it wasn’t for another four days, but I said “yes”. And up there I went.
I would later find out that I was boogeying with not just any Mardi Gras Indian tribe, but THE tribe, the Wild Magnolias with the famed Bo Dollis http://www.wildmagnolias.net/
Unfortunately, the pictures I have just has his gold shirted elbow exiting fame (Anu, do you have better ones from your digital camera?) But it was a once in a lifetime experience.
From there we agreed to head out and meet Brent Joseph at Mimi’s in the Marigny for some dancing. We got there around midnight or so and danced until wee into the morning hours, around 4am or later.
I was exhausted and as I got to my car to drive realized that I had been drinking for 8 hours shy of a day.The cop sitting outside of Mimi’s enjoyed following us to our car and then sitting in his car behind us for over 20 minutes. Anu and I dawdled, chatting with people who walked by until he became bored and drove off. As I’ve said before, cops here don’t like catching the bad-guys, but they sure like catching revelers as they drive away from bars. Kind of like shooting fish in a barrel
Putting the Wine Back In Christ - New Orleans moment
New Orleans moment: Driving on one of my office runs I noticed the bumper of the SUV infront of me. It had two bumper stickers on it. On the Left one it said: “Have you spoken to the Lord lately?”
On the right sticker it said: “Nicks Bar. Slammin’ ‘em (picture of a can of beer) Down Good Since 1984”
That sums up what its like and who lives here– Alcoholics & Catholics, often they are one and the same.
On the right sticker it said: “Nicks Bar. Slammin’ ‘em (picture of a can of beer) Down Good Since 1984”
That sums up what its like and who lives here– Alcoholics & Catholics, often they are one and the same.
January 25th 2007 - The End of My 30th Year
January 25, 2007
I woke up Wednesday, January 24th to a grey and slightly blistering day, at least for New Orleans. Someone had chosen to bless me with a British fall day; and what better way to celebrate my 30th year than a reminder of Scotland? The rain hung in the air, deciding to fall at times in solid drops albeit infrequently, the sky ashen, the Fahrenheit around 40.
But even at 40 it was cold. It was the type of cold that creeps up and through your clothes; the spindly fingers of Old Man Winter were digging through the flesh and into my bones. Others complained, whereas I was enthralled, to put it bluntly I was like a pig in s#*&%. Perhaps not the most eloquent way to phrase it, but that seems to be the most apropos cliché. Ah, good British weather to celebrate the dirty thirty.
At the office UPS met me with a beautiful bouquet of red tulips from my friend Albert. That afternoon my boss, Scott, sent me on a run to the producer’s house (a gorgeous old mansion, actually owned by Nicholas Cage) from which I returned to two King Cakes, one with a three, the other with a zero candle, and the office singing me Happy Birthday.
That night the digital lab, or as I like to call them, the editing boys, Tyler and Brent took me to what must be the best southern-native-Nawlins food in all of this crazy town: Pampy’s.
Pampy’s is a place I can’t recommend enough. Lying on the fringe of one neighborhood that before Katrina, was an evenly integrated community of black and white working class families but is now three-fourths empty; and the other….gang land.
In the middle of these two ‘hoods it sits alone on a corner surrounded now by abandoned homes and barely lived in ones. This little joint on N. Broad Street, apparently owned by a black Mafioso type who is headed for the big house, and whose main chef perished in Katrina, is now managed by a lovely woman named Deinira “Dee” Angelain.
She serves up an atmosphere in which you feel comfortable, and the chef knows how to cook real down home Creole. It has the best fried chicken I’ve ever had in my life, garnished with a parsley and garlic compote. The gumbo, sad to say, does not hold a candle to The Uptown Cajun but is still hearty and good. Its wine selection is overly sweet to say the least, but cheap (the Menage et Trois isn’t that horrid), however the hospitality, atmosphere and traditional greats (potatoe salad, red beans and rice) are to die for and make up for anything the restaurant might lack.
The service was impeccable, although a bit amused by our little trio. By that I mean, there aren’t too many white people that enter Pampy’s and I think they treated us as a bit of a side-show attraction and an anomaly, going out of their way to be friendly and accommodating to the crazy white folk who chose to enter the establishment. When I ran back in, after leaving, to get their business card they told me, insisted actually, that if I really wanted to get the flavor of the place I had to come back Friday when they would be playing live music and “…having a true house party, where we go all wild” I assured them I would.
Like I said, I can’t recommend them highly enough. If you find yourself in New Orleans, get a car, hire United Cabs, get there anyway you can no matter how far out of the way (in Mid-City). It’s a place you have to try with people who you have to meet.
There are also amazing photos, large black and whites about 2’X3’ of Katrina a few days after the storm that should be seen (I’m sorry I didn’t get the photographers name), especially in the context of them having lost their star chef to the Bayou waters that flooded in when the Levies broke.
Pampy’s
2005 N. Broad Street
New Orleans, LA 70119
I woke up Wednesday, January 24th to a grey and slightly blistering day, at least for New Orleans. Someone had chosen to bless me with a British fall day; and what better way to celebrate my 30th year than a reminder of Scotland? The rain hung in the air, deciding to fall at times in solid drops albeit infrequently, the sky ashen, the Fahrenheit around 40.
But even at 40 it was cold. It was the type of cold that creeps up and through your clothes; the spindly fingers of Old Man Winter were digging through the flesh and into my bones. Others complained, whereas I was enthralled, to put it bluntly I was like a pig in s#*&%. Perhaps not the most eloquent way to phrase it, but that seems to be the most apropos cliché. Ah, good British weather to celebrate the dirty thirty.
At the office UPS met me with a beautiful bouquet of red tulips from my friend Albert. That afternoon my boss, Scott, sent me on a run to the producer’s house (a gorgeous old mansion, actually owned by Nicholas Cage) from which I returned to two King Cakes, one with a three, the other with a zero candle, and the office singing me Happy Birthday.
That night the digital lab, or as I like to call them, the editing boys, Tyler and Brent took me to what must be the best southern-native-Nawlins food in all of this crazy town: Pampy’s.
Pampy’s is a place I can’t recommend enough. Lying on the fringe of one neighborhood that before Katrina, was an evenly integrated community of black and white working class families but is now three-fourths empty; and the other….gang land.
In the middle of these two ‘hoods it sits alone on a corner surrounded now by abandoned homes and barely lived in ones. This little joint on N. Broad Street, apparently owned by a black Mafioso type who is headed for the big house, and whose main chef perished in Katrina, is now managed by a lovely woman named Deinira “Dee” Angelain.
She serves up an atmosphere in which you feel comfortable, and the chef knows how to cook real down home Creole. It has the best fried chicken I’ve ever had in my life, garnished with a parsley and garlic compote. The gumbo, sad to say, does not hold a candle to The Uptown Cajun but is still hearty and good. Its wine selection is overly sweet to say the least, but cheap (the Menage et Trois isn’t that horrid), however the hospitality, atmosphere and traditional greats (potatoe salad, red beans and rice) are to die for and make up for anything the restaurant might lack.
The service was impeccable, although a bit amused by our little trio. By that I mean, there aren’t too many white people that enter Pampy’s and I think they treated us as a bit of a side-show attraction and an anomaly, going out of their way to be friendly and accommodating to the crazy white folk who chose to enter the establishment. When I ran back in, after leaving, to get their business card they told me, insisted actually, that if I really wanted to get the flavor of the place I had to come back Friday when they would be playing live music and “…having a true house party, where we go all wild” I assured them I would.
Like I said, I can’t recommend them highly enough. If you find yourself in New Orleans, get a car, hire United Cabs, get there anyway you can no matter how far out of the way (in Mid-City). It’s a place you have to try with people who you have to meet.
There are also amazing photos, large black and whites about 2’X3’ of Katrina a few days after the storm that should be seen (I’m sorry I didn’t get the photographers name), especially in the context of them having lost their star chef to the Bayou waters that flooded in when the Levies broke.
Pampy’s
2005 N. Broad Street
New Orleans, LA 70119
January 18th, 2007 -Update: Death in the Garden
UPDATE
Gunshots in the Garden on Friday, January 12th
As I wrote in a previous journal entry, there were gunshots heard not far from set the other day. Well today, January 18th, Marco, the head of Security apologized for not giving me more attention on Friday when the gunshots went off.
I had turned to him, as I saw him run out of the Nolan house, and said, “Were those what I think they are?” He had said, “Yes sweetheart they are” and promptly gone about organizing the “troops”.
Brad Pitt had turned to Marco after the first shot and told him to “get your men and your guns”, giving him the permission, so to speak, to leave his side.
“I wasn’t ignoring you, I hope you know that” Marco said “you know, when you asked me if those were gunshots”
Of course I knew, I assured him. I realized there were more important things going on at that moment. Hello, people were being shot at.
“Well, so you know, I had someone follow you to your car to make sure you were safe.”
In a small way that scared me more than anything, as I hadn’t noticed any 6’4” man following me (yes, all the security are very large and intimidating men)
“Now listen”, Marco continued, “anytime you feel unsure, you just tell one of my boys that you need escorting and they will escort you wherever you need to go. These guys, they see a young girl walking alone, and you know…I just want you to be safe.”
It turns out that this is the fifth incident since we’ve been at the location on Third Street between Coliseum and Prytania (about a four week time period).
The heart of the Garden District; The famed and touted, an area rated one of the most beautiful places to live in America, was under attack and had been for years.
That same night I went to the Maple Leaf bar and met a filmmaker, Dana, who had lived here back in the 80s and early 90s. He informed me that back then, Calhoun, Laurel and the other streets a few blocks closer to Tchoupitoulas, were very dangerous ghettos. They apparently are still poor, even though some have had face lifts, and although crack isn’t as prevalent, gang activity continues, especially now that NOLA feels a bit like the wild west with no real sheriff in town.
The night that I heard the gunshots, Marco informed me, a group was shot at and one guy was hit or killed, not sure which, around Camp Street. The two survivors, avenging the killing of a brother, went after the shooter. They shot at some guy on Laurel and Third (one and a half blocks from where I’d been standing) – the one shot I heard, apparently hit its mark, as it was followed by seven more, all very clean (i.e. Calm and controlled), as if they were being unloaded “just to make sure”. Saddest part is, according to the story Marco obtained, they shot the wrong guy.
While I walked to my car, these guys must have driven away and around and back to near Camp street – Prytania and Coliseum being the two streets between Laurel and Camp - probably making it there by the time I entered my car and pulled away from set.
Shortly thereafter the victim’s friends found them and shot at them. It’s a vicious cycle.
I finally saw Brad Pitt today. He walked by me while I chatted to someone in the AD department. He looked a little worried, but it could just be the special effects make-up which was caked on. Or the gunshots from teh other day. Or more likely the paparazzi. He’s much thinner and shorter in person than on film.
Paparazzi is apparently getting violent, according to Marco, frighteningly so, especially in their attempt to get to Cate Blanchette. Enough that they’ve had to give her more bodyguards. He wouldn’t go into what exactly they were doing, but he insinuated that they were making threats, their behaviour endagering the children of our stars. What he did reveal was that they have bought off several of the neighbors who have given them permission to use their balconies, etc. to set up their cameras and snap pictures of Brad and Cate while they shoot scenes at the Nolan house.
Beau had a brilliant idea.
"Why don't we find out who their children and families are, where they're at, photograph them, and then send them the pictures in the mail, and see how they like it."
It's an idea, something for a rainy day when we're bored.
Gunshots in the Garden on Friday, January 12th
As I wrote in a previous journal entry, there were gunshots heard not far from set the other day. Well today, January 18th, Marco, the head of Security apologized for not giving me more attention on Friday when the gunshots went off.
I had turned to him, as I saw him run out of the Nolan house, and said, “Were those what I think they are?” He had said, “Yes sweetheart they are” and promptly gone about organizing the “troops”.
Brad Pitt had turned to Marco after the first shot and told him to “get your men and your guns”, giving him the permission, so to speak, to leave his side.
“I wasn’t ignoring you, I hope you know that” Marco said “you know, when you asked me if those were gunshots”
Of course I knew, I assured him. I realized there were more important things going on at that moment. Hello, people were being shot at.
“Well, so you know, I had someone follow you to your car to make sure you were safe.”
In a small way that scared me more than anything, as I hadn’t noticed any 6’4” man following me (yes, all the security are very large and intimidating men)
“Now listen”, Marco continued, “anytime you feel unsure, you just tell one of my boys that you need escorting and they will escort you wherever you need to go. These guys, they see a young girl walking alone, and you know…I just want you to be safe.”
It turns out that this is the fifth incident since we’ve been at the location on Third Street between Coliseum and Prytania (about a four week time period).
The heart of the Garden District; The famed and touted, an area rated one of the most beautiful places to live in America, was under attack and had been for years.
That same night I went to the Maple Leaf bar and met a filmmaker, Dana, who had lived here back in the 80s and early 90s. He informed me that back then, Calhoun, Laurel and the other streets a few blocks closer to Tchoupitoulas, were very dangerous ghettos. They apparently are still poor, even though some have had face lifts, and although crack isn’t as prevalent, gang activity continues, especially now that NOLA feels a bit like the wild west with no real sheriff in town.
The night that I heard the gunshots, Marco informed me, a group was shot at and one guy was hit or killed, not sure which, around Camp Street. The two survivors, avenging the killing of a brother, went after the shooter. They shot at some guy on Laurel and Third (one and a half blocks from where I’d been standing) – the one shot I heard, apparently hit its mark, as it was followed by seven more, all very clean (i.e. Calm and controlled), as if they were being unloaded “just to make sure”. Saddest part is, according to the story Marco obtained, they shot the wrong guy.
While I walked to my car, these guys must have driven away and around and back to near Camp street – Prytania and Coliseum being the two streets between Laurel and Camp - probably making it there by the time I entered my car and pulled away from set.
Shortly thereafter the victim’s friends found them and shot at them. It’s a vicious cycle.
I finally saw Brad Pitt today. He walked by me while I chatted to someone in the AD department. He looked a little worried, but it could just be the special effects make-up which was caked on. Or the gunshots from teh other day. Or more likely the paparazzi. He’s much thinner and shorter in person than on film.
Paparazzi is apparently getting violent, according to Marco, frighteningly so, especially in their attempt to get to Cate Blanchette. Enough that they’ve had to give her more bodyguards. He wouldn’t go into what exactly they were doing, but he insinuated that they were making threats, their behaviour endagering the children of our stars. What he did reveal was that they have bought off several of the neighbors who have given them permission to use their balconies, etc. to set up their cameras and snap pictures of Brad and Cate while they shoot scenes at the Nolan house.
Beau had a brilliant idea.
"Why don't we find out who their children and families are, where they're at, photograph them, and then send them the pictures in the mail, and see how they like it."
It's an idea, something for a rainy day when we're bored.
January 16th & 19th: The Return of King Cake - the Soloman of the South - and the Subsequent "baby" Wars
Written Tuesday, January 16th & Friday, January 19th
2007
The Return of King Cake - the Soloman of the South -
and the Subsequent “baby” Wars
Since “Twelfth Night”, a terrible tradition has
pervaded the office, one that is bound to make us all
ripe for stuffing and roasting, complete with a big
cherry red apple in our mouths. That’s right, the
return of the King…King Cake that is.
Named for the three kings who took twelve days and
nights to find the baby Jesus, the confectionary makes
its debut on January 6th (The Epiphany, or “Twelfth
Night”, an evening of old Southern balls and revelry)
and is served in our office every Friday in a
gluttonous and jubilant celebration until Fat Tuesday
(February 20th this year).
King Cake is something akin to bread, but with a
consistency more along the lines of a Cinnamon roll
from Dunkin Donuts. It’s usually covered with icing
often in the colors of Mardi Gras (Green, Purple and
Gold), but sometimes white, in which case it is
adorned with sprinkles of the same above said colors.
We’ve had several (I think five was the last count),
one had pecans (or pralines as they’re known down
here) crushed inside with a cinnamon/raisin flavored
syrup; one was more doughy with cinnamon flavoring,
and today’s - which was one of the best – had a
cinnamon essence with a slightly undercooked bread
dough flavor.
The best King Cake, per my co-worker, Production
Secretary Justin Groetsch (pronounced Grutch),
apparently no longer exists. It was made by the
McKenzies, who owned a shop by the same name. They
actually closed shortly before Katrina, having gone
out of business a little too soon. The next best one
comes from Randazzo, although I’d have to argue that
The Laurel Street Bakery, which we had today, would
give them a run for their money.
Now the most bazaar part is what lies secretly stashed
within the cake. To my amusement on the outside of
one box of cake (I believe bought at Walmart), and I
kid you not, it read:
“WARNING – Non-edible baby inside cake”
Yes, compared to the edible kind.
Now I know our crew just got back from the Caribbean,
but please, they stopped eating other humans there
long ago.
So yes, within the King Cake lies a small plastic baby
and whoever gets the slice with the Christ child has
to buy the next one. Suffice it to say, no one in the
office has yet come forward (the cheapskates in
Accounting most likely). However, between the Embassy
Suites, Enterprise and other adoring vendors who keep
supplying us with King Cake after King Cake, we will
all be sufficiently plump by Mardis Gras.
You can read more on the tradition here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_Cake
Thursday, January 18, 2007
The Death of Oyster Girl
Felix’s in the French Quarter, the location of my
first taste of that succulent, briny aphrodisiac, my
beloved oyster, has yet to open its doors again since
Katrina.
I don’t know who I have to supplicate to in order to
get the doors to swing wide again, but whoever it is,
I’ll do it.
Across from the famed ACME bar (which overflowed with
tourists who'd read about it in some cheesy travel mag
and were afraid to try anything different) it was
always on the emptier side, its business probably
offset by the other Felix’s around New Orleans and
Metairie.
And this is my only comfort, the knowledge that there
exists others. There’s one on Prytania near Robert
street (where the famed, and I think Zagat overrated,
crêperie, La Crêpe Nanou lives) a few doors down from
the Creole Creamery, one that I hope to visit soon.
I can already tell from the exterior that it doesn’t
have the same atmosphere as the one on Iberville near
Bourbon had (it looks clean and respectable) with its
minimal chatter, the all too familiar blare of a jazz
saxaphone, Shucker banter and the dingy light I’d
imagine one might have found in the Oyster basements
of ol’ New York, circa 1820; the smoke highlighting
the small amount of sunlight filtered through the old
stained glass... but it’s probably worth trying none
the less.
Either way, you can’t beat a town that gives you a
plate of oysters, a dozen, for the low, low price of
$8-12! I will be sure to wash it down with a Toasted
Amber (Abita, the local souther beer, run through
coffee beans) and breath in a New Orleans night.
Maybe even hear more of the secadas. But that would
just be Lagniappe*.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
*For those interested in what that means, basically "a
bonus", but Mark Twain described it best in: Life on
the Mississippi (1883), calling it "a word worth
travelling to New Orleans to get":
We picked up one excellent word — a word worth
travelling to New Orleans to get; a nice limber,
expressive, handy word — "lagniappe." They pronounce
it lanny-yap.
It is Spanish — so they said. We discovered it at the
head of a column of odds and ends in the Picayune, the
first day; heard twenty people use it the second;
inquired what it meant the third; adopted it and got
facility in swinging it the fourth. It has a
restricted meaning, but I think the people spread it
out a little when they choose. It is the equivalent of
the thirteenth roll in a "baker's dozen." It is
something thrown in, gratis, for good measure. The
custom originated in the Spanish quarter of the city.
When a child or a servant buys something in a shop —
or even the mayor or the governor, for aught I know —
he finishes the operation by saying — "Give me
something for lagniappe."
The shopman always responds; gives the child a bit of
licorice-root, gives the servant a cheap cigar or a
spool of thread, gives the governor — I don't know
what he gives the governor; support, likely.
When you are invited to drink, and this does occur now
and then in New Orleans — and you say, "What, again? —
no, I've had enough;" the other party says, "But just
this one time more — this is for lagniappe." When the
beau perceives that he is stacking his compliments a
trifle too high, and sees by the young lady's
countenance that the edifice would have been better
with the top compliment left off, he puts his "I beg
pardon — no harm intended," into the briefer form of
"Oh, that's for lagniappe."
2007
The Return of King Cake - the Soloman of the South -
and the Subsequent “baby” Wars
Since “Twelfth Night”, a terrible tradition has
pervaded the office, one that is bound to make us all
ripe for stuffing and roasting, complete with a big
cherry red apple in our mouths. That’s right, the
return of the King…King Cake that is.
Named for the three kings who took twelve days and
nights to find the baby Jesus, the confectionary makes
its debut on January 6th (The Epiphany, or “Twelfth
Night”, an evening of old Southern balls and revelry)
and is served in our office every Friday in a
gluttonous and jubilant celebration until Fat Tuesday
(February 20th this year).
King Cake is something akin to bread, but with a
consistency more along the lines of a Cinnamon roll
from Dunkin Donuts. It’s usually covered with icing
often in the colors of Mardi Gras (Green, Purple and
Gold), but sometimes white, in which case it is
adorned with sprinkles of the same above said colors.
We’ve had several (I think five was the last count),
one had pecans (or pralines as they’re known down
here) crushed inside with a cinnamon/raisin flavored
syrup; one was more doughy with cinnamon flavoring,
and today’s - which was one of the best – had a
cinnamon essence with a slightly undercooked bread
dough flavor.
The best King Cake, per my co-worker, Production
Secretary Justin Groetsch (pronounced Grutch),
apparently no longer exists. It was made by the
McKenzies, who owned a shop by the same name. They
actually closed shortly before Katrina, having gone
out of business a little too soon. The next best one
comes from Randazzo, although I’d have to argue that
The Laurel Street Bakery, which we had today, would
give them a run for their money.
Now the most bazaar part is what lies secretly stashed
within the cake. To my amusement on the outside of
one box of cake (I believe bought at Walmart), and I
kid you not, it read:
“WARNING – Non-edible baby inside cake”
Yes, compared to the edible kind.
Now I know our crew just got back from the Caribbean,
but please, they stopped eating other humans there
long ago.
So yes, within the King Cake lies a small plastic baby
and whoever gets the slice with the Christ child has
to buy the next one. Suffice it to say, no one in the
office has yet come forward (the cheapskates in
Accounting most likely). However, between the Embassy
Suites, Enterprise and other adoring vendors who keep
supplying us with King Cake after King Cake, we will
all be sufficiently plump by Mardis Gras.
You can read more on the tradition here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_Cake
Thursday, January 18, 2007
The Death of Oyster Girl
Felix’s in the French Quarter, the location of my
first taste of that succulent, briny aphrodisiac, my
beloved oyster, has yet to open its doors again since
Katrina.
I don’t know who I have to supplicate to in order to
get the doors to swing wide again, but whoever it is,
I’ll do it.
Across from the famed ACME bar (which overflowed with
tourists who'd read about it in some cheesy travel mag
and were afraid to try anything different) it was
always on the emptier side, its business probably
offset by the other Felix’s around New Orleans and
Metairie.
And this is my only comfort, the knowledge that there
exists others. There’s one on Prytania near Robert
street (where the famed, and I think Zagat overrated,
crêperie, La Crêpe Nanou lives) a few doors down from
the Creole Creamery, one that I hope to visit soon.
I can already tell from the exterior that it doesn’t
have the same atmosphere as the one on Iberville near
Bourbon had (it looks clean and respectable) with its
minimal chatter, the all too familiar blare of a jazz
saxaphone, Shucker banter and the dingy light I’d
imagine one might have found in the Oyster basements
of ol’ New York, circa 1820; the smoke highlighting
the small amount of sunlight filtered through the old
stained glass... but it’s probably worth trying none
the less.
Either way, you can’t beat a town that gives you a
plate of oysters, a dozen, for the low, low price of
$8-12! I will be sure to wash it down with a Toasted
Amber (Abita, the local souther beer, run through
coffee beans) and breath in a New Orleans night.
Maybe even hear more of the secadas. But that would
just be Lagniappe*.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
*For those interested in what that means, basically "a
bonus", but Mark Twain described it best in: Life on
the Mississippi (1883), calling it "a word worth
travelling to New Orleans to get":
We picked up one excellent word — a word worth
travelling to New Orleans to get; a nice limber,
expressive, handy word — "lagniappe." They pronounce
it lanny-yap.
It is Spanish — so they said. We discovered it at the
head of a column of odds and ends in the Picayune, the
first day; heard twenty people use it the second;
inquired what it meant the third; adopted it and got
facility in swinging it the fourth. It has a
restricted meaning, but I think the people spread it
out a little when they choose. It is the equivalent of
the thirteenth roll in a "baker's dozen." It is
something thrown in, gratis, for good measure. The
custom originated in the Spanish quarter of the city.
When a child or a servant buys something in a shop —
or even the mayor or the governor, for aught I know —
he finishes the operation by saying — "Give me
something for lagniappe."
The shopman always responds; gives the child a bit of
licorice-root, gives the servant a cheap cigar or a
spool of thread, gives the governor — I don't know
what he gives the governor; support, likely.
When you are invited to drink, and this does occur now
and then in New Orleans — and you say, "What, again? —
no, I've had enough;" the other party says, "But just
this one time more — this is for lagniappe." When the
beau perceives that he is stacking his compliments a
trifle too high, and sees by the young lady's
countenance that the edifice would have been better
with the top compliment left off, he puts his "I beg
pardon — no harm intended," into the briefer form of
"Oh, that's for lagniappe."
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