December 17th

My day started as it normally would when hung over,
late.
We had our Xmas/Production party at King Bolden's on
N.Rampart last night. A strange part of town
bordering between a horrid ghetto and the French
Quarter; on one side Louis Armstrong Park and tall
skinny black hookers and on the other the rich at play
in slummy bars. Odd, yet Sunday seemed more so.
And it got increasingly odd, something that I've grown
accustomed to viewing as normal, as this is New
Orleans where no day being normal is "normal"
My father had an old friend that he'd recommended
might be able to assist me in my concerns over the
Foxy's recent behavior, that of squeaking
unquestionably when driving in a low gear (not the
breaks, but something else I have attributed to the
horrid state of NOLA streets, pot-hole central. They
make Redhook streets look like finely paved roadway)
He arrived late, after getting lost in a town he'd
lived in for over 20 years. This is the nature of New
Orleans. He was a tall and attractive Dutch man,
perhaps a few years younger than my father and perhaps
not, perhaps the years had just been more kind, as
he'd just gotten back from his 2nd home in Panama.
At first, I didn't know if I should trust a man who
arrived in a squeaking SUV with a slightly under
inflated front right tire to look at my car and tell
me what was wrong with it. My fears were confirmed
after he looked under Foxy's hood and told me that his
expertise was more in diesel engines than gasoline run
ones. But we decided to take it for a spin
nonetheless and see what might cause the squeak.
Of course Foxy refused to squeak and we drove around
Uptown this way and that, getting caught in dead-ends
near Audubon Park, and bumpy Calhoun street,
discoursing on his life and experiences. I learned
about his recently divorced daughter and the turmoil
she was going through with an over-protective and
insecure older man as her soon-to-be ex-husband (if
all went right and he didn't inflict physical
violence!) and about the Dutchman’s connection to
Bush, the CIA and his non-bulletproof "bullet-proof"
vehicle that he had made for Noriega to assist the US
government in ridding themselves of a nuisance, a plan
later aborted.
After listening to the engine, he informed me that,
like me, the engine looked and sounded good. Later,
while we walked to lunch he asked me if I worked out
as I obviously kept myself in shape and then during
lunch informed me that I had beautiful eyes. It was at
this point I thought it might be prudent to
reintroduce my father into the discourse.
"Thank you" I said, "It's funny, my brother, Tristan,
and I are both a perfect amalgam of our parents. I
have my fathers eye color and hair and my brother has
my mother's." Hint, hint, it's my fathers eyes into
which you lust kind sir.
He apparently has known my father since I was,
perhaps, 3 years old or so, when my father worked for
a company called M.A.N.
Regardless, we had a lovely lunch, interesting
conversation in which I brought up my boyfriend on
numerous occasions, at Mona's Cafe on Carrollton.
Mona's Cafe, is a Middle-Eastern chain that has other
locations in the Garden District (on Magazine) and
Mid-City and Downtown.
After driving him back to my place to retrieve his
car, he offered to grease my oil points (the cars that
is) anytime, including after 9:30pm when I got off
work, if I was willing to travel to Belle Chase, or
the Westbank of NOLA as its called.
I said I would be up for that as it was another place
in which I had not been and was always willing to
explore. He kissed me on the cheek and said how
lovely it was to meet me and before he actually left
did so again.
I had wanted to try the restaurant across the street,
Jamila's Cafe, with him but they had not been open and
promised myself I would venture there for dinner, as
it was long overdue.
A few nights ago I had arrived home from work at the
usual late hour, around 9:45 or 10PM to see a white
wolf-like dog wandering the street near my house.
Since I had heard that post-Katrina a lot of pets had
been misplaced and were going without homes, I thought
at first that this was one of them. I got out of my
car and heard a man yelling at the dog. Initially I
thought it was his.
"No, no, this is not my dog, but lady, don't be
afraid. He belongs to a neighbor of ours down the
street. I am just watching him, where he goes and what
he does. Do not be afraid, he will not bite you."
"I'm not afraid", I said, "I thought he might be
homeless"
"No, no, he has a home, but his owner just lets him
out like this. Do not worry; I am watching him for
you. You live across the street no? I have seen you
on a few occasions and see how late you get home. You
must be studying very hard."
I was a little taken aback by this.
"No, no studying. I'm working here in New Orleans for
a short time"
He ventured a little bit closer, crossing midway
across the street.
"Really, what do you do?"
And I told him what I was in town for.
"That is wonderful. You must come across the street
and have dinner. I am the owner of Jamila's Cafe. I
will take care of you"
I thanked him and said I had always planned on it.
He fully crossed the street now and held out his hand.
In a wonderful accent I couldn't place, something
almost French, but tinged with Indian and Catalan, he
said " I am Moncef, I am the owner, I will take care
of you good neighbor, please come by some night and we
will feed you"
I shook his hand in the typically cold and guarded way
of any New Yorker, across my body and far away from
true contact, and said that I would.
Well, kind reader, tonight I did, and what a joy it
was.
Although the escargot were a little too garlicky and
salted, the Tagine of Lamb was a delight, served with
basmati saffron rice, instead of the couscous I am
used to, in its original crockery pot, it was a
perfectly seasoned, tender and a delight.
When Mosef finally arrived, the service became
impeccable, the waitress before him less than a joy.
He asked me where I was from, where I originally grew
up and in which town. I gave him the basic rundown
finishing with the fact that I was now here until
March and in Prague, if I was lucky, from April
through July or August.
"Wonderful! Another world traveler! It is good to jump
around, no? If you are ever in Prague, you must call
me and if you want to get away for a weekend, you come
stay in my house in Tunisia, I insist, I will give you
my card."
And after the brochures of Tunisia and the history of
the small African country, that is exactly what he
did.
"Us continent hoppers must stick together,” he said
with a laugh and a wave of his hand before running off
to fetch me another glass of the Italian Chianti. He
came back with it and his card and imploring once
again how I must stay at his place in Tunisia, how I
would love the people and the land.
"Thank you Naomi for coming finally to eat with us,
thank you kind neighbor, and please come back again.
If you are too lazy to cook one night, do not worry,
just holler across the street, kind neighbor, and we
will make something for you and bring it over."
This city is like no other. The trencherman
sophistication of New York with the temperament of
Southern charm and hospitality. Open, yet always
closed on Sundays, except at Jamila's Café.

Jamila's Cafe
7808 Maple Street
New Orleans, LA 70116
T: 504-866-4366