Saints Alive
/Art is everywhere. The city is vibrant. Music reverberates through the street. The city pulsates. Three hundred years of history reflect its myriad influences and scars. Out of its imperfections and setbacks emerges an endearing civic center. The resilient mélange of its inhabitants give New Orleans its unique character and charm.
The Mighty Mississippi, which we hope doesn't supply the water fountains, snakes through this city of saints. The Superdome– excuse me, the Mercedes-Benz Superdome, home of the gridiron Saints, glistens in the autumn sun. Jazz brunch at Commander’s Palace includes Turtle Soup (talk about the Slow-Food Movement!) and bread pudding soaked in whiskey sauce (I don't believe Jell-O has that flavor yet), as sonorous saints serenade us with the sounds of Louis and the Duke. Seraphic saints went marching in to help rebuild after Katrina. This is a city whose residents care about it and its guests.
One of those saints... our friend's Uncle Dick, a native New Orleanian who, along with his wife, (Aunt) Kathy, returned from a stint in Raleigh, N.C., to help rebuild. He toured my wife and me around the city our first day there. From its homes to its parks to its cemeteries, we immediately understood the pride and love New Orleanians have for their city.
Another saint... the man tending the immaculate lawn at the World War II Museum, who shut off the mower to greet us and ask us how we were doing and whether we needed any help. We talked about the grounds and the museum and the weather and the city itself. "First time here? Welcome to New Orleans," he offered with a genuine smile.
Another saint... The Michigan-native restaurant owner of Carmo in the Warehouse District, who chatted with us during dinner, telling us how she could never imagine leaving a place that reveres creativity so earnestly.
Another... Native New Orleanian artist and musician Dwayne D. Conrad at his gallery drawing a from-memory portrait of Louis Armstrong to accompany those he'd done of Billie Holiday and Jimi Hendrix. The flow of a conversation about art and music, justice and race, the appreciation of a true spirit he said he felt in us and we felt in him.
Another... Richard Crawford of Tastebud Tours, a Virginian transplant, a former schoolteacher, passionately discussing the history of gumbo and jambalaya, regaling us with legendary tales of Sinatra and Dean Martin and Anne Margaret at Tortorici's, humorously and heart-warmingly teaching us the history of the city through food.
Two more saints... Tanya & Dorise moving us to tears on Royal St. with their guitar and violin interpretation of U2’s “One.” (recorded version from V, their (5th) album (oops, showing my age...I meant CD), below)
Another... M.Sani, from Cameroon, proud and grateful, in his gallery alight with bright colors and movement. His creativity inspires the room above our piano at home. Maybe I'll play like Monk or Tyner the next time I sit down.
Another... Native-Aussie, now proud New Orleanean Joanne with Free Tours by Foot who leads a fantastic walking tour of the French Quarter, teaching us the difference between Creole and Cajun, the influence of the French, Spanish, Italian, African and Native populations on the food, art and architecture in the tantalizing gumbo of New Orleans.
More saints still, visitors... My fellow Qualies and friends, abuzz at the annual conference, rekindling connections and cheering me on during my performance (more on that in another post to come).
The Big Easy, a civic sobriquet earned because it’s easy to become very big, if one gorges on all the incredible and rich food. Ah, the saints who create incomparable food...
Beignets from Café du Monde and Café Beignet—too many to count, more fried dough than I’ve eaten in the past 25 years. A marketing idea: discounted electrocardiogram with every purchase, with punch-card for a free EKG after 10. Delicious pillows of dough evoke the clamcakes from Aunt Carrie's in Narragansett, R.I. that I craved as a child. These fritters mollusc-free, scrumptiously topped off with mounds of powdered sugar, cocaine-like in appearance and effect, transforming me into addict, dipping my fingers into the bag to pinch every last clump of residual sugar, desperate for more when the bag begins to disintegrate into a treacly mess, as the beignet lumbers down my alimentary canal to stake out a permanent retirement home in the walls of my arteries.
Chicory-infused coffee.
Syrup-soaked snowballs. (Don't call them snowcones.)
Alligator kebabs eaten hours after holding a baby alligator on a swamp and bayou tour (admittedly a bit twisted, though a different actual alligator, I promise).
A giant Hurricane shared with my wife at Pat O’Briens, knocking us on our butts before a delicious dinner at Café Amelie.
A Pimms Cup (not just the cup, but actually filled with Pimms) and a Sazerac to lubricate the Italian Sausage Po-Boy and Muffaletta at Napoleon House with Jill, Susan and Dan.
Gumbo and Jambalaya at the Old Coffee Pot, washed down with a local brew, Abita Amber; Pralines from Laura’s, and a Muffaletta at Little Vic's—all enjoyed with fellow Qualies. Red fish wrapped around crabmeat, charbroiled oysters as we celebrate friend and colleague Peggy's birthday.
Music pours out of every door on Frenchmen's St., as one day merges into another. Swing jazzers "Jumbo Shrimp" at The Spotted Cat, and funk band "Rue Fiya" at Maison, with Shalli, Dave, Jamie and Karlene. Hungry at 2 a.m.—short ribs and burgers from a street vendor...a toothless, grinning man serving as de facto maitre'd. Tips welcome.
The next night, Jason Marsalis and his quartet at Snug Harbor with Pascal, Carole-Anne, Katrina, Casey and Jim. Thinking about the hard-earned power of being a Marsalis in attracting fans. If I could becoming an up-and-coming jazz musician, I'd name myself "Veal Marsalis," to indicate my youthfulness and leverage my family connection. Other possible surnames to adopt: Neville or Connick, Jr. Now, to re-learn how to play French horn, and to make it sing with a jazz flair...
Sadly, my reflections can't fully capture the magic and majesty of New Orleans. Can't wait for our next visit! Hope it's soon...
Why polar bears in a piece about New Orleans? Caution: mini-political rant at right...
New Orleanians—and anyone paying attention—are aware that the city, already at or below sea-level, risks disappearing as sea levels continue to rise...that is, if science could actually prove that sea levels are rising at an alarming rate, and if all those tree-huggers didn't pose those adorable polar bears on an ever-shrinking piece of ice just to garner sympathy for a fabricated fear. (For those of you who don't know me, my tongue is firmly implanted inside my cheek... partly to keep from screaming.) Perhaps climate-change naysayers would do well to meet some saints over a Sazerac, with Absinthe...their delusional attitudes make me think they may have been drinking absinthe for quite awhile already. (It was tempting to say they're "absinthe-minded," but I didn't want to end my mini-homage and plea that way.) Despite the threat, New Orleanians continue to live their lives, taking one day at a time, controlling what they can control: how they deal with the cards dealt to them. They continue to laissez le bon temps roulez. (Forgive me, true French speakers, if that sentence construction isn't quite right.)
