It was only our third day in New Orleans and already we seemed to have misplaced Nick. It was morning when I realized that he had found himself a Mardi Gras boyfriend and a place to stay for the night when he showed up the next morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed, while the rest of us looked like we had just walked out of a crypt. I was up before the rest of the group because, like the geek that I am, nothing gave me more pleasure in the world than when I was taking in a new scene or experience. I think I might have been overdosing on New Orleans a bit. Everything about this city was like a shot in the vain and I was loving every minute of it. Rolling out of bed with a hazy recollection of the night before, I jot down a few of the things I could remember before those things began to slip my mind too and so I would have an accurate time-line of events. Then I woke the rest of the group to get ready for the day ahead of us. Thankfully, we had the good sense to make plans before we went out the day before, because on that gloomy Wednesday morning, we had no sense at all. With reservations made for an afternoon of jazz and lunch cruising down the Mississippi River on the Steamboat Natchez, we decided to skip breakfast for French Market coffee instead. I'm not sure if it was just because of where I was, how I felt or because I was still a bit drunk from the night before, but the coffee I was sipping that morning was one of the most delicious brews I had ever swallowed. With our hands wrapped around the steaming cups we stood by the riverfront waiting for the next streetcar to come rolling down the tracks. After some fifteen minutes of waiting, a beautifully constructed Perley Thomas streetcar, built with the same integrity as the original, overhead electric-powered design from the early 20th century, came crawling along to pick us up. Since we were stationed at the last stop, we had to wait another while for the conductor to readjust for the return to the other end of the tracks. Closing down her instruments of navigation at the front, which was now the back end of the streetcar, she then made her way to the other end to pull down on an apparatus mounted on the roof to collect power, and attached it to the power line hovering above the streetcar. What a process. If we had to wait this long for the trains in New York City, the place would collapse. The locals would go from the speed-walking pace they're all used to, to strait out running everywhere they went and God forbid any tourist get in their way. Climbing into the streetcar, we each slid our one dollar and twenty-five cents into something that looked like an ATM then sat ourselves on the wooden benches by the windows for a full view of the riverfront. Two stops later, about four minutes time, we were at our stop. Are you kidding me? We could have easily walked the distance and been there a half hour ago had I realized the pier was just a few blocks away. What a dope.
It was quite possible that we were the youngest group to board the Steamboat Natchez. When we walked into the dining room it felt like we on an outing with a group home and for some odd reason, nearly everyone in the room was sitting as far back from the jazz band as they could get. What gives? Were we not aware of something that would happen or were they just being sensitive about loud music? They were definitely in the wrong city at the wrong time if that were the case. I just don't know, but it was odd. With a buffet of the typical New Orleans cusine, we ate our meals while the captain pointed out the landmarks we passed and narrated the history and workings of the ship as we coursed down the Mississippi. From a list of beverages I found sitting on the table in front of me, I happened to notice that the Natchez served a New Orleans favorite called Pimm's cup. Letting myself forget that it was only two in the afternoon, I ordered a cup of this refreshing concoction because I was curious. Originally, this drink was created back in the mid 1800's by a man named James Pimm who offered this gin based drink with other herbs and liquors as an aid to digestion. Today, this tea colored liquor is bottled and often mixed with lemonade, lemon-lime soda and garnished with a cucumber, naming it Pimm's Cup. One sip and I finally found a cocktail that I actually enjoyed the taste of. This could be dangerous.
After consuming more than was probably necessary, Nick, Renee, Allison and I decided to venture out to explore the ship before the band began to play. While the captain continued his narration, the four of us walked portside along the ship to the hurricane deck located at the front. With dreamy expressions upon our faces we looked beyond the mighty Mississippi to the Seventh and Ninth Wards in the distance where many famous natives and residents such as Fats Domino, John Larroquette and Brian "Baby" Williams lived. We stood there in that state for as long as we could still feel our faces against the whipping cold wind. Having access into the engine room below deck, we got the chance to see the inner workings of how this incredible ship propelled those paddles of white oak through that massive river. It was a little intimidating being so close to these huge beams of steal as they spun around at a pace and strength that could have easily tossed me across the river like a rag doll. So I let the nice machine have its personal space and kept a good distance while I analyzed its naked innards. Stepping out on deck with the steam from the engine room floating into the cool open air, we looked like characters from a Humphrey Bogart movie, just before someone usually gets shot and then thrown overboard. It was one of those moments where man, science and nature came together like a dance, and it could have been a romantic setting for a couple on a getaway, being that we were the only people on that deck. But, we were just silly enough to look like ghostly figures, aimlessly haunting the Natchez instead. Just as the ship was making its equivalent of a three point turn and began its trek back in the other direction, we head upstairs to listen to the Dukes of Dixieland as they played some good ol' jazz until the steamboat cast us back onto dry land.
After a glass of Pimm's cup in combination with a full stomach and the lull of riding the steamboat, I was beginning to feel like I could've slept the rest of the day away. Although my body wanted one thing, my mind would not have it. There was too much I wanted to do and too much I wanted to see. Sleep was something I would do when I had nothing left to go on. Giving Mississippi mud another try, I grabbed a cup of that chicory-flavored coffee I had the other day and found that the taste was starting to grow on me. It was just the right kick I needed for the trip I wanted to take out to the Garden District before the start of the first Mardi Gras parade since our arrival. My plans were to visit the Lafayette Cemetery, one of the oldest and most famous cemeteries in all of New Orleans and the former home of one of my favorite authors, Anne Rice. Most of Rice's best sellers happened to not only take place in New Orleans, but some of the settings were located and inspired by these two places. I loved the idea of being able step on those grounds and get a full perspective of what it was that inspired her. Since there was time, why waste it? I wasn't expecting anyone to be interested in seeing these things with me, but I extended the invitation to everyone anyway. Andrew couldn't take another minute without at least a nap so he decided to stay behind while the rest of us went ahead with the idea of meeting up later. I could tell that the last thing the rest of the group wanted was another venture out so soon, but they chose to come along anyway. I suppose because they had no idea where anything was or what to even look for in New Orleans, they probably felt they would never have the opportunity to see these things again if they didn't go when I did. It wasn't likely that I would go back once I had already been there, so four of my little ducks came along with me and one stayed home.
It was a bit of a sketchy walk down St. Charles Avenue around the Lee Circle area and the underpass below the Route 90 expressway. But once we hit the Garden District with those massive plantation size houses, the area began to take on a suburban look and I forgot the state of my nerves and that my feet were beginning to ach after an unexpectedly long walk. Not realizing that the St. Charles streetcar was closed down for the Krewe of Ancient druids and Nyx parades that were about to make their way through town, we resorted to walking there instead. Or rather, I decided to walk instead, and everyone else reluctantly followed. Of course, when we finally reached the cemetery...it was closed. I had the brains to map out the route to get there, but I forgot to take note of the hours of operation. Apparently, the dead need their peace and quiet after two thirty and it was after four when we got there. All that walking for nothing...my bad. Well, for me it wasn't nothing. I would have made the walk even if I didn't quite know what was at the other end of the rainbow, but the rest of the group was expecting a pot of gold and I had not a nugget to give them. Since we were there, however, I figured we could grab a bite to eat at the famed Commander's Palace across the street then check out the former home of Anne Rice, also known as Rosegate, on the way back. This hundred thirty-two year old restaurant has been rated one of the best creole restaurants not only in New Orleans, but also, in the United States. That's a heck of a reputation, and I wanted to experience it at some point on this trip even if it meant I would be sitting at a table by myself.
When we walked into the Commander's Palace, I was not expecting the place to be so lavish. Although the white Victorian building was a beautiful design complete with turrets, columns and gingerbread ornamentation surrounding a white and turquoise awning, still, sitting across the street from an old cemetery and the many mansions surrounding it, it didn't look any grander than the Cafe du Monde back in the French Quarter. Because the guidebook I had suggested this restaurant, I assumed that it would be a place where tourists, like ourselves, could just stroll off the streets, walk into the place and it would be a casual affair. Walking in with shorts, flip-flops and t-shirts, we looked well out of place there. It was a good thing we had to make a reservation ahead of time and there was a business casual dress code we had to abide by, because we would have felt awkward dressed the way we were and it would have diminished the experience. Although the menu wasn't any more expensive than eating in Times Square, unaccustomed to eating in fancy places like this, the rest of the group seemed a little wary of being there. That's silly, we're people too. We might not have fancy things but we can afford a good meal now and then. While the rest of us were still looking over the menu I asked the maitre d' if there was an opening for tomorrow afternoon. I was going to come back even if the rest of them didn't want to. In the end, my little ducks caved and it was a reservation for six of us at two tomorrow. Lovely.
From the Commander's Palace, the closer we got to Rosegate, the more grand and opulent the houses seemed to become. It was an architects dream come true on every corner. Eerily enough, and it couldn't have been planned any better if we were on the set of one of Anne Rice's book adaptations and someone shoved the black cat into frame, but just before we reached the corner where Rosegate lied, a slinky black cat came crawling toward us with its translucent green and yellow eyes glowing in the twilight. We weren't expecting the cat to get much closer to us let alone allow us come in contact with her, but we came to meet halfway and she rubbed her little head on our legs like we were her long awaited family and purred her little heart out. I could have sat on that sidewalk petting her shiny coat all night had she had the patience for me and I all the time in the world. But it was getting dark and we still had to make our way back.
With massive Corinthian columns stretching two stories high, separated by a cast iron balcony overlooking a tree lined street, the Greek revival home called Rosegate glowed against a purple twilight sky like a dream. Through the open drapes of the large French style windows on the first floor, we could see the glowing chandeliers in each facing room including a small library filled with books covering every wall of the room. I must have looked like a pervert snapping pictures of the house and peeking through the surrounding gate to get a better look inside, but I didn't care. This was Anne Rice's house. This is where the Mayfair Witches and the beloved vampires Louis and Lestat lived in another dimension. Holy cow. I figured, as long as neighborhood watch didn't call the police, I would stalked the house like a thief in the night, then walked away like a pedestrian on a leisurely stroll through the neighborhood. Mission accomplished.
Back in the days when I had my Food Channel obsession, one of my favorite shows to watch was Throwdown! With Bobby Flay. I used to love watching culinary competitions between everyday people who started out with nothing more than a hope and a dream then became good enough to be sought after for a challenge with the world renowned Bobby Flay. On our way back to the parade route on St. Charles, Kayla decided she wanted a Philly cheese steak sandwich so we stopped at three different food trucks along the way until we finally found one that made the cheesy sandwiches. Having eaten enough of them in New York and New Jersey, she knew what a good Philly cheesesteak sandwich tasted like so she was a little concerned whether the sandwich would be any good here. But, not only that, she wasn't sure if she wanted to take a chance on a sandwich that was sold out of a truck that also fried alligator balls and sausages on a stick. When a woman in the truck overheard her reservations she poked her head out of the window and challenged Kayla's indecision.
"I've been making Philly's for years. I know how to make the best Philly cheese steaks in town. You want a Philly cheese steak, I can make you one" the woman said in what I thought was a thick Brooklyn accent.
"I don't know. I'm from Philly so I know what a good Philly cheesesteak sandwich is like."
Actually, Kayla was from Oregon, but I suppose her brief visit to Philadelphia might count for something.
"I grew up in Philly! If this isn't the best Philly cheese steak sandwich you ever ate, you don't have to pay for it!" Oh snap, this was a throwdown!
Intent on making the best sandwich she ever made, the woman threw down the best pieces of shaved steak in her stash, tossed large rings of sweet onion and green peppers over the grill, then layered slice after slice of provolone cheese on top and slid it all onto a toasted hoagie roll. With an analytical eye Kayla took the gigantic sandwich from the woman and sunk into the sandwich. I stood there watching the two of them assess the other with impatient expectation. The woman watched and patiently waited while Kayla chomped on the sandwich and nodded her head in approval.
"It's gwood. I l–k it."
"What'd I tell you? I told you I knew how to make a good Philly. Do me a favor, the next time you go to Philly, you tell Paul's Steakhouse Sandra Mitchell said 'kiss my ass!'"
"Okay, Pw-l's Stick-ouse, I w–ll."
After paying Sandra her due reward and thanking her for a job well done, we head out to view our first Mardi Gras parade.
Along St. Charles Avenue people were already decked out on their lawn chairs. Children were strapped tightly into booster seats attached to the top of stepladders so they could see over the crowd. Or really, so they would sit still and not wander from their parents so they too could have their fun with peace of mind. The closer we got to the Business District, back in the direction of where we were staying in the French Quarter, the more crowded it began to look. Deciding to stop at a bar halfway down the avenue called St. Charles Bar, we met back up with Andrew. After a long nap he came trotting up to us still looking like a sleepy child and we went inside for some refreshment.
I hate ordering drinks at a bar. Waiting for a bartender's attention while people sitting on their stools sip on their drinks and watch you struggle for some acknowledgement is always an awkward moment for me. I think it's more that I don't like to be watched than anything else. If I had a superpower I would want to be able to make myself invisible whenever I pleased. Then I could do whatever I wanted and go where I wanted without an audience. Standing behind a row of drinkers at the bar, I let an older woman get in front of me because she looked as awkward as I did and had less height to help her get the bartenders attention. When she passed me she thanked me and called me a sweetheart. Thank you? AND sweetheart? When do I ever hear this in the Northeast? I don't know why those three little words moved me so much, but I suppose it might have just been the term of endearment at the end that I wasn't used to. People in NOLA were just so darn kind and considerate here. Men were still chivalrous, people actually smiled when you walked by, please and thank you were always being heard. Man I love this place.
Back outside, with our refreshments all in hand and the parade still in route to reach us, a DJ who lived in an apartment on the second floor beside the bar was providing the crowd with some entertainment while they waited around for the parade. In the street in front of him, I noticed a scrawny teenage boy of about sixteen or so, dancing to the music like he was alone in his bedroom. From what I could see in the fluidity of his moves, he could have very well been classically trained in what my guess would be, ballet. And it didn't seem like something he did, it was more like something he was. This kid lived and breath dance. The way he stretched bent and rotated his arms, legs and feet was more exciting to watch than the lights from the approaching parade, less than half a mile away. His energy and enthusiasm was so contagious that when the DJ (also the boy's father) played the Cupid Shuffle, Renee and I ran out to the middle of the street to join the boy even though I had no clue how to do the steps. Renee, being a dancer herself, taught me the steps, then Allison and Kayla joined in and a small crowd followed. Just as we were in the middle of our dance lesson, a light rain started up and suddenly we looked like we were in the middle of shooting a music video. Some ten or twelve people in the middle of St. Charles Avenue were now splashing around in unison, whipping wet hair and soggy clothes around like they meant it. We were all having so much fun dancing that we forgot we were there to watch a parade, which was just a few hundred yards away.
Now I've seen plenty of parades in my day. In New York City, there's at least one going on every month. I've been to Disney World three times and Disney Land once and I thought those were the most amazing parades I had ever seen, but when I saw the Krewe of Ancient Druids followed by the Krewe of Nyx, I had never really seen a parade until that Wednesday of Mercredi Gras. These large floats were so beautifully decorated that I often forgot to reach out for beads because I was so busy looking at the explosion of art and color. It felt like something you might see if you happened to fall into Alice's rabbit hole and landed in Wonderland. From every float members of each Krewe threw beads to the frantic crowd below. We all looked like a bunch of cats in heat scratching and clawing to grab those shiny dangling things they teased in front of us. Due to the rain and location we were in, the crowd wasn't as large as the areas further along the route, nearest the Business District and French Quarter, and most of this crowd seemed to be locals who lived or worked in the area so it was likely they were more interested in the scene than any of the beads, so we had free reign of that territory and the beads were plenty. As each float passed, the heavier my neck began to feel and the more hunched I was beginning to look. Allison, being over six feet tall with fiery red locks and a million dollar smile, stood above the crowd like a beacon and easily wooed and swindled the Krewe hiding behind their masks with just a wink of her eye and wave of her hand. Before the first parade ended and the next one began, she had more beads and twinkling necklaces than any three of us combined. This was a competition now. Although, there was no way I could've caught up to her by that point, it was fun trying anyway. Between lags in the parade, where one float was catching up with the other, the DJ would crank up the music for us and we would all return to the street and dance without a care in the world. We didn't know anyone here, we were drinking one cocktail after another from the bar beside the DJ and it was our New Orleans vacation during Mardi Gras in the pouring rain. We didn't have a care in the world here...except how on earth we were going to get all those beads home to New York. This was only Wednesday, the start of the onslaught of parades and we had three more days of this to go. I think we're going to need another suitcase.
Two parades later, we were soaked to the bone and choking from all the beads around our necks, which we wore like badges of honor. Although the parades were over we stuck around a little while more and danced like fools with our young friend. Then, like a parade all our own, one behind the other, the six of us walked our soggy skins back towards the French Quarter to a hole in the wall for take out. Walking out with anything and everything deep-fried on the menu we could find we then ran into a grocery store along the way where I ducked inside on the look out for something to satisfy my sweet tooth. Behind a smiling security guard, standing about six and a half feet tall, I spotted a large rack of the king cakes I've heard so much about. I stood in front of that rack for a good five minutes contemplated whether or not I should buy one then or save it for another day while the middle aged African American guard stood at his post looking at my soggy state with humor in his eyes.
"Must be some good cake if they have you guarding this rack."
"Have you ever had king cake before?" He asked me.
"No, but I'm thinking about it."
"What flavor do you like?"
"There are different flavors?"
"Oh, yeah. There's cinnamon, praline, apple, cream cheese and strawberry. Cream cheese is the best though."
"You had me at cream cheese."
"You won't be disappointed, that one's my favorite."
"I'll take your advice. You look like a trustworthy man."
"I try."
Grabbing a box of cream cheese filled king cake, I made my purchase at the front and smiled at the guard on my way out.
"Thanks for the advice."
"You won't regret it," he called after me.
Smelling that fried food while we walked those last few blocks back to the hotel room had us drooling like mad dogs. Hungrier than we were cold and wet, the second that hotel room door was open we crammed ourselves into one room, spread our buffet of food on a bed and without taking off our wet cloths we practically inhaled the food whole.
Thank God I don't have diabetes, because I have the worst case of sweet tooth than anyone I know...all the time. I could easily skip over a meal and jump right into desert without a second thought about it. Knowing I had a whole cake waiting to be devoured, I could only eat a slice of pizza before I had my hands wrapped around that colorful box of king cake and the top pried open in anticipation. Historically, king cake made its appearance as far back as the mid seventeenth century, during the religious celebration of Epiphany, or Twelfth Night, and before the start of the Lenten season of Mardi Gras. The cake was made to represent the three wise kings who brought gifts to the Christ child when he was born. Typically, they're made of a cinnamon filled dough in the shape of a hollow circle then topped with a sweet glaze and sprinkled with colored sugar. The three colors of the sugar are purple (representing justice), green (representing faith) and gold (representing power). Somewhere buried in the sweet treat is supposed to be a tiny plastic baby Jesus where, traditionally, whoever finds the baby in their piece of cake must either buy the next cake or throw the next party. However, when I opened my own box of king cake, I didn't find the little plastic trinket buried somewhere in the cake or even poking an arm, foot or tiny head out of the baked good. Instead, I found baby Jesus just chillin', full monty in the hollow center of the cake like he was catching some rays. I was so disappointed. I was looking forward to biting into the cake in hopes of "finding Jesus", even choking on the little guy–whatever, but I wanted to play with my cake and eat it too. Oh well, I found Jesus! I WON!!
To be continued...
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