Don’t forget the always popular:
* New Orleans: Proud to crawl home!I think it’s Big Daddy’s. It’s the place I thought of for the strip bar when I read Confederacy of Dunce’s.
I’ve seen Kevin Kline and Jerry Springer (not together) at Cafe du Monde. I didn’t approach either of them but both were very nice and stopped to sign autographs for fans. Ironically Yakov Smirnov, who I also saw there once and who isn’t anywhere near the Q factor or income level of Kline or Springer, was a total ass to the tourists who approached him.
What Eve said about “lovely decrepit” houses is a perfect two word description of the city itself.
I was conceived in New Orleans, but except for that, I’ve only been there once, about a year ago. I spent a couple of days at NASA Stennis Space Center testing a rocket engine for the Air Force (Stennis is a few miles inland in Mississippi and was used as a refugee camp last week). We stayed at a floating casino in Bay St. Louis, MS. I heard the storm surge was over 30 feet in Bay St. Louis, so I doubt it’s even still there.
After that, an Air Force friend who was a NO native took me on a driving trip through the French Quarter. He was really proud of his city, and when I mentioned that my parents bought a commemorative tumbler from Court of Two Sisters in 1968, he insisted on driving there. He told me, “Go around the block and meet me on the other side of the restaurant.” I tried to go around the block, but the next street was closed, so I had to navigate through the French Quarter myself. Finally got back around to the other side of Court of Two Sisters, and my friend met me with a brand new commemorative tumbler, which I gave my parents for Christmas last year.
My friend’s parents got out of town before the hurricane hit, but they lost their house (in Lakeview) and their restaurant.
It’s OK. My friend who used to work there and lives a block away passed it on his way out of town.
Slightly off-topic but…
I can’ tell you how painful it is to not have any New Orleans memories of my own. I have wanted for so long to visit this city, more than any other. I so wanted to experience the seafood, the jazz, the atmosphere and it really hurts to know that I will never see it the way it was. I’ve no doubt that it will be back in some form but it will change.
For this reason, I really love reading all of your memories. It helps me get a better picture of what it was like.
I’ve been telling my friends ho much I wanted to go back to New Orleans for years. (It’s been about eight years since my last visit.) We’re talking about opening a new studio in Los Angeles. (This has been put on hold until we make a film.) In one of the many conversations with my partner New Orleans came up. He said, ‘Well, why not open the new studio there? We don’t have to go to L.A.’ I told him how horrid the summers are, and he countered that there is such a thing as air conditioning. The idea is intriguing, really; but I think L.A. would be better for the business than LA.
But we were thinking of maybe taking a holiday there soon. Neither he nor his SO have been there, and I’d like to reconnect with old friends and enjoy the city. I was thinking about how cool it would be if I just took off for a road trip in the MGB when I get it back, stopping at New Orleans for a week on my way to Cape Canaveral. I was looking forward to adding new memories to my old ones. Looks as if it may be a while now. 
You’ve just added a bright spot to my day ~ thanks!
That is a great image. I’m so sad that we missed what sounds like a truly great city. Not sure it will ever be the same, or allowed to be the same by the new supreme court (about to change all our lives, IMHO). We were gonna go on a cruise this Dec. but decided about 3 weeks ago to go to New Orleans and visit a friend in Mobile. We bought the travel book and everything. Sigh.
My parents took the train from Chicago to New Orleans in 1949 and had a fantastic honeymoon. I’m actually glad that they’re not here to see this unfold.
I remember walking by the stores and you could buy nitrous oxide. I’m not sure why, but you could get it OTC.
My most favorite memory of New Orleans came just this last March. I spent a week there on a job assignment, and was met by a wonderful woman, who spent three of those days there with me, which was the culmination of four months of telephone, internet and written correspondence. It wasn’t merely a meeting for physical gratification; we were in love, and we made love like newlyweds. It was beautiful. It wasn’t meant to last, due to geography (she was in Corpus Christi and I was in Kansas City) primarily, but what we had was once-in-a-lifetime. In fact, I’m probably going to start a thread dedicated to her memory…
During the winter of 68-69 I took a ten day leave and Mrs G and I drove down the Mississippi from St Louis to New Orleans. A friend from my basic class who was a NO native told us that if we ever went there to go to a particular restaurant in the Garden District. We did and spent maybe three hours over as good and well served meal as either of us have ever had. Neither of us can remember the name of the place. It was in a big old Queen Anne Victorian house right on the trolley car line with a huge and elaborate garden. For a couple of rubes from the corn fields it was a first exposure to the good life. He also sent us to an old plantation house right on the river, I think, just up stream from the city. For us New Orleans is synonymous with fabulous food graciously served.
Of course, back then we thought mixing Champaign with orange juice was the outer limits of wicked sophistication. At breakfast, yet.
I was in NO for one Sunday evening back in 1981 having just gotten off a cruise ship, and staying overnight at the Hilton. The wife and I took the opportunity to see Bourbon Street.
The enduring memory I have is of the single cop casually swinging his billy club around and around smacking the palm of his free hand with every revolution as he confidently stolled down the centre of the street. Man, I said to myself that is one bad ass motherfucker that I wouldn’t want to tangle with. Is this what American cops have to do to keep law and order?
Keep in mind that this was a Sunday evening in December so that the street wasn’t exactly crowded.
When the wife and I left Bourbon street onto Canal street on the way back to the Hilton around 11 in the evening, New Orleans appeared to be deserted except for four big black boisterous young men that the wife and I had to pass by. I was scared fucking shitless, but it all seems kind of pleasantly memorable now.
Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?
I sure do.
I have been to the Big Easy, many, many times. The Jazz Fest, Superbowl XX (Go Bears!!!), and many other times just to take it all in. Taking a slow, squeaky trolly car ride through the Garden District. Adjusting to the way people talk down there, you know, “You boys never been to Nawlins?”. The coffee with chickary, the beignets, the po boys. Listinging to a ragged street band recite nursery rhymes to their syncopated beat. Hearing a strange sounding instrument in the distance, walking closer to find a young man playing the bagpipe on a dark corner in the middle of the night.
There was a magic to New Orleans. I hope, and pray they can put it all back together.
Mardi Gras, 1991. I was a first-year graduate student and my housemate Mike had gathered up a gang of mostly older students (and me) to stay at his aunt & uncle’s house near Prytania and Bourdeaux streets (if memory serves). While the first night featured the seeds of a new relationship (and throwing up off of the St. Charles streetcar-- thank you, Pat O’Brien’s), and the whole week was a spectacle of sensory overload, my favorite memory is all of us sitting on the front porch of the house where we were staying and eating fresh-boiled crawfish and shrimp, corn and potatoes, and drinking Dixies.
I’ve been back several times since (most recently just before Ivan last year), and have enjoyed it immensely each time. I look forward to going back.
Getting caught in the middle of the U of Oklahoma band outside the old Tulane Stadium before the Auburn/Oklahoma Sugar Bowl game Jan. 1st, 1972. Damn band blasting “Boomer Sooner” in to my hungover head. First wife getting pissed about something and leaving the game by herself before half time.
A decade later, alone at Jackson Square near midnight on a cold, cold night. Getting a hot-dog from the vendor there and sitting on the curb, eating the 'dog, finishing the remains of a Hurricane and contemplating my navel, there in the Nation’s Navel.
Another decade later, Debi getting nearly overcome by the smoke and crowd inside the Famous Door bar. Standing outside with her and us reading the names on the door while she recovered.
Yet another decade later, leaving out of the hotel with Betty, heading for the casino at 1:00 am. Betty winning $600 at blackjack, and the drunker she got the better she played and the more foul her mouth got. Finally, after a manager asked me three times, “Sir, can’t you do something about her language?” we were asked to leave. Trying to get her and her $600 back up Canal street to the hotel as the sun rose.
Looks like I’m due to go back there in about seven years. Hope New Orleans is up and runnin’ by then.
My one and only trip there was a week’s vacation several years ago with my future wife, her brother, and his future wife. Some of my fond memories of that trip:
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Our amusement on our first day there as we watched a parade go by. Not at the parade itself, but at the fact that a pretty good number of participants were drinking beers. We come from a state with an open-container law, and were tickled at the idea of walking down the street drinking a beer.
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Sitting on the rooftop patio of our hotel, eating dinner and listening to the horrible saxaphone playing of a nearby street performer. It was so bad that it was good and was the subject of endless humor on that trip.
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In contrast to the horrible saxaphone player, the numerous incredibly talented street performers. Two stand out right now: The living statue that would move if you paid him and the jug band; I was astounded at the quality and complexity of music that came from things such as jugs and washtubs.
*Beignets at Café Du Monde. A panhandler came by one time and a well-intentioned customer gave him a beignet. He accepted it with good humor and turned it into a street performance on the “proper way” to eat one. Very funny and very effective - he got a number of tips after he was done.
*The food in general. Just amazing. A few of the highlights included:
[ul]
[li]My first experience with cajun cooking. I discovered “blackened” doesn’t mean burnt.[/li][li]Lunch at Commander’s Palace. The food was excellent, thought the only thing that I rembember as extrordinarily good was the gumbo. The service, OTOH, was the best I ever experienced. I swear the wait staff was psychic.[/li][li]Debris sandwiches at Mother’s[/li][li]Pastries at various little shops.[/li][li]Melt-in-your-mouth pralines (that’s praw-leens) at a little candy shop across from our hotel.[/li][/ul]
*The walking tours in the French Quarter and the Garden District, led by very friendly and knowledgeable national park rangers.
*The carriage-ride tour of the city. Our guide claimed to be the product of many generations of natives of the city (and we had no reason to doubt him). After storm hit, I found myself wondering if he made it out OK.
Thanks, Sampiro. Great thread.
Eataing a mufalata at Central Grocery.
walking through the french quarter at dawn to cafe du monde for a solitary breakfast.
Mardi Gras 1986, I’m 18 and my college roommate and I drive to NO and sleep in her tiny car, with no cash, using my Texaco card, but we were at Mardi Gras, dammit!
Honeymoon 1994, teaching DeHusband that it’s OK to get a cab on July afternoons when the air is so thick you have to chew to breathe.
We’ve come to NO so many times over the years. The best place was Rue Dumaine Guesthouse. Run by a dominant cat and her gentlemen “owners”. This cat would randomly choose which room she wanted to be in and cry and cry at the door until she was let inside. A quick nap later and she’s crying to get out and share her presence with others. At night, you could fall asleep listening to the slow clip-clop of the carriages going by.
Muffalettas! I remember my first one. It was in the Burgundy house near the Quarter. I don’t know where it came from, but it was delivered. Hot. (You can eat them hot or cold, and I like 'em hot.) Unbelievably good. The only thing I don’t recall is the bread. It’s supposed to be a round Italian loaf, but there’s a ‘glitch’ in my memory that tells me they might have used focaccia. I have a few jars of Muffaletta salad (from Trader Joe’s) in the cupboard. I should hunt down the proper meats, the cheese, and a loaf of Italian bread. (But I’ll wait for my friends to get back from out of town so they can help me eat it.)
About deliveries. My friend and his g/f would order stuff from a local market. (This was at the Burgundy house again.) ‘We’d like an oyster po’boy, a shrimp-and-oyster po’boy, a vegetarian po’boy, and three chips. Oh, and a pack of cigarettes and a six-pack of beer.’ Yeah, they delivered beer and smokes. How very civilised! 
The thing about the Krewe of Cosmic Destruction parade was that it was not an official parade. It wasn’t sanctioned, and it didn’t have a defined route. It was basically a happy mob. It was amusing to think that the tourists (the other ones, not me 
) thought that it was ‘part of the act’. We’d march around for a while, stopping at pubs when the people at the front got thirsty, playing music and making noise until we’d wind up in one narrow street or another. Each time I took part, there was a guy dispensing some sort of alcoholic liquid from a container on his back – free! Hapless car drivers would be trapped as we jammed our terminal point. After an hour or so, the cops would come and break us up.