Monday, we arose late-ish… happy to rest the bodies weary from walking the miles of airport concourses and sitting the hours of tight, semi-comfortable airplane seats. The biggest decision to make as we ate our scrambled eggs… cooked on our full stove with oven… was how to spend our day until Janet arrived in the late afternoon.
We perused the brochures and rack cards, sorting them by location. We explored the internet to ascertain where reservations were needed and whether credit cards were accepted. (We do travel by plastic, these days.) Final decisions would be made after we were all together, but we thought it would be nice to go to Brennan’s that night for dinner, as a welcome to Janet.
So, noonish, we headed out the door, stopping at the concierge desk to make reservations for dinner at Brennan’s. And a good idea it was, too. The concierge looked on the website for reservations and found that tonight was full. O.K. Tuesday night… “yes,” she said, “6:15, 6:45, or 7:00 PM is available.” Being from Eastern Time, we chose 6:15. Then, just as quickly realized that Janet was from the west coast and that would be 4:15 her time… probably too early to have dinner. So, we asked if the time could be changed to 7:00. Just that fast, all reservations were gone. Now what?
What about Wednesday? The concierge called on the phone this time and we were able to get a dinner reservation at Brennan’s for Wednesday evening at 6:15. We took it. Now, we would plan Wednesday around that plan. We would only be in town until Friday, so we had to squeeze in as much as possible.
Sandra and I started out to see the world… or, at least, the French Quarter. We walked Decatur Street toward the market (away from Canal St.) to Iberville where we turned left toward Bourbon. Sandra was hoping she would remember where her restaurant, Oysters Desire, was located.
Iberville is not an exciting street… mostly delivery docks and such. We crossed Chartres. (Although a French name, it does not have the courtesy of French pronunciation. Here, it is called Charter.)
Toward Royal, Iberville becomes more interesting and by Bourbon St. it actually has character. We turned right onto Bourbon Street where, although early in the day, the atmosphere became lively. Street musicians were setting up to entertain, neon signs were already flashing, pedi-cab drivers were staking their corners, many shops were opening their front doors.
Having walked several blocks already and not seeing Sandra’s restaurant, we found a small, but beckoning bistro that said (I swear) NOLA. Could it be? We went inside. It was small, made to look larger by having its long wall blessed with full-length mirrors. Several tables were occupied. We sat down, about in the center (hard to tell with the mirrors). We ordered a cup of Gumbo and a dozen raw oysters.
When asked if this was Emeril’s NOLA, the waitress wasn’t sure. She said it was the second time today she had been asked that question. She would have to find out. Sandra and I shared a look that would have flattened a bison, but the waitress went on her way to the kitchen.
The food was quite good, and the service quite timely. We were keeping track of the time since we wanted to get all the way to the market and back before Janet arrived. Then, we made our big mistake. We ordered dessert. Now, I know that sounds innocent enough, but we ordered Pecan Pie. The waitress asked if we wished to have it warm or cold. We preferred warm.
I think they baked a new one. We sat and we sat and we sat and were just ready to forego the goodies and leave when the huge chunk of warm Pecan Pie smothered in ripples of whipped cream was placed in the center of the table… one large plate of gooey goodness with two forks. Oh Yeah!
OK, so now we are running a bit tight on time, but we should still be alright if we keep things moving along. Janet was going to text us when she boarded the shuttle for town and call us when she got close. I wanted to be at the hotel to greet her when she arrived.
Bourbon Street was even more lively, now. Tourists were appearing with their street maps and brochures. A group of diners marched out of a restaurant into the center of the street which had been blocked off by a police cruiser with its blue lights flashing… either for safety or for attention… not sure which, maybe both. They paraded down the street following a trio of musicians playing New Orleans flavor jazz. Great Mardi Gras atmosphere, but it was only 1:00 in the afternoon…on Monday, in October.
As I walked Bourbon Street, I was transported to an earlier time. When I was first married, in the early 1960s, my husband’s family had attended a convention here. We tagged along… the newly-weds… all wide-eyed and innocent. It had been a magical time, and now I was once again seeing familiar restaurant names… Arnaud’s, Pat O’brien’s, The Court of Two Sisters, Absinthe House, Galatoire’s, Antoine’s… it was like seeing old friends. After Katrina, I wondered if any of them still existed. I was delighted to see they did and wondered if we would get to experience them again.
The only other restaurant we enjoyed on that visit was The Commander’s Palace, but I knew it was away from the French Quarter and we probably wouldn’t be going there.
Finally, we found Oysters Desire, but it was too late. We did make note, in case we could fit it in later. We walked on, past all the cast iron grill work and rounded-cornered galleries… peeking down each side street to see what excitement it offered… until we arrived at St. Peters Street where we turned right, toward the river, to get to the grocery. Outside the grocery, in the center of Royal Street, was a group of musicians, so while Sandra picked up a few items inside, I enjoyed the music outside.
We were now just a couple of blocks from Jackson Square and Café du Monde (and iconic beignets). The time seemed ample. We walked on. However, by the time you look in every window, and enjoy the artwork exhibited on the ornate, cast iron railings, and walk the distance, time can fugit. The cathedral was beautiful. The Cabildo is still grand. The Pontalban Apartments are still going strong. The trees in Jackson Square have grown. We crossed the congested street to the Café du Monde.
It is legend. It is huge. It is crowded. First you scout the area to see who might be ready to leave, then you saunter their way pretending you don’t want their table, then you have to be quick before the other stalking group gets to it first.
Now, you sit amongst the dirty dishes and half-filled coffee cups and crumpled paper napkins and hope all that mountain of powdered sugar stays on the top of the table and doesn’t cascade into your lap when you sit down.
The menu – beignets and café au lait – and prices, are listed on the napkin holder, so really all you need now is a waiter… and they are everywhere, just not near you. I finally caught the eye of one waiter who was in the next row… he turned his head and ignored me. Apparently, this was not his table. He busily cleared nearby tables, took orders from folks who sat down after we did…(snarl) and disappeared.
A few minutes later a short, round, wizened woman wearing a white apron and well-worn oxfords appeared in our row. I waved at her and pointed at our table, which was still a sugar-coated mess. She nodded and stopped to clear another table… (snort). Four people sat down at the table next to us, but closer to her. She took their order. (Grrrrrr.)
I waved again. She cleared their table. I said, perhaps a bit loudly, “Ma’am, could we order, please?” She came our way. By this time, Sandra and I had bussed our own table, putting everything on the next table which was already loaded with several other table’s leavings, took napkins from the holders, dipped them into the left-behind, half-filled water glasses and had made a valiant effort to de-sweeten our table surface.
Now, she came with her tray and damp towel and wiped our table, rearranged the sugar container, retrieved her pad and pencil and indicated that she was ready to take our order. We quickly obliged. She turned and shuffled off toward the mysterious place where beignets grow.
Do you remember Tim Conway’s secretary, Mrs. HWiggins, on the Carol Burnett Show? Well, this woman was her grandmother.
It had to be 20 minutes before she returned. The row of tables beside us (the one with the waiter who ignored me) turned around at least once and he was back again for 5 more folks.
The table behind us was on their fourth shaggy dog story about another visit to New Orleans. We asked to borrow their napkin holder, since ours had gone to another table and we needed it so we could have our money ready to pay Grandma Hwiggins when she brought the food… lest we never saw her again. They were happy to share. They didn’t have any plans to leave for awhile.
The only saving grace for the misspent affair was the lone sidewalk saxophonist who played beautiful jazz the whole while.
Well, she finally returned… to deliver to the next table first, then to ours. Then, back to theirs to collect money, then to ours. The bill was $5.25 per person, after tax. We each gave her $6.00 which she tucked into her pocket and left…no thank you, no offer for change. (We were not offended, only amused. We had planned for it to be her tip. How long would it take to get change anyway?)
In the middle of all this Janet texted that she was on the ground. It was time to roll and we were 7 blocks from the hotel. Oh, and we had forgotten to get her soda at the grocery.
Where is a hovercraft when you need one?
Well, I won’t burden you with the pounding walk back. We inquired about a horse and carriage, but it was $90. There wasn’t a Pedi-cab to be seen. At $1.00 per person per block it would be $14… as much or more than a taxi and taxis only come for concierges. So, we hoofed it, carrying groceries and a six-pack of soda. (They can get heavy, you know.)
Janet was waiting in the lobby when we arrived.
(Photos are on fb: The Untethered Tourist. Click on PHOTOS in the header, then click on ALBUMS… enjoy!)
SharingTravels 