First Full Day

  New Orleans, Louisiana, United States
Friday, September 28, 2007

On the first morning of our visit to New Orleans, one of us awoke with a hangover.  Perhaps it was something to do with the bottle of champagne from our Aunt and Uncle, the bottle of wine from Arnaud's, or their martini. Or, all of the above...

So the first order of business, when we finally managed to leave Loft 523 at about 11am Friday morning, was some good ol' southern fixins to soak up that alcohol.  The first place we spotted was Mena's Restaurant, a neighborhood corner spot with a mix of locals and visitors.

With a spot at the window, we waited to order breakfast.  But, as it turned out, Mena's stops serving breakfast at 11am; we had missed it by 15 minutes.  Not to worry, while in Rome do as the Romans, and in New Orleans for this case, that meant ordering a gyro...chili, and steak fries.  At first, it seemed like the catfish the postman was eating across from us would have been a more appropriate choice, but in the end - the gyro and chili were exactly what Peter's hangover needed, and both were quite good.

Before we left Mena's, the waitress let us in on the three factoids: the proprietors were Greek, she had a guest in town from New York; and Frenchman's street, just beyond the French Quarter, was the place to go see live, local music - including a gravel voiced gentleman named Coco Robicheaux.

The morning started in a small coffee shop, with an alleyway terrace, where we could escape the growing heat of the day with two lattes.  But the remainder of the day was spent wandering the core of the French Quarter (six by thirteen block area that's the only intact French Colonial and Spanish settlement remaining in the United States), where we met the artists including Mark Bercier at Cafe Baby, gallery attendants or store owners of art galleries (galerie dalray) and antique shops.  From the archival photography shop A Gallery with the half million dollar Diane Arbus print, to the dark, dusty and decrepit 'junk' stores, everyone we met was welcoming and curious.

Literally everybody we met were eager to not only give us recommendations on where to eat and what to do, but also to ask about us and our visit.  Telling them that we were returning to New Orleans for our anniversary only made them even friendlier.  Almost all of them had heartbreaking stories about Katrina.  And for those that didn't have personal tragedies, there was the justified anger and frustration with the storm's aftermath, with the continuing tragedies of deceit, graft, and exploitation.  While the news has reported that the French Quarter has come back, and indeed it has seen its phoenix rise again--there is much that remains laid waste.

We learned that while there were twice as many people displaced in LA/New Orleans than in Mississippi, more than 63% of the federal funds for disaster relief went to MI when we spoke with Betty at Regency House Antiques.  We also found out that despite all the damage and desolation (not to mention the real estate/mortgage lending slump nationally), both properities AND rents in the city had gone up significantly, pushing working class/low income earners out of the local market.

But despite the continuing problems, the still rampant destruction in the Ninth Ward, and the more than 3,000 lives lost (1,800 fatalities and 2,300 still missing) as a result of the levees failing, New Orleans is striving to be a city on the mend.  Everyone we talked to was fighting rebuild, and grateful to all the volunteers that have helped to relieve the suffering.

The French Quarter, and all the areas typically visited by tourists, escaped most the flooding. And even some areas like Metarie, which were devastated, are coming back. It's clear there's been a tremendous amount of progress, as we saw so few signs of the havoc during our walks here. And despite the distance between us and Los Angeles, we managed to stumble onto a set for K-Town. As with most sets, there was lots of excess equipment and production staff,  general milling and waiting around for something to happen. But K-Town will bring much needed revenue into the city.

After a full day of walking the quarter, we headed back to hotel to get ready for dinner and a night out on Frenchman's street.

Before our trip, Peter had made dinner reservations at a newer restaurant - Bayona - for Friday.

Bayonna Sign

Thankfully, since the place was packed.  It was a lovely setting with large floral arrangements and paneled mirrored walls in a series of connected rooms. Since the shows on Frenchman didn't start until 10pm, we had time for a long, leisurely dinner. Another martini for Peter, and since this was the French Quarter, I opted for a Kir Royal.

Dinner began with pickled cauliflower, cucumber, olives and garlic -- all with a kick.  We shared a roasted quail and pear saladwith a molasses vinagrette dressing, while Peter had pork chop on a bed of kale, with bread pudding.  I had pan-fried halibut on risotto, with root celery and cauliflower.  We ended with home-made ice cream, blood orange with cinnamon clusters.  All of it was insanely delicious.

Bayonna Peter & Natalie

After this amazing meal, we left to find Decatur, which eventually turns into Frenchman.  Twenty minutes later we had arrived in the Fauborg-Mariny neighborhood.  The street was lined with bars, clubs and restaurants catering to New Orleans' own revelers.  The college-aged and those that qualified for social security all shared the same space-there were mambo lessons for the uninitiated, or hookas for the loungers.

We stumbled upon a young foursome playing with a banjo, guitar, violin and an upright bass made of an inverted garbage can, 1x2 and rough string. Dressed as if they had just walked of the set of 'O Brother Where Art Thou,' the band along with its soulful bull terrier made time stand still, filling the air with their Appalachian folk and bluesy melodies.  Walking down a street and stumbling onto My Cemetary Paw, as they were called, is another reminder of why New Orleans continues to be such a unique reservoir of musical culture.

After a few more songs, we headed off to find Coco - in our first stop they referred us across the street.  There at the Apple Barrel, they told us that he would be playing on Saturday night, but there was already a set wrapping, and another band - The Claim Jumpers - was going to be setting up.  So, we found open seats at one of the 3 tables across from the six-stool bar that made up the entirety of this tiny shoebox of a club.  The stage, next to the juke box, was really just a small four-inch raised shelf, about a foot and a half deep.  And between us and that stage - well, just a column with a handwritten reminder that there was a 'one drink minimum per set'.

While Peter drank vodka and tonics, I started with Kahlua and cream, and then downgraded to ginger ale. As is often the case, Peter struck up conversation with one of the locals, a guy named Wes, who was at the bar.  Wes was a contractor supporting the more than 3,000 oil rigs in the Gulf and commented the Gulf looked like a city if one were to fly over it.

This was followed by an exchange with a fellow from Cleveland, who was in town on his wife's convention dime.  But, once The Claim Jumpers started, we were all ears for their amazing blues.  This trio of electric bass, drums and guitar (with a lead singer that looked like Lee Marvin's brother), played and sang 'real' music, not the Disneyland pornography typically found blaring on Bourbon Street.  

After a set, we headed back up Frenchman, stopping on the way for a bit of peach cobbler from the side of a catering truck.  That was good peach cobbler, and the perfect ending to a great night out.