A LONG WAY FROM MANY PLACES
Stray Gators
JB has been a dear fiend of mine since we met in high school, 1974. I was one of his partners in crime and misdemeanors. We were guests at each other’s first weddings. His career in the hospitality industry has taken him halfway around the world and back the other way. JB is now the unappointed goodwill ambassador of New Orleans and possibly its unelected mayor. When I told JB Ann and I were contemplating a brief, self-indulgent holiday somewhere, one without obligations to anybody but ourselves, his off-season pitch rose to infomercial volume.
“You will shit your liver. Remember, you can bender twenty-four hours a day here.”
As tourists, Ann and I generally try to avoid touristy activities. We try to blend in. The exception to this rule is that when we travel in the States and we’re out and about wherever we are, I usually wear an unbleached cotton Royal Canadian Air Force ballcap – a gift from my big sister in honour of our dad, a veteran, who died on Remembrance Day in 2014. I’m fairly certain the red maple leaf inside the blue rondel is good mojo, ersatz Who or Mod pop art that screams “Don’t shoot! We’re Canadian!” Anyway, we generally dislike being herded around on other people’s schedules as we dislike other people in general. JB pre-arranged two excursions for Ann and me that, honestly, we wouldn’t have done otherwise, but we’re glad we did.
There’s no sharp edge to the continent in a Louisiana swamp. They are quagmires of tidewater from the Gulf of Mexico and Mississippi Delta river water. The waters mingle from different directions in sluggish channels called bayous. We skimmed over them in an airboat, a flat-bottomed craft with a giant, noisy fan at the stern that doesn’t invite one of Late Night’s “Stupid Human Tricks,” no stopping that gigantic machinery with your tongue. The area Ann and I toured was partially industrialized, dredging boats and barge piers. Once we veered off the main canal and were spirited away above the muck, the smell hit us: brackish water and rotting vegetation. The summertime smell, when the Spanish moss hangs from the cypress trees and the heat is on, must be awfully high. Blue herons and white egrets pranced atop the sopping marsh grasses and reeds. Alligators, perfectly camouflaged in this uniformly green environment, broke the waterline as subtly as a submarine periscope. If you’re like me, you like to stick your hand out of the window of a moving car to feel the air current or drape your arm over the gunwale of a rowboat, drag your fingers, make ripples. Very bad idea on a swamp tour. Jeepers, creepers, I’m aware I’m able to convey reaction and emotion with my baby blues. And I know I project that ability on other mammals, cuddly ones like seal pups and kittens. Anthropomorphism is a non-starter with cold-blooded reptiles. On the other hand (both safely on my lap inside the boat), I’ve worked with people who possess those dead, expressionless eyes and I recognize that blank, lethal look in the faces of too many figures who are in the public eye.
The drive to the swamp tour dock took about an hour. We crossed the Crescent City Bridge from downtown and got on the Westbank Expressway. I can’t tell you the compass coordinates, but we drove in the opposite direction from Lake Pontchartrain. The sightseeing was a succession of injury lawyer billboards: DON’T SETTLE! FIGHT BACK! MAKE THEM PAY! I noticed too that where there’s a Walgreens drugstore, there’s a rival CVS beside it or across road. Everywhere. Same on Canal Street too, across Bourbon from our hotel (Which reminds me, I must remind Mr Patel, our Edmonton pharmacist, to stock cigarettes and install a refrigerated “beer cave” in his shop). The next lengthy drive we took was also compliments of JB.
Those double-decker, open-top tour buses? Hop-on, hop-off! They’re always red wherever you go. Yeah, Ann and I cringe too. No point in advertising you’re a rube, a hayseed or otherwise unsophisticated type. A tourist. But a ninety-minute circuit provided us the lay of the below sea level land. We crossed the tram line routes and saw where they intersected. We got a sense of what we’d be interested in exploring and where it was. We were definitely in Fats Domino’s compact hometown, we could walk it, yes indeed.
The problem with our bus tour was the luck of the draw. Our amplified tour guide, not shy about the tip jar by the driver’s seat, was something of a genteel gentleman, all down home Southern smarm. Ann avoids blue language provided she’s not reading or watching the news of the day. Well, fuck me if she didn’t have a go while Billy recited his rote patter. “Gentleman, hide your wallets. This here’s the designer outlet mall on the Mississippi Riverwalk. Ladies, you know, if your man buys you a knock-off and saves a buck or two, nobody’s going to know the difference! Har-har.” “Now, if you look to your right through that brick archway, you can’t really see it, but that’s where Archie Manning’s restaurant is. Archie was one of the greatest Saints ever. You may’ve heard of his sons Peyton and Eli. There’s a third boy, he was a wide receiver in college, but he got injured, didn’t have a career. He’s a coach somewhere. If you go to Archie Manning’s, tell ‘em Billy sent ya and you’ll get looked after. Don’t forget to tip! Har-har.”
The cash I burned through in New Orleans all went to tips. I was happy to grease JB’s concierge, but people like Billy and the swamp tour guide expect one too. My worst experiences were in the music clubs. These days my beer of choice is Michelob Ultra, low-carb, low alcohol, as watery as you’d imagine. The steel bladder of my youth is more crumpled tinfoil now and so when I break the seal, it’s never one and done. The Bourbon and Frenchmen toilets are tiny, revoltingly utilitarian. There’s a trough, and a ritzier place might have walls, maybe even a door, surrounding the bowl. See the Canadian with the stage fright. And yet, somehow, there’s still room for an old guy on a tripod stool brandishing a squirt bottle of liquid soap, a clean, strong, thick and absorbent sheet of Bounty or Hefty and optional grimy spritzers of Old Spice and Calvin Klein perfume – I guess men use cologne – I’ve an Axe to grind with scent. A dollar per squirt of clear piss because the attendant isn’t looking at faces or doing much of anything except staring at his phone: “Hi, baby, how’s work going?”
Our scheduled Friday afternoon arrival was Air Canada on time, about three hours late. JB had been in our hotel room before we checked in. Abita, a local red lager was on hand, as was bottled water, fruit juice and because over the course of a week’s stay in New Orleans there was bound to be a Maureen McGovern, a Poseidon misadventure, a morning after, a few tins of Diet Pepsi. Ann and I freshened up and then rode the elevator down to meet JB on Canal Street. He was on the red paving stone sidewalk chatting with the doorman and the bell captain. It took me a minute or so to realize that by not setting foot inside the lobby or coming up to our room he was signaling the staff that the general manager was off the clock; nothing to inspect here.
JB escorted us through the madness of the mob on Bourbon Street before cutting a block over to Royal. I spotted a tiny little bar with French doors opened on to the sidewalk called Touché; the World Series was on, maybe game one. I needed a stool and a score. Touché became something of a base for Ann and me because there are more interesting places to hang around besides a hotel room. Liquor prices off Bourbon Street go down like a cold beer after proper exercise. Of course, everything’s served in plastic cups because the French Quarter street party genie is never going back in its bottle. There was a portrait of Donna the barmaid displayed atop a rack of upside-down, disused, decorative martini glasses. Beside it was one of those officious desk plaques which read: “Queen of Damn Near Everything.” She probably was and still might be. Donna called me “Baby.” Donna called Ann “Baby.” Donna calls everybody “Baby.”
Our first evening in New Orleans wrapped up back on Canal Street, about a block from our hotel. JB took us to a diner he favoured called Zesty Creole. It’s a deep, narrow space with a short bar running alone one side. He’s become friends with the family who owns it. “This is a great place for my guests and my guests are great for their business.” Ann and I were to return frequently. On our final visit I cheekily requested our usual booth.
The hook for me was the catfish po’boy. Two breaded, fried (but not greasy) fillets on a fresh baguette. The gumbo was delicious and I was relieved to learn that two restaurants I prefer in Edmonton just because of their gumbo actually do a pretty good job. I took a risk with Zesty Creole’s menu too one evening when I passed on a po’boy, reluctantly making a decision whose ramifications could entail betrayal of Shakespearian proportions. I ordered jambalaya. Ann makes the best jambalaya. I never order it when we go out because I know it’s better at home. Then again, when Ann and I go out to eat in Edmonton or anyplace else we may be, we’re not in New Orleans. I had to know. So, I cheated but I didn’t have to lie about it; we’re still fine.
The thing about winter in Edmonton is that it’s a dry cold. Har-har. The thing about alligator, according to our two professional guides, airboat swamp guy and red bus sleazeball, is that it tastes like chicken. Har-har. The only real alligator information we were able to glean is when it’s improperly prepared it’s as rubbery as sports bar calamari. I had gator in my gumbo just once (which reminds me, check out “Yella Alligator” by Eddie 9V). For all I know the pellets in my soup could’ve been tofu.
Ann and I ate that along with an expensive, albeit fine array of rich seafood appetizers one evening at Ralph Brennan’s Red Fish Grill which is across the street from, and not to be confused with, Dickie Brennan’s Bourbon House – you can guess the street. JB revealed that these two cousins are fierce competitors. There’s a rift in the Crescent City’s first family of food. There’s at least a third Brennan-branded establishment, simply called Brennan’s, operated by yet another member of the clan. Carla, JB’s efficient and gracious concierge, told us that making Brennan-related reservations is fraught as her guests always request one but really mean another.
I don’t eat a lot. I aim to approximate two squares a day. I don’t snack. I don’t have a sweet tooth. Ann is much more sensible about her diet, but then again, she’s much more sensible than me about most things. We’re not foodies. When it comes to “nice” restaurants, ones with tablecloths and everything, we generally encounter an inverse proportion: the more we pay, the less satisfying the meal. High prices set high expectations. The Palm Court Jazz Café proved our theorem. I was aware that she was picking at her food, some sort of Creole pasta dish. But I was picking at mine too. I ordered a crab cake, presented as an old baseball, perhaps a game-used one by the New Orleans Pelicans, a club formed in 1865, one year after the end of the Civil War. Unsurprisingly, every second forkful was full of shell fragments. A dessert of pecan pie saved Ann’s supper. I had another Abita. Actually, the band saved our supper. We were able to imagine a time ever so fleetingly when Louis Armstrong was new on the scene.
Do Cajuns tire of Cajun food? Sometimes you just want a hamburger. Alibi is a dive bar (proven by an award plaque from some obscure lad’s magazine) on Iberville, about a hundred steps off Bourbon – you don’t have to go far for prices to drop like endcap sign placards in a Walmart commercial. The toilet was revolting, fruit flies hovering over the trough. Dirty work for a would-be attendant. I said to Ann, “Hold it if you can, we’re not too far from the hotel. I wouldn’t even wash my hands in there.” The bartender was friendly enough, a Colorado transplant, one of those sloppy fat guys, hairy and poorly groomed. When he learned Ann and I were from Alberta, he was keen to talk hockey until the joint got busier. Our food was surprisingly good, although judging from the men’s room I could only imagine the state of the kitchen and the litany of health code violations. Paper plates, and plastic cups again.
When we were university age, I remember moving JB out of his apartment in Montreal’s West End by heaving many of his belongings over the railing of his second storey balcony. No one lost an eye trying to catch a ski pole, so, really, it was all fun. How could we have known I’d be visiting him in his digs in New Orleans’s Garden District? He’s well situated for work downtown, not walkable but should he choose not to drive there’s the St. Charles tram or the number 20 Magazine Street bus. Ann and I toured the area with JB and then returned a few days later to poke around ourselves.
The district is famous for its working gaslights which are always on. The architecture is a mix of French, Spanish and, I suppose, antebellum – Queen Anne tweaked for heat, humidity and soft ground. Shotgun homes are suicide feng shui, the front and back doors align. Every room in the house opens off the same side of the hallway. With both doors open, the slightest breeze, a draft, provides ventilation and cooling. Heat rises so ceilings are unnaturally high to give it some place to go, alleviation by elevation.
Ann and I cruised Magazine, a hip shopping strip reputedly favoured by locals, although the gift shops suggest a different story. Still, there were no ersatz voodoo stores which are rife in the French Quarter and there were no chain retailers like the ones populating the Riverwalk outlet mall by the convention centre where the paddle-wheelers dock. The most discombobulating and disturbing aspect of our entire stay in New Orleans was that whichever store Ann and I went in to at whatever time of day, Nickelback, the pride of Hanna, Alberta seemed to be playing over the audio system. I guess it’s now impossible to truly get away from it all.
Our respite from Magazine was a sports bar (Saints!) called Tracey’s. It’s a big space in a heritage building, treed with iron girders holding up an impossibly high tin ceiling. Food’s available in the back, served up from a canteen. The plastic cups of Michelob Ultra were almost free. A small moment of joy when I discovered the men’s toilet was as immaculate as the bartender was stoned. I said to Ann, “Best one yet. You may wish to avail yourself before we head back downtown.” She moseyed after she’d eaten her grilled cheese sandwich and fries. She was gone for quite a while. I ordered another Ultra, that took more time than it should’ve, competing as I was against an iPhone and Bob Marley. Then I began to worry. Ann is still the girl who habitually checked phone booths and Coke machines for stray dimes. While I idly contemplated the medical emergency phone number tucked away in my wallet, Ann was idly pressing random buttons on the vintage pinball machine outside the ladies’. I found her three free games in, her tilt-not-tilt misspent youth skills still sharp.
I will reluctantly join a line for a toilet because sometimes the prospect of relief outweighs the dreadful prospect of what those who used it before me have left behind. Life is nothing if not some evidence of legacy, some messy deposit of DNA. I suppose New Orleans food may be described as “in hot, out hot” (the shaker of Slap Ya Mama Cajun seasoning in my knapsack caused much consternation during our Louis Armstrong Airport security screening), the antidote must necessarily be sweet. Atop the pralines and pecan pie balances the beignet, a portion of fried dough dusted with icing sugar. They’re meant to be served warm and enjoyed immediately. The constant queue at Café du Monde by the Mississippi in the French Quarter suggests the culinary logistics border on the impossible. Anyway, appreciating rich food amid a congregation of downtrodden and homeless souls can be an awkward experience.
Ann enjoyed the knock-offs served up at Café Beignet at the corner of Royal and Canal by our hotel. Once I’d completed the Visa transaction – which I had authorized by using my left index finger as a stylus on an Etch-A-Sketch screen - for counter service, a takeout order, the cashier demanded a tip. I said, very politely, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I handed him a twenty-dollar bill because I wasn’t going primitive electronic again, no way. I said, “Break that for me, give me a ten, a five and singles.” He had to call the manager. Cash money. Math. Confusion.
An associate of JB’s set Ann and me straight. Café Beignet, she said, was just like the hotel, designed for visitors. Locals frequented French Truck next door. Prices were lower and line ups were infrequent. French Truck superseded Touché and Zesty Creole as our main go-to because the pod coffee maker in our room just wouldn’t do any morning at all. And God bless French Truck because by ordering “Just a Cup” from the menu I didn’t have to learn to speak “barista.” Ann thought each morning’s fresh pastries were adequate: “You can tell when it comes from a mix, you can taste the difference.” So, sort of handmade with operational efficiencies sifted in and fair enough, I mean, the guy across the street couldn’t count.
We’d take our yellow cups onto Canal Street and smoke cigarettes (Marlboro Lights once our Canadian ones went up in smoke) by a litter bin, always careful to avoid the CVS CCTV and trigger its NO LOITERING admonishment. We watched the green and red tram cars come and go. We surveyed the damage and debris from the night before even as we watched a new day unfold as we planned our own.
“Are we supposed to meet JB tonight?”
“No, I think he’s going to the Pelicans game.”
“Is that football?”
“No, basketball. Another cig before we clean up and go out and about? I’m in no hurry.”
“Sure. Me neither.”
“I like this coffee.”
“It’s not bad, pretty good. I really like this city.”
“Me too. Where do you want to go today?”
Dispatches from the Crooked 9 is celebrating ten years as your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything. My companion site www.megeoff.com has been refreshed, revamped, revitalized and otherwise reinvigorated. Watch and listen to some of the songs I co-wrote with The Muster Point Project or buy 5 KG, the complete EP. Of course, you can still purchase my latest book Of Course You Did in your preferred format from your preferred e-retailer.
