Wednesday, October 16, 2019

 Hey, working without a net here. Let's see how it goes.

And it was such a nice day.

 I've been trying to process this all weekend. I still haven't wrapped my head around it, not really. I was driving to the Speedee place to get my oil changed, and realize I needed to be on Elysium rather than Esplanade, I cut through Treme, right through this neighborhood. It was really close.

 You know, as this was going on - and after I'd already called her for the day - my mother texted me and asked if we were close to these shootings. It had already made the national news. I texted her back and lied, writing that, no, I was nowhere near where that was going on, when in fact, I was very close indeed. 

  I also didn't tell her about the guy who got mugged a month or so back on my Otis-walking route, nor did I tell her about the dude who was shot last year right down the street trying to break up a car jacking. I don't tell her that as often as not I hear gunshots, especially when I'm staying in the Bywater but also when I'm at my place in the Point. I really don't want her to worry.

 This has apparently shocked New Orleans, which in and of itself is pretty goddamn shocking. This is a town that wears its inherent dangers almost as a badge of honor, and at the very least it's an accepted if regrettable part of life in the town. But this event has people angry and scared. Maybe something will come out of that. Maybe it will shake the town and the government out of its complacency and start doing something constructive. Maybe.

 I remember not long ago discussing "beefs" with the lads, and how that the second line used to be one of the few places even someone with an active beef could go and they probably wound't be shot.  The lads were saying how that's no longer the case, that you could get shot just as easily at a parade or a second line as you could outside the club. I guess not.

  The NOPD say they have a suspect they're looking for and there's a picture and I'm sure he'll be caught soon. What were you thinking, kid, whatever convinced you this was a good idea. Could we please just stop with the guns and killing, just for a little while? This really doesn't even fall into the whole nation-wide debate we're having over how terrified some folks are that we might think their penises are tiny, it's more just a plea for a friggin' break, you gutless wonders. Stop shooting people.

 Thankfully, most importantly, no one was killed.

I always feel like, somebody's watching me.

 Some years ago when I still lived in Athens, an issue came up in front of the City Commission. To wit, there was a push by certain parties to ban smoking in restaurants and bars. There was a good bit of push against it, naturally, from club owners worried about profits to smokers pissed off about losing critical smoking space. Something like 300 people - and I am probably misremembering that number - turned up at the vote to voice their disapproval. It passed regardless.

Tales from the kitchen

People never cease to amaze me, especially people who come to New Orleans. Right now, we're getting the tail-end of the family tourists and the first batch of before-school-starts tourists, so there's a pretty heady collection of classless waterheads wandering around unsupervised in the Quarter. They don't mean harm, I truly believe, but it seems like they've never been any place fancier than a Shoney's and the concept of "fine dining" blows their mind somewhat. That and they can be just plain rude, moreso than the most drunken Mardi Gras jackass or JazzFest ding-a-ling.

 Take tonight, for example. Keep in mind, now, my restaurant serves your typical New Orleans/Creole-American board of fare and does the whole "casual fine dining", which means you can get a pretty good meal but aren't require to wear long pants. There's a New Orleans-style double doors that leads out to the courtyard, but it's rarely used by anyone but staff. However,  About an hour-and-a-half before the end of the shift, right at the end of a fairly significant pop, some yayhoo walks right in through those doors and right into the kitchen and the following conversation occurs:

Guy: “Do you have foie gras?”

Me: “Do what?”

Guy: “Fois gras. Do you sell fois gras?”

Me: “Uh, no.”

Guy: “Well, it’s French.”

Me: “Okay.” [Beat as the guy just stares at me] “We don’t have it.”

Guy: “Do you know any restaurant that would have it?”

Me: “Hell, I don’t know, you might try Court of Two Sisters or Palace Cafe.”

Guy: “They don’t. Who else?”

Me: “I really don’t know. Sorry.”

The guy then turns and walks out the door, leaving said door open, without another word. Now, anyone who knows anything about me knows that, first and foremost, I'm an easy-going guy and more than willing to help out anyone in any way I can. However, there are three things anyone considering similar action as this dingbat should consider before just blowing through the door.

Number one, I’m a cook, not a restaurant guide. The apron should be a giveaway.

Number two, this is New Orleans, not Paris and “Creole” is not synonymous with “French”, cuisine-wise. It's not even close and serious epicureans would laugh, laugh if it were suggested to be so in their presence.

Number three, dude, don’t just walk into my kitchen, especially if you're going to bark orders and cop an attitude. That’s a good way of getting something that’s either sharp or recently exposed to flame thrown at you.

 Damn tourists.

Damn tourists

 Back before Mardi Gras, I was drinking at the Chart Room with a rather nice girl named Veronica. I'd met her the week previously and we hit it off as folks in bars often do. I don't remember how the conversation got around to this, but she said something along the lines of the following:

 "New Orleans will fool you. It will be so cool to you and then knock you on your ass just when you get comfortable." Ever since then, I've been waiting for the shoe to drop. Either someone will steal my car or I'll get mugged or someone will break in or something will happen, and them that know me best know I can worry like nobody's business. I've just been waiting on it.

 So, I get off work tonight, and after having a sandwich and cleaning up a bit, I decide to go to Cosimo's to drink a few cold beers and get some reading done. I sit around for almost two hours, shoot the shit with Lauren the bartender and head home. I get maybe 20 feet from my apartment door and notice, for no particular reason, a red Nissan Titan pick-up truck with two fratboy-looking dudes in it and a GPS system. About the time they get to the corner of Rampart and Dumaine, I hear heavy footfalls coming up behind me.

 Before I can really react, WHAM, I see stars. Some asshole just hit me in the side of the face. He runs on and the truck door opens to let him inside. I holler out, "Why'd you hit me, asshole?" To which he wittily replies, "You're the asshole." "No," I come back, "What was the point of that?" I swear, he stopped to think a bit before he jumped in and drove off. The truck was too far away and I was still seeing stars so I couldn't get the license plate and all I could see of the attacker was a baseball cap, a blue sports jersey and khaki shorts. Had I been able to make a positive ID, I would have called the cops.

 Long and short of it is I have a pretty nasty cut under my right eye and it's starting to swell a bit. Plus, I have a roaring headache. It wasn't much of a punch, frankly. He drew blood, which has already stopped bleeding, and I was staggered a bit, but I didn't go down. He obviously wasn't in the mood to hang around and didn't try to steal anything, so it was a completely pointless act of unnecessary violence that will, at most, result in a headache tomorrow morning, some jokes from my co-workers and worry from Momma.

 Welcome to New Orleans, I suppose.