I grew up going to New Orleans. The very first time I ever went to New Orleans was my 6th birthday. I was obsessed at the time with “cities.” Hattiesburg didn’t count; I wanted to see tall buildings and concrete like on Sesame Street, so as a birthday surprise my parents took me to New Orleans. Mom and I took the train down, and dad followed after work a day or so later. I don’t remember a lot about the trip — I was, after all, only six — but I do have mental snapshots. Riding the streetcar with my mother, who was then only a little older than I am now. Walking down Royal and seeing all the “neat stuff” in the antique store windows with my dad. My first trip to Cafe du Monde. Feeding pigeons in Jackson Square. The zoo.
Lots of families have arbitrary markers for their kids for when they’re “grown up” — as tall as this shelf, for example. One of ours was when I was old enough to go with my parents for dinner in the Quarter. Hattiesburg’s only about 85 or 90 miles from Galatoire’s, and neither of my parents were really drinkers, so down-and-back for dinner wasn’t so absurd. I guess I was probably 12 or so before I saw the inside of that dining room, fleur de lis wallpaper and career waiters and more butter than ought to be legal — and a line outside of well-dressed folks waiting to get in. Back then, Galatoire’s had no upstairs, took no reservations, required coat and tie or “appropriate dress” for women, and accepted payment only in cash (or the rare house account). Tourists almost always asked the line “what are you guys waiting for?” I almost never heard any answer but a vague “dinner.” The tourists would shuffle off, blissfully content with Lucky Dogs and street-vendor cocktails.
Galatoire’s has been a special sort of thing for my family since before my parents even married; my grandfather used to take my grandmother there starting in the forties. She’s 90 now, and won’t be with us much longer, but on her 85th birthday my brother and I drove her down to have lunch there one Friday. I’m not sure, but I think that may be the best thing I’ve ever done for anybody — my aunt tells us that she talked about it for years.
As far as I know, 209 Bourbon is still there. God willing, it will be open again in a few months, and I’ll eat there as soon as I can.
The trips themselves are innumerable, but there are memorable ones. In 1989, there was a trip that was memorable only because we didn’t make it past Slidell. Two years later, I led another college expedition of Mike Dorman and Joy Brown for their first trip to the Big Easy. I used my upbringing well, and booked the whole thing ahead of time. We drove down and parked in the side garage entrance to the Monteleone, and then went through the whorehouse-red corridor to what is probably still one of the more impressive lobbies in the Quarter. I still remember Mike and Joy kinda gasping, but the rate was good, and there we were. I took them to Galatoire’s, and to hear real Dixieland, and we made friends with an old widower who told us stories of coming to the same bar with his new wife fifty years before. Anywhere else, the stories might’ve been maudlin, but there, that night, for some reason they just made us all smile. And drink.
Years later, Dorman and his wife Anne and I made a habit for several years of meeting in New Orleans during ALA conferences. Those were all fine, fine trips, but perhaps the most memorable of them involve a terrible faux-Goth bar in the Quarter — where, it should be noted, we were typically somewhat out of place, as we’d dressed for dinner. Anne’s sister took us there one year when our group also included my brother and his college girlfriend, and that night we saw an amusing and impromptu floorshow. Another year in the same bar, it was Mike and I at the end of an epic bender, most of which spent at a dive on St Peter being served by a bartender who insisted her name was “Shelley from Hell.” By the time we got to Goth central, I was still sipping Dixie, but Mike had graduated to tonic and lime (fortunately, he’s an amiable drunk). It was a slow night, and the bartender and I talked about obscure music while Mike pondered his fizzy water. When we left, Bourbon was empty — except for the joggers we saw as we slinked into the lobby of the Monteleone.
Still another year, our friend Sara joined the group (Frank was there that year, too) for drinks at the Columns and dinner at Galatoire’s. That night, Mike and Anne and our girlfriends turned in early, but Frank and I stayed up late drinking Johnny Walker on the upstairs balcony of the Columns.
My last trip to New Orleans, I’m ashamed to say, was nearly two years ago; I went for my friend C—‘s bachelor party. He’s from there, and his best man Chris went to law school at Tulane (in which capacity he did something I’ve always wanted to do: gone to Galatoire’s for a late lunch, and stayed with your party at the table drinking until time for dinner). You’d think having locals with us would have kept us out of the Quarter bars, but nooooo. After a fine dinner (at . . . oh, you know), we changed and headed out. First stop: Tropical Isle, home of the lethal hand grenade. C— had two, and devolved before our very eyes. Had it been any other night, or any other participant, we’d have put him to bed, but as he was the honoree, we kept him up and fed him Cokes until he re-emerged a couple hours later. C— is missing a few bars from the middle part of the evening, which is good, as in one of them he vomited into a urinal.
I could tell more stories about New Orleans, of course. So could we all. My hope and prayer, though, is that there are more happy, silly, funny stories to tell, stories that haven’t happened yet, or even stories for whom the principals are yet unborn. God save New Orleans.
