True story, A neighbor of mine is lamenting a leaking roof, I call City Hall to inquiry about her rights as a tenant. The woman on the other end says, “I didn’t know they had any”.
Well she was wrong of course. Although tenants rights haven’t changed much in Louisiana since the early eighteen hundreds (that’s right!) you do have one overwhelmingly simple and basic right. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to suck it up. And if you’re reading the right to ‘shut up and pay your rent’ here, you’re reading right.
Here’s how it works. You find a place that you can afford and maybe it even suits your needs. The landlord hands you a years lease and you sign it, most of the time not bothering to read it. Face it, most people are on the verge of desperation when they finally get to that point. You spend a year making it as livable as you can and what happens? Your lease is up and there is no new lease, you now join the ranks of the month to month renters, which means you have only the above right.
In the first year, if you’ve registered (and only if you’ve registered) your lease at City Hall, you are pretty much guaranteed a place to live with repairs and maintenance supplied by the landlord at a specific price: your rent. After that all bets are off. This is the state that most of us are in. It only takes five to ten days to get you out after that. You’re now at the mercy of the landlord. The kindness of strangers, so to speak.
During World War Two, renters in the USA were given a right called rent control, which assured them of a definite place to live at a specific price for as long as they could afford to live there. Any rent increases were carefully monitored and minimized. After the war only ten states kept it. Louisiana did not keep it.
Do you want rent control? It’s not easy to get. In 1987 the folks in Milwaukee voted for and passed a referendum in favor of rent control. The state legislature annulled it.
Then again it is easy to get rent control. All a city has to do is have its mayor put it into effect. Simple, huh? Don’t hold your breath.
In response to the Civil Rights movement of the sixties, The Federal Government funded a legal service to craft a model renter-landlord code. It was drafted in 1972 and approved by the American Bar Association in 1974. Today most states use the Uniform Residential Landlord Tenant Act (URLTA) as a guideline when writing their own laws regarding landlords and tenants. Louisiana has not.
However, the URLTA does not cover security of tenure, control over rent increases, reduced rent for reduced services, freedom of speech in relationship with the landlord, condominium conversion protection for tenants, appointment of a receiver to manage the building if the landlord fails to or the payment of interest and separate handling of security deposits. All things that we already don’t have.
It does limit the landlord’s free access, hold a standard of a warranty of habitability, and protects against landlord’s retaliation.
Do you think that your landlord’s got you by the cajones? I’m sure as heck that he does.
Here’s what the New Orleans Legal Assistance office recommends: read your lease carefully to learn what the landlord is responsible for and what your responsibilities are. Look carefully around your new place and make sure everything works and is in good order. Have someone as a witness and take photos. Get everything in writing and get and keep all receipts.
The law does state that if you do not get your deposit back in thirty days from moving you have to be told why not, and if you’re not to get all of it back, why that also. However, it’s still you word against the landlord’s, and guess who gets the benefit if the doubt? Right.
You have the right to make necessary repairs that the landlord won’t (given sufficient notice) and take it off your rent and the landlord has the right to evict you with no reason. Simple.
Remember, it’s the landlords that write leases and your rights depend on what the lease says. In the past it has been the landlords who wrote the laws governing renters and property, and those laws are still in effect, by the landlord-for the landlord. It’s landlords that can afford to attend political fundraisers to keep those laws in place.
And without someone with a little more authority than me, choosing to change things the renter will always take it in the shorts. And no, Virginia, not all landlords are mean, evil, money grubbing monsters that take their families to Europe, on your dime, as your bathroom ceiling caves in, but there’s nothing stopping them from becoming exactly that.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
I'm ready for my Ya Ka Mein, Mr. DeMille
Notes on possible topics for this month:
1.Tenants rights in New Orleans: Forget it, there are none.
2. Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters: Patronizing the local economy
3. Lucky Dogs and Englishmen: Wagon the Dog
4. The four families that own the French Quarter: Better not.
5. Concierges and kickbacks: Whoops, did I say that?
6. Controversial stoop sitting: The last Black family in the Quarter.
7. Holding up the cab drivers: Who owns all the Taxi licenses?
8. Big Business Behemoths: The death of the small shops.
9. Trading paradise for a prophylactic: Trashing our treasures.
10. Would you buy a used car from this man? Big Brother is Alive and Well:
Forget it! Let’s discuss something serious, this is, after all, the Restaurant Guide. Let’s talk about Ya-Ka Mein.
Ya-ka Mein is not a restaurant, at least, not that I’m aware of. Ya-ka Mein is a something to eat that very well may be of local origin. I’ve never seen it anywhere else, so, who knows?
It’s not a snobs dish, it’s not for the ‘Upper Crust’ or the Hoy Polloy. It’s a working person’s affair, a culinary adventurer’s adventure, a true foodie’s food. Tom Fitzmorris disses it. Sara Roahen adores it. Mathew at the N.O. J&H Foundation calls it a ‘heritage thing’. Dudley at Zatarain’s described working on the river at Elysian Fields and ‘going in to the neighborhood’ for it at lunchtime. Brett Anderson was unavailable for comment at this time. Linda Green demonstrated it at Jazz Fest last year, bless her heart. Ya-ka Mein.
There are probably hundreds of places in New Orleans to get Ya-ka Mein, (spelled Yet-ka mein, Jakemein, Yakamay, Yatka-mein, Yet Gaw Mein, yakameat, Ya-ka Mein, Yakama or ‘Old Sober’) and, I haven’t been to them all…yet.
Legend has it that a hundred years ago New Orleans had a viable Chinatown around South Rampart St. near Tulane Ave. It butted up against a thriving African American living, shopping and entertainment district. Allegedly this is where a street kid, later known as Sachmo, cut his chops running errands for prostitutes, crossing the borders of these ‘hoods for little packages of…………. could it have been………….opium?
I like to think not. I like to think, though I’ve been wrong before, that he was getting take out, possibly Yakamay. {and to think, that nowadays, all that the musically gifted children have to look forward to is NOCCA— how the mighty have fallen} J
With the disolution of our neighborhoods (we also had Jewish, Irish, German, Italian and Greek ones that likewise evaporated) the dish was dispursed like the lost tribes, and only kept alive by the poor, the hung over, the corner markets run by Asians serving Blacks.
When I have guests in from out of town, you know, my peeps, I take them on eating tours (what else?) of our city. No, not to places that the average bo-hunk gets ripped at. I take them on street level tours. Items like Muffalettas at Louigi’s, meatloaf at the Café Reconcile, pickled pig lip ogling at Robert’s ($12.71 a gallon!), alligator sandwiches at Royal Street Gro, gumbo at the corner of Broad and Banks, Lucky Dogs, and Busch in a brown bag with a pack of Zapp’s. They’re all here for the taking, but not the breaking (of your pocketbook).
Ya-ka Mein is different. I kinda keep it to myself. Why? Because if word gets out, those hot shot Chefs with their high falutin’ ways are gonna ruin a good thing. I just know it. And to my way of thinking, we have enough variations as it is. Do I want to see “Duck confit and lobster Ya-Ka Mein with poached quail egg, foix gras and beluga caviar pasta….$24.95 I certainly do not!
But wait! What’s that you say? What is Ya-ka Mein? Listen Woddie, if you don’t know, you better ass somebody!
Oh, you’re assin’ me. Okay, here goes: Ya-ka Mein, whatever way you spell it is a noodle soup of oriental extraction containing a variety of dead animals (pork, chicken, beef , shrimp, etc.) seasoned according to the deviation tendencies of the perpetrator behind the stove, and invariably compoundly fractured (garnished) with a whole hard boiled egg. Y’erd me?
Sometimes it’s reeeeal garlicy, sometimes it’s reeeeal vegetably, the noodle may vary, the animals may change with the season. The prices are generally between three and four bucks for a one quart cup. Most times you get it at a place that caters to low income folks. You may come across it in a joint with a few, or many, tables; invariably you will be served a very hot broth with noodles, a hard cooked egg, spring onions and packets of soy sauce. Variations beyond these point are infinite.
Where do you get it? Usually the sign outside will say something like ‘Plate Lunches-Po Boys-Chinese Food-Fried Seafood Platters’ etc. That’s the call to go ‘check out’ a new source. Don’t worry, it’s cool, you’re on a mission from….. me.
As I sit here, I’m having a quart from Manchu.
Not a place for the faint of heart, Manchu is located at the corner of Claiborne and Esplanade, their Yakamein is first rate, with a great kick of cayenne. While there, check out the wine selection to see what the other half drinks.
If you’re a stranger to danger, hop on up to Broadview, a smooth Yakama is made with asian pork and is redolent with green onions. While there check out other menu items: gumbo, boiled crabs, crawfish, shrimp, turkey necks, corn,and pigs feet (eat in or take out).
Uptown try Mama’s Famous Foods, truly a garlic lovers version
John’s Grocery on Touro and N. Rampart has it in two sizes as does Danny’s on Valence at Magazine (although theirs is alittle salty for my taste).
D&D between Desire and Piety & St. Claude has a kick of black pepper. Monica’s on Milan is sold by a man named ‘Pops’, who keeps a bottle of Sriracha handy.
Chinatown on Canal and Kimmy’s in the CBD both have plethoras of fresh veggies but no egg (go figure) I just saw that the the Moon Wok in the Quarter has it, expensive ($5.95) but I gotta try it. Someone recently mentioned that there was one place in Chicago…………that one may take me awhile to check out.
What I’m saying is that Ya-ka Mein is like a cullinary mugging, waiting around the corner, not frequent in better parts of town, almost brutal in its honesty and straightforwardness. You may get it at a secondline from the back of a pick up, or whipped up at a poker game by a recent Angola graduate, it’s a little thing, a small pleasure.
But, hey, when this Clark Kent gets home (provided there’s no eviction notice on the door) after working (provided the friggin’ Daily Planet doesn’t lay anyone else off) plus fighting for truth and justice (compared to what?) and looks in the mirror (as long as I remembered to pay my light bill) a lot of times all I see on my chest is a capital A (for Adequate-man) or an E (for Every-man); I long for a little thing, a small pleasure. Yat-ka Mein is that.
The Prophet once wrote: “Now go.”
1.Tenants rights in New Orleans: Forget it, there are none.
2. Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters: Patronizing the local economy
3. Lucky Dogs and Englishmen: Wagon the Dog
4. The four families that own the French Quarter: Better not.
5. Concierges and kickbacks: Whoops, did I say that?
6. Controversial stoop sitting: The last Black family in the Quarter.
7. Holding up the cab drivers: Who owns all the Taxi licenses?
8. Big Business Behemoths: The death of the small shops.
9. Trading paradise for a prophylactic: Trashing our treasures.
10. Would you buy a used car from this man? Big Brother is Alive and Well:
Forget it! Let’s discuss something serious, this is, after all, the Restaurant Guide. Let’s talk about Ya-Ka Mein.
Ya-ka Mein is not a restaurant, at least, not that I’m aware of. Ya-ka Mein is a something to eat that very well may be of local origin. I’ve never seen it anywhere else, so, who knows?
It’s not a snobs dish, it’s not for the ‘Upper Crust’ or the Hoy Polloy. It’s a working person’s affair, a culinary adventurer’s adventure, a true foodie’s food. Tom Fitzmorris disses it. Sara Roahen adores it. Mathew at the N.O. J&H Foundation calls it a ‘heritage thing’. Dudley at Zatarain’s described working on the river at Elysian Fields and ‘going in to the neighborhood’ for it at lunchtime. Brett Anderson was unavailable for comment at this time. Linda Green demonstrated it at Jazz Fest last year, bless her heart. Ya-ka Mein.
There are probably hundreds of places in New Orleans to get Ya-ka Mein, (spelled Yet-ka mein, Jakemein, Yakamay, Yatka-mein, Yet Gaw Mein, yakameat, Ya-ka Mein, Yakama or ‘Old Sober’) and, I haven’t been to them all…yet.
Legend has it that a hundred years ago New Orleans had a viable Chinatown around South Rampart St. near Tulane Ave. It butted up against a thriving African American living, shopping and entertainment district. Allegedly this is where a street kid, later known as Sachmo, cut his chops running errands for prostitutes, crossing the borders of these ‘hoods for little packages of…………. could it have been………….opium?
I like to think not. I like to think, though I’ve been wrong before, that he was getting take out, possibly Yakamay. {and to think, that nowadays, all that the musically gifted children have to look forward to is NOCCA— how the mighty have fallen} J
With the disolution of our neighborhoods (we also had Jewish, Irish, German, Italian and Greek ones that likewise evaporated) the dish was dispursed like the lost tribes, and only kept alive by the poor, the hung over, the corner markets run by Asians serving Blacks.
When I have guests in from out of town, you know, my peeps, I take them on eating tours (what else?) of our city. No, not to places that the average bo-hunk gets ripped at. I take them on street level tours. Items like Muffalettas at Louigi’s, meatloaf at the Café Reconcile, pickled pig lip ogling at Robert’s ($12.71 a gallon!), alligator sandwiches at Royal Street Gro, gumbo at the corner of Broad and Banks, Lucky Dogs, and Busch in a brown bag with a pack of Zapp’s. They’re all here for the taking, but not the breaking (of your pocketbook).
Ya-ka Mein is different. I kinda keep it to myself. Why? Because if word gets out, those hot shot Chefs with their high falutin’ ways are gonna ruin a good thing. I just know it. And to my way of thinking, we have enough variations as it is. Do I want to see “Duck confit and lobster Ya-Ka Mein with poached quail egg, foix gras and beluga caviar pasta….$24.95 I certainly do not!
But wait! What’s that you say? What is Ya-ka Mein? Listen Woddie, if you don’t know, you better ass somebody!
Oh, you’re assin’ me. Okay, here goes: Ya-ka Mein, whatever way you spell it is a noodle soup of oriental extraction containing a variety of dead animals (pork, chicken, beef , shrimp, etc.) seasoned according to the deviation tendencies of the perpetrator behind the stove, and invariably compoundly fractured (garnished) with a whole hard boiled egg. Y’erd me?
Sometimes it’s reeeeal garlicy, sometimes it’s reeeeal vegetably, the noodle may vary, the animals may change with the season. The prices are generally between three and four bucks for a one quart cup. Most times you get it at a place that caters to low income folks. You may come across it in a joint with a few, or many, tables; invariably you will be served a very hot broth with noodles, a hard cooked egg, spring onions and packets of soy sauce. Variations beyond these point are infinite.
Where do you get it? Usually the sign outside will say something like ‘Plate Lunches-Po Boys-Chinese Food-Fried Seafood Platters’ etc. That’s the call to go ‘check out’ a new source. Don’t worry, it’s cool, you’re on a mission from….. me.
As I sit here, I’m having a quart from Manchu.
Not a place for the faint of heart, Manchu is located at the corner of Claiborne and Esplanade, their Yakamein is first rate, with a great kick of cayenne. While there, check out the wine selection to see what the other half drinks.
If you’re a stranger to danger, hop on up to Broadview, a smooth Yakama is made with asian pork and is redolent with green onions. While there check out other menu items: gumbo, boiled crabs, crawfish, shrimp, turkey necks, corn,and pigs feet (eat in or take out).
Uptown try Mama’s Famous Foods, truly a garlic lovers version
John’s Grocery on Touro and N. Rampart has it in two sizes as does Danny’s on Valence at Magazine (although theirs is alittle salty for my taste).
D&D between Desire and Piety & St. Claude has a kick of black pepper. Monica’s on Milan is sold by a man named ‘Pops’, who keeps a bottle of Sriracha handy.
Chinatown on Canal and Kimmy’s in the CBD both have plethoras of fresh veggies but no egg (go figure) I just saw that the the Moon Wok in the Quarter has it, expensive ($5.95) but I gotta try it. Someone recently mentioned that there was one place in Chicago…………that one may take me awhile to check out.
What I’m saying is that Ya-ka Mein is like a cullinary mugging, waiting around the corner, not frequent in better parts of town, almost brutal in its honesty and straightforwardness. You may get it at a secondline from the back of a pick up, or whipped up at a poker game by a recent Angola graduate, it’s a little thing, a small pleasure.
But, hey, when this Clark Kent gets home (provided there’s no eviction notice on the door) after working (provided the friggin’ Daily Planet doesn’t lay anyone else off) plus fighting for truth and justice (compared to what?) and looks in the mirror (as long as I remembered to pay my light bill) a lot of times all I see on my chest is a capital A (for Adequate-man) or an E (for Every-man); I long for a little thing, a small pleasure. Yat-ka Mein is that.
The Prophet once wrote: “Now go.”
Lafayette, we are here
The train pulls in like a tired, wet mule; breathing slow and hard, unable to shake the same wet and heat off that any junkyard cur has the inherent gift and liberty of doing, and sitting patiently achuffing as a group of passengers get off ahuddling under yesterday’s newspapers and dime store umbrellas to take a cigarette smoke break under the lone oak that plays depot to the town that is on the verge of realizing its own potential pure yet dormant, The year is 2002 but it could be a scene from a hundred years ago, rain is falling steadily, unaffected by, and not affecting, the heat. The precipitation feels like humidity personified. (Forgive the first paragraph-I is reading Faulkner)
We pick around the mud and start walking toward what appears to be ‘town’. We share three canvas bags and no umbrella. The rain is slowing and it’s four blocks before we find someone to ask directions from. We're headed the right way, but for sure, we’re not in the French Quarter any more.
Five blocks further and we reach The Blue Moon Hostel. As described, it IS right across from the Borden’s Ice Cream Parlor. Three kids (read: any adult at least half our ages) stand, beaming at us as if we were the village idiots who had finally found their way home. Two are male and that’s as much as I notice about them except that they are apparently unarmed (there’s the New Orleans coming out in me), the third is a charming woman, worthy of every positive adjective I can think of.
Anyway, with a smile that could charm puppets, paupers, pirates, poets, pawns and Kings (that’s life!) she says “looking for a room?” she’s actually grinning and on her it’s the grin of a window being raised in a stuffy room. The very air became lighter and fresher.
“No, I think we already have one” Debbie starts, “We’re looking for…”
and in unison three of us say “…Catherine!” and share a laugh. Sounds stupid, felt great.
“Welcome and welcome howareya jahavagoodtrip and I’ll show you in and we’ll be back in twenty minutes we’re goin’ for ice cream make yourselves at home”. Yes we were really not in the French Quarter, ice cream indeed!
It’s been like going to Grammy’s house. Living room, dining room, big kitchen, bedrooms, bunk rooms, back yard, front yard. Cozy, spacious, hospitable and definitely ‘Home’ (with a capital ‘H’) and more about this later.
To make a long story longer: we dropped off our bags and went to find ‘town’. After all it was only mid day Monday and we were anxious to see the sights.
Armed with a McDonald’s map of the downtown we found Jefferson St. and walked its length, about twelve of their blocks. We passed about four people. We found some businesses. They were all closed. We found some bars. They were closed except for the one (Chips) that we had a drink at that was closing in an hour. The most action we found was at Circle K.
Naturally delighted (not), we returned to the warmth of Blue Moon, made our dinner in the communal kitchen, opened our bottle of wine (word: never travel to unexplored territory without at least two bottles of a familiar wine, corkscrew and enough snacks for a family of four per person), sat in the back yard for a spell and then went inside, cuddled up on the couch and read our respective books (never go anywhere without a book. Never. Anywhere.) Miles Davis was playing softly and the City Rats (us) finally started to chill. I think that’s when we got it.
Believe it or not, what we consider our fair city; our Big Easy, to be: laid back; can only be true when we compare ourselves to other cities much larger than ourselves, like New York or Chicago. It seems, from even my limited perspective, that even a blind person could see that we’re all running around like lunatics here. We (in New Orleans) don’t take a walk on the wild side, we go at it like we’re keepin’ score on how much we can get accomplished, and you know what? Other people don’t do that! Not even other people a hundred or so miles from here that say that they live in a city called Lafayette, Louisiana.
Listen, we were on the Amtrak, snackin’ down, curlin’ up, happy as clams, watching the world go by, and two women whom we couldn’t help but notice came through the car, jouncing around, and as they pass us one says to the other “I’m gonna go slam back some Jack, this is soooo boring!” Huh? Well, it seems like this particular train didn’t have a designated smoking area and, have you ever seen a smoker going through a nicotine jones? Of course not. A smoker here can smoke pretty much wherever and whenever they want. Same with drinkers, gamblers and any other kind of stimulus junky. We don’t have to, but the point is we can.
Heads up! What did you do on your day off? Answer: you did too much!
The next morning, we looked at Lafayette through different eyes. The place is sweet. They have an Arcadiana Fest each September, they’re building a Planetarium, have a Children’s Craft Center, buildings 150-200 years old, antique shops and was the capitol of French Louisiana. Bring your car, there’s a lot to see outside of it as well. The place is et up with culture. They give tours fer Chrissakes!
We went to Don’s Seafood Restaurant; it was like a dinner from a time capsule, circa 1965. Lost in space and time and free of the !@#$%^&*( pretensions that we seek here.
Upon reading the brochure, at the Greyhound Bus terminal (the train was running eight hours behind, but they are building a terminal for it to stop at. I’ll miss that tree), I found out that the full name of our lodgings is The Blue Moon Guest House and Saloon. They have music on the weekends, guests from around the world, the most affordable prices and co-op type atmosphere. Except for the convenience of computers (they have a website too), you would think that you just stepped back in time, and, yes; I did go out for ice cream!
We pick around the mud and start walking toward what appears to be ‘town’. We share three canvas bags and no umbrella. The rain is slowing and it’s four blocks before we find someone to ask directions from. We're headed the right way, but for sure, we’re not in the French Quarter any more.
Five blocks further and we reach The Blue Moon Hostel. As described, it IS right across from the Borden’s Ice Cream Parlor. Three kids (read: any adult at least half our ages) stand, beaming at us as if we were the village idiots who had finally found their way home. Two are male and that’s as much as I notice about them except that they are apparently unarmed (there’s the New Orleans coming out in me), the third is a charming woman, worthy of every positive adjective I can think of.
Anyway, with a smile that could charm puppets, paupers, pirates, poets, pawns and Kings (that’s life!) she says “looking for a room?” she’s actually grinning and on her it’s the grin of a window being raised in a stuffy room. The very air became lighter and fresher.
“No, I think we already have one” Debbie starts, “We’re looking for…”
and in unison three of us say “…Catherine!” and share a laugh. Sounds stupid, felt great.
“Welcome and welcome howareya jahavagoodtrip and I’ll show you in and we’ll be back in twenty minutes we’re goin’ for ice cream make yourselves at home”. Yes we were really not in the French Quarter, ice cream indeed!
It’s been like going to Grammy’s house. Living room, dining room, big kitchen, bedrooms, bunk rooms, back yard, front yard. Cozy, spacious, hospitable and definitely ‘Home’ (with a capital ‘H’) and more about this later.
To make a long story longer: we dropped off our bags and went to find ‘town’. After all it was only mid day Monday and we were anxious to see the sights.
Armed with a McDonald’s map of the downtown we found Jefferson St. and walked its length, about twelve of their blocks. We passed about four people. We found some businesses. They were all closed. We found some bars. They were closed except for the one (Chips) that we had a drink at that was closing in an hour. The most action we found was at Circle K.
Naturally delighted (not), we returned to the warmth of Blue Moon, made our dinner in the communal kitchen, opened our bottle of wine (word: never travel to unexplored territory without at least two bottles of a familiar wine, corkscrew and enough snacks for a family of four per person), sat in the back yard for a spell and then went inside, cuddled up on the couch and read our respective books (never go anywhere without a book. Never. Anywhere.) Miles Davis was playing softly and the City Rats (us) finally started to chill. I think that’s when we got it.
Believe it or not, what we consider our fair city; our Big Easy, to be: laid back; can only be true when we compare ourselves to other cities much larger than ourselves, like New York or Chicago. It seems, from even my limited perspective, that even a blind person could see that we’re all running around like lunatics here. We (in New Orleans) don’t take a walk on the wild side, we go at it like we’re keepin’ score on how much we can get accomplished, and you know what? Other people don’t do that! Not even other people a hundred or so miles from here that say that they live in a city called Lafayette, Louisiana.
Listen, we were on the Amtrak, snackin’ down, curlin’ up, happy as clams, watching the world go by, and two women whom we couldn’t help but notice came through the car, jouncing around, and as they pass us one says to the other “I’m gonna go slam back some Jack, this is soooo boring!” Huh? Well, it seems like this particular train didn’t have a designated smoking area and, have you ever seen a smoker going through a nicotine jones? Of course not. A smoker here can smoke pretty much wherever and whenever they want. Same with drinkers, gamblers and any other kind of stimulus junky. We don’t have to, but the point is we can.
Heads up! What did you do on your day off? Answer: you did too much!
The next morning, we looked at Lafayette through different eyes. The place is sweet. They have an Arcadiana Fest each September, they’re building a Planetarium, have a Children’s Craft Center, buildings 150-200 years old, antique shops and was the capitol of French Louisiana. Bring your car, there’s a lot to see outside of it as well. The place is et up with culture. They give tours fer Chrissakes!
We went to Don’s Seafood Restaurant; it was like a dinner from a time capsule, circa 1965. Lost in space and time and free of the !@#$%^&*( pretensions that we seek here.
Upon reading the brochure, at the Greyhound Bus terminal (the train was running eight hours behind, but they are building a terminal for it to stop at. I’ll miss that tree), I found out that the full name of our lodgings is The Blue Moon Guest House and Saloon. They have music on the weekends, guests from around the world, the most affordable prices and co-op type atmosphere. Except for the convenience of computers (they have a website too), you would think that you just stepped back in time, and, yes; I did go out for ice cream!
What else you don't know
“Hollywood created an era where prostitutes were made national heroines simply because they bedded well with some studio owners. Marriage was treated as a farce and divorce became a ticket for a whore to move from one house to another.”
Don’t take my word for it, that quote is taken verbatim from a book by a man (and his wife) named George Leonard Herter of Waseca, Minnesota.
The book; Bull Cook and Authentic Historical Recipes and Practices was first published in 1960 and had a number of successful reprints.
Other truisms that Mr. Herter propounds in his book are that menstruating women cannot and should not make mayonnaise (for it simply will not work).
Charemagne, who died in A. D. 814, invented sauerbraten.
Catherine De Medici who married Henry, King of France, “had three sons, two of whom were not all there mentally”. And furthermore, “Her face was not very good looking but she had beautiful legs(!!!). She invented women’s panties so that she could ride a horse with her skirts up high showing off her legs. Up until this time women wore no panties of any kind.”
Chow Mien and Chop Suey were “invented in San Francisco by a Greek named John Metaxa.”
‘Caesar Salad was invented by an Italian in Chicago, not a Mexican in Tijuana’.
You see? That’s how rumors get started!
At this point you will probably be asking yourself, ‘why is he telling me all this?’ (I know I would be). At which point I would answer you: ‘As a vehicle to your awareness, mon frere; you see, Mr. Herter, in his ground breaking tome, waxes profound on our fair city.’ And, as I know, Essence Festival is coming up (July 5-7) and there are going to be a lot of guests in town that you will be able to astonish and amaze with your inside information about our fair NOLA.
Be that as it may; before we explore new untohitherfore information about our city, let’s go back to the well for more examples of things Mr. Herter knew and we didn’t. This is straight up skinny, so, read on and learn.
*”In case of an atomic attack it would be important to know how to make jerky…”
*”Bat (Masterson) created a wiener sandwich…Everyone called it a Prairie Dog.” (think about it.)
*”If a human eats raw carp flesh for a week he will also die.”
*”Bull fighting is actually one of the safest ways to make a living in the world if you can stay sober.”
*…original onion soup contains no onions at all.”
*”The Indians of Mexico and Central America were the first to make spaghetti and tomato sauce.”
*All of the ones (gunfighters) of any note had blue eyes.”
*”A great many words used to describe recipes in French cooking mean nothing at all.”
*”The Virgin Mary, Mother of Christ was very fond of spinach.”
*”…I am sure that I am the first man who ever made a hamburger in Africa.”
*”One morning Oliver was eating a dish if cooked vegetables and fish. His pet cat had been drinking heavily. It jumped up on the table, lost its balance and knocked over a bottle of oil and vinegar, spilling both on Oliver’s plate. Oliver put the cat outside to sober up.” (On the birth of a dish called ‘Anti-Pasto”)
There’s plenty more but I need to get to ‘The New Orleans’ parts before I run out of room. Ready? Here we go!
**************************************
*”You have to go a long ways to find Italian food like they serve in New Orleans. It is the worst I’ve ever eaten…”
*”Drunkenness is not a crime in New Orleans unless you get disorderly.”
*”If the Bourbon St. crowd, go into a bar and look up from their drinks and do not see, among other things, a couple of well formed breasts flopping around, the drink doesn’t taste just right and they move to another bar.”
*”…but his jailers released (Pierre Lafitte) him and he walked out into the alley… This alley has ever since been called Pirates Alley.”
*”… the word Nouvelle (used in Nouvelle Orleans) is a feminine word and …made him (the Duke) out as a complete fairy.”
*”One of the first and best foods Bienville taught the colonists to make was oyster loafs.”
*John McDonogh (whose $ built N.O. public schools) invented ‘Shut Your Mouth’ sandwich.
*”Probably the two most important things that were invented in New Orleans are the poor boy sandwich and the expression O.K.”
* J.E.B. STUART (General of Confederate Army) invented ‘Dirty rice’
*“In New Orleans a drink is served today called Café Brulot. It is of fairly recent origin and is simply a drink dreamed up to look fancy and clip the tourist for a fancy price.”
*”Dominique You (top lieutenant for Jean Lafitte)… is probably better known for the phrase he coined…’Les bonbons acceuillis, produisent leur effet, mais la liqueur travaille plus vita cet effet’ …(Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker).”
I could go on and on, but now it’s time for some real info to pass on to our Essence Festers..
*The City of New Orleans makes a lot of money ticketing and towing cars, there are also residents that make money breaking into them. Watch where you park.
*Everyone in New Orleans is working a hustle. A ‘hustle’ is here defined as a way to make money to support a habit, and habits can range from eating regularly to anything else imaginable. Peep the hustle before you cop to it.
*The City of New Orleans wants you here and wants you safe, so don’t do anything stupid like walk down dark streets to visit Armstrong Park after dark, wearing Mardi Gras beads and carrying your camera with your new best friend that you just met on Bourbon Street.
*The annual Essence Festival zeroes in on African-American-oriented forms of music while also providing highly attended “empowerment Seminars” that help educate and inform the African-American community. It’s something we all could use a dose of on a regular basis. Pass it on.
*Check out local attractions and buy local products from local purveyors, including local restaurants, bookshops, grocery stores and galleries.
*Have fun and we’ll see you at the Dome!!!
Don’t take my word for it, that quote is taken verbatim from a book by a man (and his wife) named George Leonard Herter of Waseca, Minnesota.
The book; Bull Cook and Authentic Historical Recipes and Practices was first published in 1960 and had a number of successful reprints.
Other truisms that Mr. Herter propounds in his book are that menstruating women cannot and should not make mayonnaise (for it simply will not work).
Charemagne, who died in A. D. 814, invented sauerbraten.
Catherine De Medici who married Henry, King of France, “had three sons, two of whom were not all there mentally”. And furthermore, “Her face was not very good looking but she had beautiful legs(!!!). She invented women’s panties so that she could ride a horse with her skirts up high showing off her legs. Up until this time women wore no panties of any kind.”
Chow Mien and Chop Suey were “invented in San Francisco by a Greek named John Metaxa.”
‘Caesar Salad was invented by an Italian in Chicago, not a Mexican in Tijuana’.
You see? That’s how rumors get started!
At this point you will probably be asking yourself, ‘why is he telling me all this?’ (I know I would be). At which point I would answer you: ‘As a vehicle to your awareness, mon frere; you see, Mr. Herter, in his ground breaking tome, waxes profound on our fair city.’ And, as I know, Essence Festival is coming up (July 5-7) and there are going to be a lot of guests in town that you will be able to astonish and amaze with your inside information about our fair NOLA.
Be that as it may; before we explore new untohitherfore information about our city, let’s go back to the well for more examples of things Mr. Herter knew and we didn’t. This is straight up skinny, so, read on and learn.
*”In case of an atomic attack it would be important to know how to make jerky…”
*”Bat (Masterson) created a wiener sandwich…Everyone called it a Prairie Dog.” (think about it.)
*”If a human eats raw carp flesh for a week he will also die.”
*”Bull fighting is actually one of the safest ways to make a living in the world if you can stay sober.”
*…original onion soup contains no onions at all.”
*”The Indians of Mexico and Central America were the first to make spaghetti and tomato sauce.”
*All of the ones (gunfighters) of any note had blue eyes.”
*”A great many words used to describe recipes in French cooking mean nothing at all.”
*”The Virgin Mary, Mother of Christ was very fond of spinach.”
*”…I am sure that I am the first man who ever made a hamburger in Africa.”
*”One morning Oliver was eating a dish if cooked vegetables and fish. His pet cat had been drinking heavily. It jumped up on the table, lost its balance and knocked over a bottle of oil and vinegar, spilling both on Oliver’s plate. Oliver put the cat outside to sober up.” (On the birth of a dish called ‘Anti-Pasto”)
There’s plenty more but I need to get to ‘The New Orleans’ parts before I run out of room. Ready? Here we go!
**************************************
*”You have to go a long ways to find Italian food like they serve in New Orleans. It is the worst I’ve ever eaten…”
*”Drunkenness is not a crime in New Orleans unless you get disorderly.”
*”If the Bourbon St. crowd, go into a bar and look up from their drinks and do not see, among other things, a couple of well formed breasts flopping around, the drink doesn’t taste just right and they move to another bar.”
*”…but his jailers released (Pierre Lafitte) him and he walked out into the alley… This alley has ever since been called Pirates Alley.”
*”… the word Nouvelle (used in Nouvelle Orleans) is a feminine word and …made him (the Duke) out as a complete fairy.”
*”One of the first and best foods Bienville taught the colonists to make was oyster loafs.”
*John McDonogh (whose $ built N.O. public schools) invented ‘Shut Your Mouth’ sandwich.
*”Probably the two most important things that were invented in New Orleans are the poor boy sandwich and the expression O.K.”
* J.E.B. STUART (General of Confederate Army) invented ‘Dirty rice’
*“In New Orleans a drink is served today called Café Brulot. It is of fairly recent origin and is simply a drink dreamed up to look fancy and clip the tourist for a fancy price.”
*”Dominique You (top lieutenant for Jean Lafitte)… is probably better known for the phrase he coined…’Les bonbons acceuillis, produisent leur effet, mais la liqueur travaille plus vita cet effet’ …(Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker).”
I could go on and on, but now it’s time for some real info to pass on to our Essence Festers..
*The City of New Orleans makes a lot of money ticketing and towing cars, there are also residents that make money breaking into them. Watch where you park.
*Everyone in New Orleans is working a hustle. A ‘hustle’ is here defined as a way to make money to support a habit, and habits can range from eating regularly to anything else imaginable. Peep the hustle before you cop to it.
*The City of New Orleans wants you here and wants you safe, so don’t do anything stupid like walk down dark streets to visit Armstrong Park after dark, wearing Mardi Gras beads and carrying your camera with your new best friend that you just met on Bourbon Street.
*The annual Essence Festival zeroes in on African-American-oriented forms of music while also providing highly attended “empowerment Seminars” that help educate and inform the African-American community. It’s something we all could use a dose of on a regular basis. Pass it on.
*Check out local attractions and buy local products from local purveyors, including local restaurants, bookshops, grocery stores and galleries.
*Have fun and we’ll see you at the Dome!!!
There's a fly in your soup: waitering in the French Quarter
I’m embarking up a new tree. That is to say, that I’ve taken another job outside the realm of hithertofore, common to myself, acceptable employment behavorable pattern structured lunacy. I am applying for, and will get, a full time, permanent, lucrative job as a………waiter!!
Hey, I’ve got experience! And what’s more, I’m already doin’ it part time! AND, I’m pretty darn good at it!
So, question: why do I want to do it full time? Answer: the ‘Get A Clue Phone’.
Sometimes it doesn’t take an epiphany to change your life. Sometimes all it takes is: “Ring, ring! It’s the Get A Clue Phone! Wanna take this call?”
‘Hello, yes. Uh huh. Yeah, good point. Okay, sure…………..’
(rough translation: I’m makin’ more money workin’ two shifts at my ‘part time job’ than I am in the five day a week ‘day job’ I have).
As I said: “Ring, Ring!”
Besides; the work is relatively fun, positively challenging, monetarily rewarding, mentally aerobic and calls for a dexterity of wit (which I only have half of).
Here I am in the dining room:
“Well Sir, the building was built in 1840, we’re on a foundation of cypress logs and cotton bales. We’re called ‘a floater’. A common misconception is that the Mississippi River has always just stopped at those hills that we call levees. Not so, where you are sitting was probably marsh or bogs, or just plain…swamp!”
“Yes Ma’am, most restaurants serve ‘Pasta Prima Vera’ as their vegetarian offering. Why? Oh, it’s our State Vegetarian Dish. Are y’all from California?”
“We have three specials today; well actually, two specials and one not so special. Here they are……”
“We were, by legend, first a slave exchange and then a brothel. Yes Sir, I understand that you’ve been told that about every restaurant that you’ve been to here. Actually, before restaurants were invented, all of New Orleans was first a slave exchange and then a brothel.”
“Foie Gras? That’s the Friday before Mardi Gras.”
“Bourbon Street? Two blocks that way, No Sir, you are in The French Quarter.”
“No Sir, the chef does not mind suggestions. You think that we should not use iceberg lettuce in our salads? Sir, iceberg lettuce is our State Flower! Are you, by any chance, from California?”
“No Ma’am, Gumbo is not a soup. No, not a stew. Gumbo is Gumbo; it comes from the Swahili word for okra. No Ma’am, our Gumbo doesn’t have okra in it. Yes Ma’am, our ‘Seafood Gumbo’ has sausage in it. That’s a crab claw, Ma’am. Ma’am? May I recommend the Onion Soup? Yes Ma’am, it has onions in it………”
“Sweet tea?”
“Non-smoking section? It’s right here, let me just get that ashtray out of your way. You’re from California, right?”
Here I am in the kitchen:
“Comin’ through! Right behind you! On your back!
Leroy, that’s four salads: one house, two blue cheese and one just olive oil and lemon. Olive oil? It’s that green stuff in a bottle, put it on the side, yeah.
“Who cut lemons today and where the hell are they?”
“Chef, I need table six. That’s no garlic, light spice and steamed veggies. I think they’re from California.”
“Table four thinks that their steak is over cooked. Yes Sir, that looks ‘medium” to me, lets just cook it a little more. Yes Sir, they’re idiots.”
“Is it hot in here or is it just me?”
“Who stocked wines, and where the hell is the ‘House White’?”
Here’s me with the busboy:
“ Yo bro, I need more water to eight, coffee at four, reset table twelve for a deuce, and that kid on sixteen just spilled his coke. Oh, and more bread to seven. Got it? Good.”
Me at the waiter station:
“Comin’ in!”
“Would you believe sixteen bucks on a hundred and fifty? Where are these people from?”
“What the hell is ‘sweet tea’?”.
“Yeah, I told him that the Merlot was a brutish wine with overtones of black cherry, chocolate, licorice, cinnamon, needed to come to terms with its tannins but wouldn’t screw up the taste of his cheeseburger. What did he do? What else, white Zin!”
“Who cut lemons today?”
“Where did you get those ear rings? They’re so damn cute!”
Petit Moi at the bar:
“I need a Fog Cutter, a Leg Spreader. Two Chocolate Margaritas, a Sloe Gin Fizz, a Fast Gin Fizz, a pair of Heinies, a Dancing Pony, a Dead Dog, Cherry Coke, Obituary Cocktail, two shots of Marti’s Crotch and Wet Sex On The Beach.
Just joking, make that two rum and cokes and a Bud Lite. Oh, you’re no fun.”
Back at the tables:
“What an engaging child. Is it yours? Yes Sir, of course it’s a boy. Cute as the dickens, too. May I clean up that spill? My pleasure.”
“ Sorry to interrupt you love birds, you do look, er, ‘comfortable’. Honeymooners, eh? May I suggest wet sex on the beach? No Sir, that’s one of our drink specialties.”
“Well Sir, Jambalaya is ‘jumbled’, Gumbo is ‘gumbled’: same thing, only gumbling requires more liquid. They’re local culinary terms, I think the words originally come from the Swahili language.”
“Yes Ma’am, Creole and Cajun are words from the Choctaw Indians. Creoles were here first, hence, the word ‘Cree-Old’, The Cajuns are the younger immigrants, that’s right Ma’am, ‘Cay-youngs’! Glad to help.”
“No Sir, that only appears to be trash on our streets; actually, it’s land fill on its way to expanding our landmass, also, it’s a gauge to show how much fun we’re having. No problem.”
“Hey guys, can I get you something from the bar? What are Hurricanes? Well, besides being a force of nature, they are a local drink with twelve kinds of alcohol, four natural fruit juices and a Voodoo spell by the bartender. They’re sole intention is to f--- you up. Two each? Comin’ right up!”
Back at the waiter station:
“Eight separate checks! All at one table! This is gonna be a ‘check out’ from HELL!”
“Did you see what she was wearing at table six? What is she thinking, Moulon Rouge? And the beads! Do they want to get mugged?”
“My dogs are barkin’! There must be a better way……”
At the end of the shift:
“Man, am I ready for a cocktail! Okay, but if you see me headed for the video poker machine, slap me; I need to make rent this week!”
Author’s Note: See? I fit right in! Wish me luck.
Hey, I’ve got experience! And what’s more, I’m already doin’ it part time! AND, I’m pretty darn good at it!
So, question: why do I want to do it full time? Answer: the ‘Get A Clue Phone’.
Sometimes it doesn’t take an epiphany to change your life. Sometimes all it takes is: “Ring, ring! It’s the Get A Clue Phone! Wanna take this call?”
‘Hello, yes. Uh huh. Yeah, good point. Okay, sure…………..’
(rough translation: I’m makin’ more money workin’ two shifts at my ‘part time job’ than I am in the five day a week ‘day job’ I have).
As I said: “Ring, Ring!”
Besides; the work is relatively fun, positively challenging, monetarily rewarding, mentally aerobic and calls for a dexterity of wit (which I only have half of).
Here I am in the dining room:
“Well Sir, the building was built in 1840, we’re on a foundation of cypress logs and cotton bales. We’re called ‘a floater’. A common misconception is that the Mississippi River has always just stopped at those hills that we call levees. Not so, where you are sitting was probably marsh or bogs, or just plain…swamp!”
“Yes Ma’am, most restaurants serve ‘Pasta Prima Vera’ as their vegetarian offering. Why? Oh, it’s our State Vegetarian Dish. Are y’all from California?”
“We have three specials today; well actually, two specials and one not so special. Here they are……”
“We were, by legend, first a slave exchange and then a brothel. Yes Sir, I understand that you’ve been told that about every restaurant that you’ve been to here. Actually, before restaurants were invented, all of New Orleans was first a slave exchange and then a brothel.”
“Foie Gras? That’s the Friday before Mardi Gras.”
“Bourbon Street? Two blocks that way, No Sir, you are in The French Quarter.”
“No Sir, the chef does not mind suggestions. You think that we should not use iceberg lettuce in our salads? Sir, iceberg lettuce is our State Flower! Are you, by any chance, from California?”
“No Ma’am, Gumbo is not a soup. No, not a stew. Gumbo is Gumbo; it comes from the Swahili word for okra. No Ma’am, our Gumbo doesn’t have okra in it. Yes Ma’am, our ‘Seafood Gumbo’ has sausage in it. That’s a crab claw, Ma’am. Ma’am? May I recommend the Onion Soup? Yes Ma’am, it has onions in it………”
“Sweet tea?”
“Non-smoking section? It’s right here, let me just get that ashtray out of your way. You’re from California, right?”
Here I am in the kitchen:
“Comin’ through! Right behind you! On your back!
Leroy, that’s four salads: one house, two blue cheese and one just olive oil and lemon. Olive oil? It’s that green stuff in a bottle, put it on the side, yeah.
“Who cut lemons today and where the hell are they?”
“Chef, I need table six. That’s no garlic, light spice and steamed veggies. I think they’re from California.”
“Table four thinks that their steak is over cooked. Yes Sir, that looks ‘medium” to me, lets just cook it a little more. Yes Sir, they’re idiots.”
“Is it hot in here or is it just me?”
“Who stocked wines, and where the hell is the ‘House White’?”
Here’s me with the busboy:
“ Yo bro, I need more water to eight, coffee at four, reset table twelve for a deuce, and that kid on sixteen just spilled his coke. Oh, and more bread to seven. Got it? Good.”
Me at the waiter station:
“Comin’ in!”
“Would you believe sixteen bucks on a hundred and fifty? Where are these people from?”
“What the hell is ‘sweet tea’?”.
“Yeah, I told him that the Merlot was a brutish wine with overtones of black cherry, chocolate, licorice, cinnamon, needed to come to terms with its tannins but wouldn’t screw up the taste of his cheeseburger. What did he do? What else, white Zin!”
“Who cut lemons today?”
“Where did you get those ear rings? They’re so damn cute!”
Petit Moi at the bar:
“I need a Fog Cutter, a Leg Spreader. Two Chocolate Margaritas, a Sloe Gin Fizz, a Fast Gin Fizz, a pair of Heinies, a Dancing Pony, a Dead Dog, Cherry Coke, Obituary Cocktail, two shots of Marti’s Crotch and Wet Sex On The Beach.
Just joking, make that two rum and cokes and a Bud Lite. Oh, you’re no fun.”
Back at the tables:
“What an engaging child. Is it yours? Yes Sir, of course it’s a boy. Cute as the dickens, too. May I clean up that spill? My pleasure.”
“ Sorry to interrupt you love birds, you do look, er, ‘comfortable’. Honeymooners, eh? May I suggest wet sex on the beach? No Sir, that’s one of our drink specialties.”
“Well Sir, Jambalaya is ‘jumbled’, Gumbo is ‘gumbled’: same thing, only gumbling requires more liquid. They’re local culinary terms, I think the words originally come from the Swahili language.”
“Yes Ma’am, Creole and Cajun are words from the Choctaw Indians. Creoles were here first, hence, the word ‘Cree-Old’, The Cajuns are the younger immigrants, that’s right Ma’am, ‘Cay-youngs’! Glad to help.”
“No Sir, that only appears to be trash on our streets; actually, it’s land fill on its way to expanding our landmass, also, it’s a gauge to show how much fun we’re having. No problem.”
“Hey guys, can I get you something from the bar? What are Hurricanes? Well, besides being a force of nature, they are a local drink with twelve kinds of alcohol, four natural fruit juices and a Voodoo spell by the bartender. They’re sole intention is to f--- you up. Two each? Comin’ right up!”
Back at the waiter station:
“Eight separate checks! All at one table! This is gonna be a ‘check out’ from HELL!”
“Did you see what she was wearing at table six? What is she thinking, Moulon Rouge? And the beads! Do they want to get mugged?”
“My dogs are barkin’! There must be a better way……”
At the end of the shift:
“Man, am I ready for a cocktail! Okay, but if you see me headed for the video poker machine, slap me; I need to make rent this week!”
Author’s Note: See? I fit right in! Wish me luck.
The Tennessee Willams Literary Conference
Stella Shmella
Tennessee Williams was a local gay drunk and for that we will celebrate him with a literary festival this month; NOooo…, probably more so because he was a kick ass writer who was immune to being jerked off by the powers that profited from his angst. Don’t take my word for it, ask me.
It’s easy to be a local gay drunk, not so easy to be a kick ass writer. Writers are barely above liquor salesmen, who are just slightly above the homeless. I consider myself a writer…I should know. Like Marvin the paranoid android will tell you: “brain the size of a planet and they want me to make tea, open the door”… “pick up that scrap of paper, Marvin--- sheesh --- you call this a life?”
What’s my problem? I’ll tell you: It’s another literary conference and yet again I have not been invited to sit on a panel, host a workshop or give a speech!!
Once again I will sit in audiences and think ‘I was going to say that!’ or rack my brains for an intelligent question only to have one pop into my head hours later. Perhaps it’s author envy or some such sucky malaise; but, I see myself up on the podium with the big boys (and girls) speaking freely, wisely and off the cuff. “ Yes Rex, I remember telling Tennessee about my idea concerning my first novel about sex, drugs, depravity, danger, bloodshed, mystery and Rock and Roll and he turned to me, exhaling cigarette smoke, and said… “Oooo….a documentary!”
Noooo--- I have to sit in another audience, having begged press passes (again) from Ellen Johnson and listen to how hard it is to find a good editor publisher getaway place in order to spill my guts pounding out ten thousand words a day to exorcise my demons while drinking single malt scotch and reliving the wreckage of my misspent youth, when, after all was said and done, antidepressants were the only thing that eventually saved me. That and not (again) be invited to the kick off party because I’m just a slug, parasitic, wannabe journalist that doesn’t have two pennies to rub together and can’t keep a line of thought going for more than three hundred and seventy words at a time. Where was I?
Being a writer is really very simple. You put some words on paper and somebody gives you money. You use that money to buy you some time to put more words on more paper for more money, for more time, more words, more money, more time and finally the antidepressants.
What do you write about? Well, about drinking single malt scotch while your marriage crumbles, your kid that hates you, and the dog; one of which finally succumbs to some incurable virus that turns him into a blood sucking goat; the husband, the kid or the dog… take your pick, it’s all good copy. Or as Tennessee would say: “Oooooo, a documentary!”
I didn’t want to be a writer, I wanted to play the saxophone in Aretha Franklin’s backup band. I wanted to sell red balloons in Paris. I wanted to be an organ grinder with a monkey on Fisherman’s Wharf. I wanted to act, like Brando, and say “you’se my brudduh Charlie, you wuz ‘sposed to look out fuh me!”
What I got? A one way ticket to Faulkner-ville. A ringside seat at another STELLA!! shouting Contest. Marda Burton’s salon that I can’t go to because I work seven days a week.
I guess I just got lucky. I even get paid to write; no, not enough to do the money/time/words/antidepressant tango, but paid nonetheless. And there are some people that read my stuff; however, no one has approached me about my memoirs…yet. Hey, don’t laugh, Chris Rose is in his second printing already, he has a publisher…an editor, etc. etc. Of course he’s much older than I am.
I’m reading a book by Elizabeth Wurtzel titled ‘Bitch’ sub titled ‘in praise of difficult women’ (now there’s someone that I’d like to see on a panel). I’m also reading the Kama Sutra, The life of Saint Joan of Arc and The Gambling Secrets of Nick The Greek. Between that and my recent trip to Europe, wouldn’t you like to see me up there, discoursing on the foibles of fables. My workshop would be called “The well rounded reader as writer” or “Po-Boy Askew Views”.
Is Joni still a saint? I’m speaking of Ms. D’Arc, not Baez, Mitchell or Crawford. I can call her Joni if I want, ever since I overheard a buggy driver describe her statue as “Joni on the pony” which to me sounded a trifle obscene.
The story of her life portrays her as being a little dumpy thing, with short dark hair and a trifle homely; which goes against my grain, as such a woman should be pictured a little more flatteringly, I feel. So, I immediately skipped over that part and went on to the good stuff so that I could continue to picture her as a long legged, busty, beauty who rode a prancing stallion with long hair blowing in the wind, waving a four foot long saber, ready to eviscerate any and all comers.
Don’t you think that all heroes should be frightfully attractive? And, wouldn’t you like to hear me bore you with that subject, for hours (on a panel, of course). Or maybe tell you about being a Seventh Day Adventist (I’m not, but I could wing it). Or, what if I told you about being in London tracking down a place called Lee Ho Fook to get myself a dish of Beef Chow Mein.
Nah, not this year. I’m not invited. I’ll be among the folks with sensible shoes and bad hair with a yellow pad and pen ready to jot down any pearls of wisdom that drop. Anyway, it could be worse…it could be raining.
So, what do you think? March 26-30. Gonna come play with me at the writer’s conference? I think this year I’ll try a comb-over; Oooooo!
phil@whereyat.net
Tennessee Williams was a local gay drunk and for that we will celebrate him with a literary festival this month; NOooo…, probably more so because he was a kick ass writer who was immune to being jerked off by the powers that profited from his angst. Don’t take my word for it, ask me.
It’s easy to be a local gay drunk, not so easy to be a kick ass writer. Writers are barely above liquor salesmen, who are just slightly above the homeless. I consider myself a writer…I should know. Like Marvin the paranoid android will tell you: “brain the size of a planet and they want me to make tea, open the door”… “pick up that scrap of paper, Marvin--- sheesh --- you call this a life?”
What’s my problem? I’ll tell you: It’s another literary conference and yet again I have not been invited to sit on a panel, host a workshop or give a speech!!
Once again I will sit in audiences and think ‘I was going to say that!’ or rack my brains for an intelligent question only to have one pop into my head hours later. Perhaps it’s author envy or some such sucky malaise; but, I see myself up on the podium with the big boys (and girls) speaking freely, wisely and off the cuff. “ Yes Rex, I remember telling Tennessee about my idea concerning my first novel about sex, drugs, depravity, danger, bloodshed, mystery and Rock and Roll and he turned to me, exhaling cigarette smoke, and said… “Oooo….a documentary!”
Noooo--- I have to sit in another audience, having begged press passes (again) from Ellen Johnson and listen to how hard it is to find a good editor publisher getaway place in order to spill my guts pounding out ten thousand words a day to exorcise my demons while drinking single malt scotch and reliving the wreckage of my misspent youth, when, after all was said and done, antidepressants were the only thing that eventually saved me. That and not (again) be invited to the kick off party because I’m just a slug, parasitic, wannabe journalist that doesn’t have two pennies to rub together and can’t keep a line of thought going for more than three hundred and seventy words at a time. Where was I?
Being a writer is really very simple. You put some words on paper and somebody gives you money. You use that money to buy you some time to put more words on more paper for more money, for more time, more words, more money, more time and finally the antidepressants.
What do you write about? Well, about drinking single malt scotch while your marriage crumbles, your kid that hates you, and the dog; one of which finally succumbs to some incurable virus that turns him into a blood sucking goat; the husband, the kid or the dog… take your pick, it’s all good copy. Or as Tennessee would say: “Oooooo, a documentary!”
I didn’t want to be a writer, I wanted to play the saxophone in Aretha Franklin’s backup band. I wanted to sell red balloons in Paris. I wanted to be an organ grinder with a monkey on Fisherman’s Wharf. I wanted to act, like Brando, and say “you’se my brudduh Charlie, you wuz ‘sposed to look out fuh me!”
What I got? A one way ticket to Faulkner-ville. A ringside seat at another STELLA!! shouting Contest. Marda Burton’s salon that I can’t go to because I work seven days a week.
I guess I just got lucky. I even get paid to write; no, not enough to do the money/time/words/antidepressant tango, but paid nonetheless. And there are some people that read my stuff; however, no one has approached me about my memoirs…yet. Hey, don’t laugh, Chris Rose is in his second printing already, he has a publisher…an editor, etc. etc. Of course he’s much older than I am.
I’m reading a book by Elizabeth Wurtzel titled ‘Bitch’ sub titled ‘in praise of difficult women’ (now there’s someone that I’d like to see on a panel). I’m also reading the Kama Sutra, The life of Saint Joan of Arc and The Gambling Secrets of Nick The Greek. Between that and my recent trip to Europe, wouldn’t you like to see me up there, discoursing on the foibles of fables. My workshop would be called “The well rounded reader as writer” or “Po-Boy Askew Views”.
Is Joni still a saint? I’m speaking of Ms. D’Arc, not Baez, Mitchell or Crawford. I can call her Joni if I want, ever since I overheard a buggy driver describe her statue as “Joni on the pony” which to me sounded a trifle obscene.
The story of her life portrays her as being a little dumpy thing, with short dark hair and a trifle homely; which goes against my grain, as such a woman should be pictured a little more flatteringly, I feel. So, I immediately skipped over that part and went on to the good stuff so that I could continue to picture her as a long legged, busty, beauty who rode a prancing stallion with long hair blowing in the wind, waving a four foot long saber, ready to eviscerate any and all comers.
Don’t you think that all heroes should be frightfully attractive? And, wouldn’t you like to hear me bore you with that subject, for hours (on a panel, of course). Or maybe tell you about being a Seventh Day Adventist (I’m not, but I could wing it). Or, what if I told you about being in London tracking down a place called Lee Ho Fook to get myself a dish of Beef Chow Mein.
Nah, not this year. I’m not invited. I’ll be among the folks with sensible shoes and bad hair with a yellow pad and pen ready to jot down any pearls of wisdom that drop. Anyway, it could be worse…it could be raining.
So, what do you think? March 26-30. Gonna come play with me at the writer’s conference? I think this year I’ll try a comb-over; Oooooo!
phil@whereyat.net
Hot sauces in The Big Easy
Scoville’s Horse
Okay, Tabasco sauce is hot, and when it comes to food, the word means hot. In fact since the first two ounce bottle was sold by Edmund McIlhenny in 1869, Tabasco brand pepper sauce has been the benchmark in hot sauces and is exported to over 110 countries. Talk about a success story. It is rated at about 3-5,000 SU (Scoville Units). Consider it a classic.
Recently though, hot sauces have taken a different turn with a ‘burn K-Doe burn’ emphasis, with criterias of higher Scovilles and catchier labels. The labels that have flooded the market are the likes of ‘Pleasure and Pain, Plastering Phiery Pneumatic Perambulators On Unsophisticated Pharynxes ’, ‘Ass On Fire In A Bucket Of Blazing Briquettes’ and ‘Bubba’s Butt Rectal Revenge/Satan Sphincter Shrinker Venom Masochistic Napalm’.
Scoville ratings have now gone out of the roof and into outer space. And next you’re gonna ask, “Phil, what the deuce is a Scoville?”
Ahem…in 1912 a man named Scoville heard his horse ask: “Wilburrrrr, how hot is hot?” And, viola, he set about investigating, formulating and recording the different heat levels of different peppers. Assembling a posse of gangster tasters and using a normal bell pepper as a zero Scoville Unit, he set about seeing exactly how much sugar water it would take to neutralize the heat of any given pepper. For example, he found that it would take 2,500-5,000 ounces of sugar water to neutralize one ounce of a Jalapeño pepper’s heat, so he gave it a rating of 2,500-5,000 Scoville Units, based on the Scoville Organdeptic Test. What he was measuring was the levels of capsiacinoids, the element that we call heat. Incidentally, nowadays the test is done using a microscope. By the way, that little orange pepper called a Habanera that you see in stores and in hot sauces? It’s 200,00-300,00 SU. There are sauces available that go up to 1,000,000 SU if you’d care to blow your brains and your bottom out. Compare classic Tabasco sauce at 3-5,000 SU to pure capaicin at 16,000,000 SU.
Where are we going with this? Just a little background information while we whet your appetite for real hot sauces with simple names from the New Orleans area that are used in our homes and restaurants to flavor our local foods with a minimum of fooling around.
But first, did you know that until very recently, most New Orleans restaurants made their own hot pepper sauce? It was usually kept in a big glass bottle in the dining room and vinegar and peppers were added as necessary to keep it going. Many residents still make their own (myself included). I recently met a man that is keeping up and using his grandfather’s sauce. His grandfather died over thirty years ago!
I contacted some local companies and did taste tests and here’s what I found. Hot sauces are either water distilled or vinegar distilled, naturally the type of pepper used and it’s proportion to the liquid effects the strength of the brew. Vinegar is added to most pepper sauces for bite, sugar or fruits will be added to tone the mixture down. Water distilled sauces will be milder, with less bite and more emphasis on flavor. Aging is also a factor, and like fine wine, aging develops complexity of taste, a balance of acidity and the heat and smoothness of flavor profile. But you already knew that.
Okay, this is the part where I ‘Goggled’ local hot sauces and only one answered out of a half a dozen. If I had been writing this about Tabasco, I’m so damn sure that they would have jumped on this wagon and sent me samples, some Tabasco bling, banners and maybe even a brass band, that I could spit. But nooooo… I’ve got to write about the little guys.
Anyway, rule numero uno: read the ingredients and if there is something other than stuff found in nature and your kitchen, put that puppy back on the shelf! I’m thinking “peppers, vinegar, salt”. You with me?
Here’s some local names: Cajun Chef, Panola, Crystal, Louisiana, Chachere’s, Ashanti and Bayou Red.
Rule two: choose your camp. Are you gonna be a Louisiana fan, a world fan or are you, like some hard core Pepperheads, gonna swear allegiance to one brand and go so far as to even carry a bottle with you? Or do you give a rat’s whisker at all? Personally I love Sriracha and will use it on everything wherever I find it served, but I don’t tote it with me. It’s got a lot of stuff in it and is contradictory to any Pepperhead rules; but, like love, I am blind to it’s faults and prey to it’s flavors. Other sauces I can take or leave; however, some of the chipotle (smoked jalapeño) sauces are rather appealing.
Rule three: snub your nose at gimmicky pepper sauce. If you’re going to be a serious Pepperhead use them for flavor and heat, not just for heat and a cartoon of a woman dressed in low cut leather, sporting a whip and black thigh-high boots.
Number four: check out Latin American, Caribbean, Asian, Indonesian and American regional sauces. Go to tastings (Austin has a great one) and talk it up with fellow Pepperheads.
Five: as the man said, “If you don’t like the news, make some of your own!” The same goes for hot sauces. You can and should make your own hot sauce. There are books out there like ‘Hot Licks’ by Jennifer Trainer Thompson and more; check ‘em out! To further exploit quotations, as an ex-con acquaintance once said to me “read a book, get a clue.
And Six: Use your computer to Further educate yourself. When last I checked there were 1629 books answering the key words ‘recipe hot sauces’. Rounding third and heading for home, heeeeeere’s Seven: go down to the Decatur Street Newsstand, 1133 Decatur, and pick up a chili lover’s magazine, or two. Call Bruce, 566-3000, to see which ones are in.
Until next month, here's this: In India they grow a pepper, Bhut Joloka or Ghost Pepper, 1,001,304 SU. It is said to be the equivalent of a sensory mugging or as one quote assured "like swigging a cocktail of battery acid and glass shards." Woof! Let me in on your thoughts, phil@whereyat.net.
Okay, Tabasco sauce is hot, and when it comes to food, the word means hot. In fact since the first two ounce bottle was sold by Edmund McIlhenny in 1869, Tabasco brand pepper sauce has been the benchmark in hot sauces and is exported to over 110 countries. Talk about a success story. It is rated at about 3-5,000 SU (Scoville Units). Consider it a classic.
Recently though, hot sauces have taken a different turn with a ‘burn K-Doe burn’ emphasis, with criterias of higher Scovilles and catchier labels. The labels that have flooded the market are the likes of ‘Pleasure and Pain, Plastering Phiery Pneumatic Perambulators On Unsophisticated Pharynxes ’, ‘Ass On Fire In A Bucket Of Blazing Briquettes’ and ‘Bubba’s Butt Rectal Revenge/Satan Sphincter Shrinker Venom Masochistic Napalm’.
Scoville ratings have now gone out of the roof and into outer space. And next you’re gonna ask, “Phil, what the deuce is a Scoville?”
Ahem…in 1912 a man named Scoville heard his horse ask: “Wilburrrrr, how hot is hot?” And, viola, he set about investigating, formulating and recording the different heat levels of different peppers. Assembling a posse of gangster tasters and using a normal bell pepper as a zero Scoville Unit, he set about seeing exactly how much sugar water it would take to neutralize the heat of any given pepper. For example, he found that it would take 2,500-5,000 ounces of sugar water to neutralize one ounce of a Jalapeño pepper’s heat, so he gave it a rating of 2,500-5,000 Scoville Units, based on the Scoville Organdeptic Test. What he was measuring was the levels of capsiacinoids, the element that we call heat. Incidentally, nowadays the test is done using a microscope. By the way, that little orange pepper called a Habanera that you see in stores and in hot sauces? It’s 200,00-300,00 SU. There are sauces available that go up to 1,000,000 SU if you’d care to blow your brains and your bottom out. Compare classic Tabasco sauce at 3-5,000 SU to pure capaicin at 16,000,000 SU.
Where are we going with this? Just a little background information while we whet your appetite for real hot sauces with simple names from the New Orleans area that are used in our homes and restaurants to flavor our local foods with a minimum of fooling around.
But first, did you know that until very recently, most New Orleans restaurants made their own hot pepper sauce? It was usually kept in a big glass bottle in the dining room and vinegar and peppers were added as necessary to keep it going. Many residents still make their own (myself included). I recently met a man that is keeping up and using his grandfather’s sauce. His grandfather died over thirty years ago!
I contacted some local companies and did taste tests and here’s what I found. Hot sauces are either water distilled or vinegar distilled, naturally the type of pepper used and it’s proportion to the liquid effects the strength of the brew. Vinegar is added to most pepper sauces for bite, sugar or fruits will be added to tone the mixture down. Water distilled sauces will be milder, with less bite and more emphasis on flavor. Aging is also a factor, and like fine wine, aging develops complexity of taste, a balance of acidity and the heat and smoothness of flavor profile. But you already knew that.
Okay, this is the part where I ‘Goggled’ local hot sauces and only one answered out of a half a dozen. If I had been writing this about Tabasco, I’m so damn sure that they would have jumped on this wagon and sent me samples, some Tabasco bling, banners and maybe even a brass band, that I could spit. But nooooo… I’ve got to write about the little guys.
Anyway, rule numero uno: read the ingredients and if there is something other than stuff found in nature and your kitchen, put that puppy back on the shelf! I’m thinking “peppers, vinegar, salt”. You with me?
Here’s some local names: Cajun Chef, Panola, Crystal, Louisiana, Chachere’s, Ashanti and Bayou Red.
Rule two: choose your camp. Are you gonna be a Louisiana fan, a world fan or are you, like some hard core Pepperheads, gonna swear allegiance to one brand and go so far as to even carry a bottle with you? Or do you give a rat’s whisker at all? Personally I love Sriracha and will use it on everything wherever I find it served, but I don’t tote it with me. It’s got a lot of stuff in it and is contradictory to any Pepperhead rules; but, like love, I am blind to it’s faults and prey to it’s flavors. Other sauces I can take or leave; however, some of the chipotle (smoked jalapeño) sauces are rather appealing.
Rule three: snub your nose at gimmicky pepper sauce. If you’re going to be a serious Pepperhead use them for flavor and heat, not just for heat and a cartoon of a woman dressed in low cut leather, sporting a whip and black thigh-high boots.
Number four: check out Latin American, Caribbean, Asian, Indonesian and American regional sauces. Go to tastings (Austin has a great one) and talk it up with fellow Pepperheads.
Five: as the man said, “If you don’t like the news, make some of your own!” The same goes for hot sauces. You can and should make your own hot sauce. There are books out there like ‘Hot Licks’ by Jennifer Trainer Thompson and more; check ‘em out! To further exploit quotations, as an ex-con acquaintance once said to me “read a book, get a clue.
And Six: Use your computer to Further educate yourself. When last I checked there were 1629 books answering the key words ‘recipe hot sauces’. Rounding third and heading for home, heeeeeere’s Seven: go down to the Decatur Street Newsstand, 1133 Decatur, and pick up a chili lover’s magazine, or two. Call Bruce, 566-3000, to see which ones are in.
Until next month, here's this: In India they grow a pepper, Bhut Joloka or Ghost Pepper, 1,001,304 SU. It is said to be the equivalent of a sensory mugging or as one quote assured "like swigging a cocktail of battery acid and glass shards." Woof! Let me in on your thoughts, phil@whereyat.net.
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