The French Quarter Revisited
It's been over two months since I have traversed the streets of the historic French Quarter. For some, the Vieux Carre (French for Old Square) is a place to get drunk, others the home of the city's best strip bars, and for the well to do, THE locale to dine, as the original New Orleans neighborhood is home to some of the nation's finest restaurants.
The French Quarter for me is where I shop for out of print Louisiana genre books and walk around to gaze at beautiful architecure that is ancient by Euro-American standards, yet never gets old in my eyes.
Situated on the banks of the Mississippi River, bordering the southern edge of downtown, my brief day trip to the Quarter would take me through the heart of the city's business district, of which I had only gone through its periphery when retrieving my car from near the Superdown many weeks ago.
Downtown New Orleans is no longer the ghost town it was when I last past through. Power has returned to that area as have the off-time traffic signals on Canal Street. The meter maids, the primary pestilence of street parkers must have been part of the "Great Blue Exodus," as a security guard near where I parked told me not to bother feeding the meter.
While not operating at the same level of commerce as it did prior to Katrina's visit, there was some bustle as engineers, out of town police, and other personnel connected to the recovery effort were out and about. I had wondered about whether tourists had returned when the traffic signal turned to green and a rhino with an alcoholic beverage in his hand slowly shuffled past the front of my Ford Escort, answering my question in form and manner.
Some establishments have reopened with limited hours. Mother's, home of the city's best roast beef po-boy and the self-annoited claimant of the world's best ham- a title nobody would dare challenge when gawking at the line that conjures visions of the wait to enter Lenin's tomb, is open for lunch on weekdays. Nearby that eatery is a pile of rubble about 15 feet high marking where one of the unlucky historic buildings stood.
Harrah's is boarded up, as is the looted Canal Place Mall, the swankiest shopping center in Louisiana. As I walked down Canal Street, away from the river, I started to look for water lines on buildings but was told by a t-shirt shop owner that the water from the 17th Street Canal break had stopped 6 blocks from the levee, sparing the historic heart of New Orleans.
After making a brief stop to Beckham's Book shop, the best second-hand/ rare book store in the state, which had reopened Monday, I walked further into the Quarter, passing the statue of "Father New Orleans" and the boarded up Jackson Brewery tourist trap-mall.
My goal was simple: beignets, aka French Doughnuts. The words "mission accomplished" ran through my mind when I saw Cafe du Monde open for business with a large banner reading "The Beignets Are Back!" Patronizing the famous cafe-au-lait establishment is perhaps the most touristy thing an individual could do in New Orleans without having to go to confession, unless you are a member of the Church of Richard Simmons.
I plopped down at a reasonably clean table and placed my order with my smiling southeast Asian waitress, who greeted me with a "welcome back to New Orleans" before going to the back area to get my three beignets and large choco milk. As a kid I used to love coming to the cafe, though my expanding waistline has made this a not so common luxury over the years. I devoured two of the doughnuts and noticed that I had gotten powdered sugar all over my pants, though compared to the oil, sludge, and other toxic goop that has splashed on my slacks while doing "relic hunting" in St. Bernard, the white powder on my legs was a relative improvement.
Crossing Decatur, the street that runs parallel with the Mississippi and leads to the French Market at the Quarter's far end, I strolled past Jackson Square, where President Bush delivered his pledge to help rebuild New Orleans on national television. The former Place 'd Arms was devoid of the human clutter and it never looked more beautiful, as the statue of Andy Jackson tipping his hat on horseback gleamed in the sun.
My final run before returning to my car was Bourbon Street, the party capital of North America; where not so comely women flash their flesh for Mardi Gras beads on Groundhog Day and the any given saint feast day.
The first thing I notice was the lack of odor, as Bourbon Street usually has a pungent smell of puke, stale beer, and urine mixed with whiffs of ganja. For the first time in my life, my nostrils didn't detect its trademark fragrance.
Some of the city's most famous bars were closed, including the kareoke bar Cat's Meow and the home of the hurricane, Pat O's, though Tropical Isle, haven of the hand grenade- a beverage that has done some significant intestinal damage in my younger days, was open and dispensing its potent potable.
Another landmark of sorts, Big Daddy's, appeared closed, and its signature "swinging legs" were not operating. The only "gentlemen's club" that seemed to be fully functioning is the one owned by that destroyer of Speaker-elects, Larry Flynt's Hustler, which had a small crowd assembled at its entrance.
The t-shirt shops were open as well, pushing new arrivals poking fun at one infamous bureaucratic acronym in particular. The daiquiri shops were also alive, possibly preparing themselves for men and women in uniform to patronize them when they shed their official work clothes.
Like some of its most festive patrons at 5 AM in the pre-Katrina era, the French Quarter itself was beginning to stumble back to life.
The French Quarter for me is where I shop for out of print Louisiana genre books and walk around to gaze at beautiful architecure that is ancient by Euro-American standards, yet never gets old in my eyes.
Situated on the banks of the Mississippi River, bordering the southern edge of downtown, my brief day trip to the Quarter would take me through the heart of the city's business district, of which I had only gone through its periphery when retrieving my car from near the Superdown many weeks ago.
Downtown New Orleans is no longer the ghost town it was when I last past through. Power has returned to that area as have the off-time traffic signals on Canal Street. The meter maids, the primary pestilence of street parkers must have been part of the "Great Blue Exodus," as a security guard near where I parked told me not to bother feeding the meter.
While not operating at the same level of commerce as it did prior to Katrina's visit, there was some bustle as engineers, out of town police, and other personnel connected to the recovery effort were out and about. I had wondered about whether tourists had returned when the traffic signal turned to green and a rhino with an alcoholic beverage in his hand slowly shuffled past the front of my Ford Escort, answering my question in form and manner.
Some establishments have reopened with limited hours. Mother's, home of the city's best roast beef po-boy and the self-annoited claimant of the world's best ham- a title nobody would dare challenge when gawking at the line that conjures visions of the wait to enter Lenin's tomb, is open for lunch on weekdays. Nearby that eatery is a pile of rubble about 15 feet high marking where one of the unlucky historic buildings stood.
Harrah's is boarded up, as is the looted Canal Place Mall, the swankiest shopping center in Louisiana. As I walked down Canal Street, away from the river, I started to look for water lines on buildings but was told by a t-shirt shop owner that the water from the 17th Street Canal break had stopped 6 blocks from the levee, sparing the historic heart of New Orleans.
After making a brief stop to Beckham's Book shop, the best second-hand/ rare book store in the state, which had reopened Monday, I walked further into the Quarter, passing the statue of "Father New Orleans" and the boarded up Jackson Brewery tourist trap-mall.
My goal was simple: beignets, aka French Doughnuts. The words "mission accomplished" ran through my mind when I saw Cafe du Monde open for business with a large banner reading "The Beignets Are Back!" Patronizing the famous cafe-au-lait establishment is perhaps the most touristy thing an individual could do in New Orleans without having to go to confession, unless you are a member of the Church of Richard Simmons.
I plopped down at a reasonably clean table and placed my order with my smiling southeast Asian waitress, who greeted me with a "welcome back to New Orleans" before going to the back area to get my three beignets and large choco milk. As a kid I used to love coming to the cafe, though my expanding waistline has made this a not so common luxury over the years. I devoured two of the doughnuts and noticed that I had gotten powdered sugar all over my pants, though compared to the oil, sludge, and other toxic goop that has splashed on my slacks while doing "relic hunting" in St. Bernard, the white powder on my legs was a relative improvement.
Crossing Decatur, the street that runs parallel with the Mississippi and leads to the French Market at the Quarter's far end, I strolled past Jackson Square, where President Bush delivered his pledge to help rebuild New Orleans on national television. The former Place 'd Arms was devoid of the human clutter and it never looked more beautiful, as the statue of Andy Jackson tipping his hat on horseback gleamed in the sun.
My final run before returning to my car was Bourbon Street, the party capital of North America; where not so comely women flash their flesh for Mardi Gras beads on Groundhog Day and the any given saint feast day.
The first thing I notice was the lack of odor, as Bourbon Street usually has a pungent smell of puke, stale beer, and urine mixed with whiffs of ganja. For the first time in my life, my nostrils didn't detect its trademark fragrance.
Some of the city's most famous bars were closed, including the kareoke bar Cat's Meow and the home of the hurricane, Pat O's, though Tropical Isle, haven of the hand grenade- a beverage that has done some significant intestinal damage in my younger days, was open and dispensing its potent potable.
Another landmark of sorts, Big Daddy's, appeared closed, and its signature "swinging legs" were not operating. The only "gentlemen's club" that seemed to be fully functioning is the one owned by that destroyer of Speaker-elects, Larry Flynt's Hustler, which had a small crowd assembled at its entrance.
The t-shirt shops were open as well, pushing new arrivals poking fun at one infamous bureaucratic acronym in particular. The daiquiri shops were also alive, possibly preparing themselves for men and women in uniform to patronize them when they shed their official work clothes.
Like some of its most festive patrons at 5 AM in the pre-Katrina era, the French Quarter itself was beginning to stumble back to life.
posted by BourbonConservative at 4:43 PM
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