I attended a little cocktail party affair tonight in the CBD for a conference that starts tomorrow. I was the only person in attendance from New Orleans. Tomorrow night, the conference has dinner arranged at several restaurants. Tonight, folks were on their own. Some of the attendees wanted raw oysters. So I volunteered to be NOLA’s goodwill ambassador and took them to Acme Oyster House. Except Acme was closed for a private party for the Zurich Classic.

No matter. I walked the group across the street to Felix’s. After waiting, I am not kidding, 30 minutes for drinks (I was ready to walk out at the 10 minute point but the group wanted to stay), I was dumbfounded to hear that they were out of oysters. None raw, fried, or etouffeed. Seriously, I was embarrassed. And we were now hungry. So we ordered some seafood and enjoyed the company. When dessert was offered, I opted to skip to go elsewhere. As we were walking out the door, imagine my absolute irritation at seeing the folks behind the counter shucking oysters. Oh, I was pissed.

So, after the most mediocre meal you could possibly have in this city, we mosied. We ended up at Brennan’s. But we were too late for dessert. Oh, did I want to hit the Pelican Club nearby and drink. But the good people I was with weren’t drinkers. I did insist that they walk through the Carousel Bar at the Monteleone Hotel. They wanted to go to Harrah’s. I obliged and took them there. And there we had dessert at the only place we could get it short of paying the full buffet price–Starbucks.

This was an unmitigated disaster. Acme closed? Felix’s with shitty service and no oysters? Brennan’s too late for bananas foster? Starbucks for dessert?

The company could not have been more agreeable or appreciative. There is a silver lining, however. The restaurants the conference has reservations for tomorrow night are Cafe Adelaide, Luke, Mr. B’s Bistro, Nola, Herbsaint, and Cafe Giovanni. I signed up for Luke. My little group decided we’d go to the Swizzle Stick Bar at Cafe Adelaide for drinks before dinner. Let’s hope I can make up tomorrow for tonight.

I suppose it could have been worse. At least I didn’t end up having the folks eat here:

New Orleans is a very Catholic city. Here’s a little tale to show you just how Catholic it is.

CS isn’t much on religious formalities. So when he went to Liuzza’s in Mid-City a few years ago on a Friday during Lent and ordered a hamburger, it wasn’t a big deal to him. It was apparently a big deal to the restaurant. When he said, “I’ll have a burger,” a collective hush of the crowd ensued. The waitress responded, “No; we won’t serve a hamburger to you today.” “Okaay,” CS responded, “Then I’ll have a shrimp po boy.” With CS’s soul protected and undefiled, the diners and wait staff breathed a sigh of relief and resumed normal activities.

Belle, SoMo and I are going to Liuzza’s tomorrow. It’s okay to order a hamburger since it will be Thursday. But I am thinking I will play it safe and order shrimp remoulade. Oh, and a beer served in a frosty fish bowl glass.

Even as gas prices climb, we New Orleanians know what’s really important:

For a more interesting uniquely New Orleans story, click here to read Pete’s post about King Gambrinus reigning atop Falstaff Brewery.

I have three things that warrant honorable mention.

First, a shout-out to Christy to thank her for my lovely gift of hand-made stitch holders (click here for Christy’s pic):

They are beautiful (and in the colors of Mardi Gras!) and are the inspiration I needed to dive into my next knitting project. Thanks, again, Christy.

Second, I ate at a new taco joint this weekend and it blew me away. Hands down the best taco I have had in years and definitely the best I currently know of in the city. It’s called Taco San Miguel and is located in Fat City (in Metairie). How good are these tacos? After eating some Friday night, I returned Saturday to eat more. Yeah, they are that good. I think I’ll go again this week. Still don’t believe me? Read here for another’s high opinion. The place is small, and you order at the counter. They don’t yet have a liquor license. And the good folks who run it don’t speak really good English. But none of that matters because this place is about the food. ¡Y es el más delicioso!

Third, a moment a silence as the living will for my laptop is being perused by the legal department. I tripped over the cord yesterday and it crashed to the floor. I got concerned when I clicked to turn it on and nothing happened; no noise, no lights. Nada. So the good Captain Sarcastic got his tools out and did what he could. Towards the end, it looked like this:

and this:

But he DID get it to vroom back to life. Sort of. It has been put back together (all but a corner that had already been super-glued back together once before) but it is officially on life support. It works only if plugged in; it will not take a charge. I do think CS performed a miracle. But the miracle was to turn my laptop into a desktop. Which is better than nothing, granted. But it sucks because Sun likes to pull the cord out of it. Now if she does, it dies. And it currently smells like Cheerios. I asked CS if he used it as a table for Sun today and he giggled and responded, “What else is it good for?” It’s plug will be pulled just as soon as the newer, younger, sexier model arrives at my door. It has been a good and loyal friend and deserves a better demise than I will give it. Alas.

Last year, I posted about my annual St. Patrick’s parade excursion in Metairie. This Sunday, the parade will be celebrating its 37th year, and I will be returning to the same spot to watch the same parade to catch the same vegetables to make my traditional cabbage rolls.

Katie challenged me to write about the history of NOLA’s St. Patrick’s Day activities. Now, I loooove a good challenge. But this one proved a bit rough. Alls I could learn was that only a handful of cities in the country have a St. Patrick’s parade (and of course that means New Orleans will have at least two) but that we are the only city that throws cabbages from the floats of said parades. We here in NOLA do love our food. So although I could not locate the history behind this tradition (throwing the cabbages, not eating them), its logic is easy enough to follow.

You can click here to read about the history of the Irish settling in New Orleans. Instead of repeating that information, I will give a bit of history about two marching krewes, one of which will be in the parade this Sunday. Katie, I hope this suffices.

First, the Jefferson City Buzzards. Jefferson City was once a part of New Orleans. Jefferson City ran along Mississippi River from Toledano to Joseph Street. This part of town, back in the mid- and late-1800s, was heavily inhabited by immigrants. Many of these immigrants were German and many of these Germans were butchers. These butchers slaughtered meat to be consumed in the city. And with slaughterhouses and butchers came . . . buzzards.

So, 20 years after Jefferson City became part of New Orleans proper, in 1890, the Jefferson City Buzzards began marching. They began marching when it was popular to dress as women; some of the marchers still do this today. They have been marching now for over 115 years. So when one of the marchers drops to the ground and starts doings his famous “cockroach dance,” enjoy a bit of history in the living.

The second marching band is far less famous: The Mysterious Babies. This group started in 1910 and, like many of the marching bands of the day, lasted until the onset of World War I (1914). I learned of this group in a, well, mysterious way. In my grandmother’s photographs was a clipping from the old Dixie Magazine pull-out of the Sunday Times-Picayune. It was a write-up about the Mysterious Babies in the “Picture out of Our Past” section. This article has a picture of the marchers in 1910, and among the faces are several of my ancestors. Further research shows that my great- great-uncles were some of the original officers. They had several write-ups in the Times Picayune over the few short years of their existence. On their second anniversary (they dressed up like baby dolls and marched during Mardi Gras), the Times Picayune had this to say about them:

The Babies gave one parade, which was a scream, and they promise that their showing of Tuesday will not only cause laughter, but excite admiration and wonderment.

Their clubhouse was just a few doors down from the house CS and I now own in uptown New Orleans. This house is located in the part of New Orleans that was once part of Jefferson City. My ancestors were German. And they were also butchers.

In New Orleans, everything has meaning. Everything has a history. Even when that history is butchery and buzzards and men dressing like women and babies, it’s a rich history of which we are proud.

So why do New Orleanians throw cabbages and carrots and potatoes from floats? And why do we chase those floats half a block to catch the vegetables? Well, for me the answer is, because it’s what my family has been doing for as long as any of us can remember.

Yesterday, I drove out to get satsumas for Christy over at Misplaced Southern Belle. I ended up at DeWitt’s Fruit and Vegetable Shed on River Road (this stand has been at this location for over 50 years). I have driven past it many, many times and never stopped. So, thanks, Christy, for giving me an excuse to visit this NOLA stronghold.

Unfortunately for Christy, the clerk informed me that satsuma season ended two weeks ago. Well, damn. So the clerk sold me on some Louisiana seedless oranges instead. It was that or navel oranges and he assured me the seedless ones were sweeter. So I got two sacs of oranges (five oranges per sac), and some bananas and pears and one avocado for Sun. I ate one of the oranges after dinner and was surprised to find, yes, you guessed it, SEEDS. CS explained that “seedless” doesn’t mean “without seeds” it means “less seeds.” What kind of marketing is THAT?

I also made a trip to the bookstore to buy, “In the Land of Cocktails: Recipes and Adventures from the Cocktail Chicks.”

Except all I could remember was it was called something about drinking in New Orleans and something something “Chicks.” Pete had sent me this article from The Times-Picayune on the book on Monday. I was sold after reading that the Chicks (cousins Ti Adelaide Martin and Lally Brennan of the famous restaurant Brennan family) do not use the word “hangover” but rather the more civilized expression of “the vapors,” and they gave the advice never to mix grapes with grain.

As I approached the information desk at the book store, I overheard an older woman asking about a brand new book on mixology. I knew we were on the same hunt. She couldn’t remember the name of the book either (although she at least remembered the authors names). So as the clerk walked us both to the NOLA section of the bookstore, I mumbled to the woman, “We’re something, huh? Between the two of us we know it’s a book on booze with the word “chicks” in the title!” She responded to me in a heavy southern accent, “Oh, no. Ti and I have known each utha fawevah. I have comp’ny comin’ and I whant to get a few copies faw mah frienz.”

We arrived at the table and the clerk pointed to the book. I picked it up as the woman said, “That’s not it” (she didn’t see the “Chicks” part in the title). I recognized the cover from looking at it online, and, seeing the short stack of books, I wasn’t going to lose getting one for this woman’s “frienz.” Being polite, however, I assured her it was the right book. She finally saw that, in fact, it was and grabbed the rest in the stack.

I then went to a coffeehouse to meet Penelope and CS. As I waited for them, I flipped through the book. Straight away, I was hooked. Here’s their dedication:

For bartenders everywhere who care about well-made cocktails.

We also want to dedicate this book to our beloved city of New Orleans. New Orleanians have shown a courage and resilience even we did not know existed beneath your head-strong joie de vivre. We wouldn’t trade being of and from New Orleans for any other location on earth. This one is for you.

And if that’s not enough for you (and it was for me!), this book offers so much. It’s got a good look (the illustrations are done by Tim Trapolin), it celebrates New Orleans living, and, best of all, it gives recipes so you can properly mix for yourself (and friends) such famous drinks as the Sazerac, an Old-Fashioned, a Sidecar, and even a Grasshopper (and oh so many more cocktails). No vodka and tonics in this book. Heck, the book even offers a cure for “the vapors.”

So buy a copy of the book and get your shakers and swizzle sticks out and start mixing. And remember to raise a glass and toast New Orleans!

This weekend, Pete, SoMo and I are hitting the streets to check out some St. Joseph altars. I somehow managed to be born and raised a Catholic in New Orleans and yet never been to a St. Joseph altar.

Why my sudden interest in the altars? I owe this interest to my mother-in-law. About this time last year she mentioned to me how she missed St. Joseph altars. Huh? Don’t they have them everywhere, I asked her. No. Turns out they are in several big cities, like New York, Chicago and Los Angeles. But the biggest display of them is in my own backyard. Well, I’ll be damned. That’s just the sort of thing that perks my interest right up.

But what is a St. Joseph altar, you ask? The altars are Sicilian in origin and pay homage to Christ’s “earthly father,” Sicily’s patron saint, who, the Sicilians believe, came to their aid with rain during a terrible famine. By way of thanks, the people of Sicily prepared a table with foods they had harvested as a result of the rain. Why are the altars so big in Louisiana? Well, apparently Louisiana has more Sicilians per capita than any other U.S. state. I had no idea.

A St. Joseph altar is first and foremost a display of food prepared by the parishioners and displayed for the public. The altars are usually built in someone’s home or a church vestibule and not the altar of the church. The food that is prepared is then blessed and distributed to charities.

There is much symbolism in the food prepared. Breads, cakes, cookies, and pastries are often baked in symbolic Christian shapes: chalices, crosses, doves, lambs, fish, wreaths, and palms. Symbols of St. Joseph are also plentiful: lilies, staffs, sandals, ladders, saws, hammers, and nails. Also, the food itself can be symbolic: Like there being no meat on an altar (because the feast falls during Lent); or the breadcrumbs that represent sawdust to symbolize St. Joseph the Carpenter; or twelve whole fish that represent the apostles; or wine that is symbolic of the Miracle at Cana.

Another interesting thing: Petitions of the faithful are written on pieces of paper and placed in baskets on the altar. Photographs of the faithfully departed generally decorate the altar as well.

And the most interesting thing of all? The goodie bag. Yes, I said goodie bag. I love this part especially.

Visitors to St. Joseph altars are given small paper bags containing a few blessed items from the altar. The bags can contain a holy card and/or a small medal. Locally, the bags usually have bread in them. And cookies. The bread is usually not eaten but saved and broken up and spread across the thresholds of homes to protect the homes in storms. I bet there were a lot of breadcrumbs left out to stave off Katrina.

But the most interesting item found in the goodie bag is the fava bean. In Sicily, the fava was fed to the cattle. During famines, the Sicilians ate the beans to survive and considered themselves lucky to have the beans. Thus, the fava bean is also known as a “lucky bean.” Some believe that a pantry that contains a fava bean will never be bare.

As a child, I always had a lucky bean in my change purse. I didn’t think about it; I just carried it. Each year, I’d get a new one. Looking back, I realize it was the closest thing I did to attending a St. Joseph’s altar.

I had lunch with my sister this weekend. She helped bake fig cookies for a St. Joseph’s altar. She explained that you are supposed to carry not one but three lucky beans in your wallet–for, she was told, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. She gave me all three of her beans (she can replenish her stash). Apparently, I will never be without money in my wallet.

So, I am going to dip my toes in some Christian ceremony this weekend. In the NOLA area and want to check it our yourself? Click here to find where and when the altars are being displayed.

The Death, as it affectionately has become called in my house, won’t leave. Still running fever on and off, my head is killing me, and my congestion won’t ease up. And Sun is teething. So she, too, has fever on and off and is cranky. Oh, and because I am the generous sort and I didn’t get anything for CS for his birthday, today I gave him The Death. Nice of me, huh?

I even had to bail out of CS’s birthday dinner at Pascal’s Manale last night. That hurt the most. I had made all the arrangements and contacted everyone and stayed home in bed. But I knew I’d have been miserable and potentially contagious.

The dinner was apparently quite the success. Go read what Pete had to say about it here. His post just made me feel that much worse to have missed such a meal.

This week will be spent consecrated in preparations for Mardi Gras weekend. Technically, “Mardi Gras” is French for “Fat Tuesday.” We have gotten lax in calling the whole season “Mardi Gras.” My grandmother never made that mistake; the season is, and for her always was, carnival. She loved carnival. When I hear that word uttered with a NOLA-accent (”cah-nivul”), I think of her.

Already done: The stringed huggies have been located; Mardi Gras tunes have been loaded on my iPod; the wheeled ice chest has been taken down from the attic; the hand-warmers are on stand-by; and arrangements have been made for a parking spot and table along the route of Endymion and a baby sitter for Saturday has been lined up.

To do: general grocery shopping and house cleaning; a trip to Hi Do Bakery in Gretna to buy a king cake in the shape of a crab (look at this thing–how can I resist?):

beer and ice purchased; cook jambalaya for Bacchus; procure seated ladder:

(Photo credit: Jenni Lawson, NPR.)

Oh, and pick up friends from the airport on Friday.

This will be my friends’ first visit back to NOLA since Katrina. They’ll want to see the “Katrina tour.” It will be their daughter’s first carnival. And Sun’s too. They have matching ladder t-shirts.

The anticipation my friends and I have for this carnival is great. Greater, in fact, than I can recall feeling in a long time. Even CS, the self-proclaimed “Mardi Grinch” has decided to stop hating Mardi Gras and revel in our city’s unique offering.

Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Yesterday, CS and I (and Sun) drove to LaPlace to buy andouille for jambalaya Pete and I will be making for Bacchus next week. I could get acceptable andouille a bit closer than LaPlace. But I so enjoy the drive that I wonder if maybe it’s the drive that I go for and not the meat.

I take Airline Highway, and along the way there is a stretch of the road that abuts a swamp. Maybe its the runoff from Lake Pontchartrain. I don’t know, technically, what it is. But it takes me breath away and causes me to slow down and take it in. Here’s what I see:

There was a sole cypress tree (the cypress tree is a part of my very soul) that sat in the middle of the water for which I will have to return to get its picture. I could tell CS was getting antsy with my picture-taking (and by that, I mean the pictures I was having him take).

A short way up that same road is this stunning sight:

Truly magnificent. Then a wee bit further is some livestock (cows and goats). Here’s one of the cows:

And how many other places in America, or even the world, can you see this on the road with you?

Yes, LaPlace is the capital of cajun meats. But it’s scenery doesn’t suck either.