New Orleans Post-Katrina

7/26/07
I’ll start with the easy stuff—New Orleans is what you’d expect it to be at the end of July: hot, muggy, and smelly, with people gulping down cold beer and icy highballs in open containers on the street. In the gallery zone of the Quarter they seem to disenfect the streets and trash cans with something that smells like orange blossom perfume to cover the odor of garbage, urine, stale alcohol, and vomit. I’ve only been to New Orleans once before, pre-Hurricane Katrina, and I stayed in the Tulane area because the rest of the city was too expensive, too dangerous, and too wild.

My major impressions of the city at that time was its sense of lawlessness; its “anything goes” attitude that allowed public drunkenness, public urination, public nudity, “take away” highballs from restaurants, and parade-goers throwing all their trash on the street as they wished, because the city crews would come by later and sweep it all clean.

But the other side of the lawlessness is the city’s sensuality. The o-my-god beauty of the Garden district and the French Quarter. The heat and alcohol mixing to a heady perfume. The complexities of Cajun and Creole cuisine. It was a feast for the eyes, ears, and palate. Even now, I think it may be the sexiest city in the U.S., if not the planet. (Venice for romance, New Orleans for sexiness.)

This visit I’m staying in a nice hotel in the French Quarter, attending a theater conference. The last time I was here I only went to the Quarter in the mid-day; late enough that the shop owners had already spray-blasted the vomit off of Bourbon Street and early enough that I didn’t have to navigate the drunken crowds at night.

Miss N. O. is a whole different lady post-Katrina. Taking the shuttle from the airport, I didn’t see the decimated neighborhoods, but I did see street after street of boarded-up houses. Even downtown, there are so many empty buildings, it’s like a plague has devastated the city. Here in the Quarter there are a lot of spruced-up paint jobs, but so many empty storefronts that it’s downright depressing. I have a pre-Katrina guidebook that I used the first time I came here, and most of the businesses listed in it no longer exist. What are left over are the famous restaurants and the toney art galleries. Royal Street still hustles, but the rest of the Quarter is so quiet it feels like a beach town off-season. Even Café du Monde didn’t have much of a clientele.

There were moments of grace and joy. The Quarter in July feels like a small town, with people waving to each other on the street and calling out from open car windows. Little personal signs adorn the shops-- “Bonnie will be back soon,” and “Subway, welcome, we could eat ya all up,” (whatever THAT means). A black pickup truck passed me carting a full-sized palm tree down the street. A sign in a restaurant window: “no t-shirts and no hats,” and for a moment I wondered why they wouldn’t allow ladies in their Easter bonnets (you see a surprising number of big summer hats here).

I was really tired by 5:30PM. I had awakened at 4AM to go to the airport. When I arrived at 6:30AM, I saw that my flight to Dallas was marked “delayed,” and there was a long line at the ticket counter. I was so used to that kind of thing happening on my European travels, that I just got in line, sat on my suitcase, and got out a book.

About half an hour later it occurred to me that I might be able to check in electronically. I went to the kiosk, but by then it was too late to get on my original plane. The ticket counter woman took pity on me, and put me on the LaGuardia plane, which wound up leaving several hours earlier than the original Dallas plane finally took off.

When it cooled off this afternoon I took a walk around the Quarter looking for a store I had hoped survived. It sold little 6 oz drinking glasses with photos of Mexican gambling cards on them. I couldn't find it. I went to dinner at K-Paul’s Louisiana Kitchen; an un-assuming looking place that requested “summer business casual” attire. My waiter, Dominic, informed me that their chef had “invented” blackened-fish. (????) I ordered myself a French-style meal: Champaign aperitif, Shrimp étouffées in Cajun sauce, beef medallions in a 72-hour reduction sauce. Dessert was a B&B and a sweet-potato pecan pie with Chantilly cream. I have been watching my food intake for the last month, so it was a meal way heavier than I could handle, especially in the heat. I wound up taking little bites of every course and spending twice as much on the meal as I would have in France.
I’ve been reading Anthony Bourdain’s “Kitchen Confidential,” so now I feel like I have an inside scoop and spend my time alone in restaurants watching the drama of the bistro kitchen and the wait staff. And because of his advice, I didn't order the mussels.








I'm on the 25th floor of my hotel, and my floor-to-ceiling window overlooks the Mississippi. I'll leave you with a night and day view: