NOLA Nostalgia

Don't worry, there will be more parts to the India Epic I've begun, but I'm feeling nostalgic this weekend. So, rather than regaling you with tales of my world travels, I've decided to tell you a story of my hometown. Being that NOLA is quite the tourist destination, perhaps my experience will inspire your own. 

I grew up in the Deep South; in a small town north of New Orleans where my mother knew everything about my day by the time I got home. Her omnipotence was in part due to the fact that she knew absolutely everyone and in part due to her voodoo-like sixth sense which I had learned never to question.

When I meet people out and about now, I tell them I’m from New Orleans. In a geographical sense, I’m rounding, because Mandeville is too small to find on a map if you know where you’re looking—and my childhood home was outside of those city limits. Most people picture Bourbon Street and a kind of Mardi Gras that I’ve never seen. What I remember most vividly about New Orleans proper has nothing to do with alcohol (be it in a drink or a street name).

My memory of New Orleans centers on three distinct images; the first two are images that everyone can conjure regardless of having been to New Orleans: Jackson Square and Café Du Monde. The third is so set in my memory I can still feel the butterflies in my stomach when I think about it.

I was probably 8 or 9 at the time. It was a school field trip that had taken us into the French Quarter. We were about to board the bus to head back across the lake to the Northshore. I was standing in some semblance of a line with the other children. A few of the boys were climbing on a stone wall nearby and swinging from light posts. Exhausted from the heat and the walking, I took a seat on a bench. Next to me was a life-size, golden statue of a man. He wore a top hat and seemed to be pondering the mystery of life with his head resting on his hand, his elbow propped on the back of the bench. I stared at him for a moment, wondering what secrets he held.

Then I turned my focus back to view in front of me, taking in the city one last time before leaving. I will never forget the blend of shock, fear and laughter that filled my belly when I glanced in the general direction of the statue and realized that he was no longer sitting in thought but was staring directly at me. I must have jumped 10 feet and screamed without making a sound before dissolving into a fit of laughter.

That’s how I remember New Orleans; not as an endless party or a more than filling feast, but as moment of trepidation and excitement that boiled down to laughter. I remember New Orleans as moment of pure joy in the slight roller coaster of my life. In that, the city is not unlike its signature dish.

Anyone who’s braved the line at Café Du Monde can appreciate the delicacy of a beignet. Delicious though they are, the building of suspense is much of the draw for such a simple pastry. It begins with disappointment. You’ve wandered Jackson Square for most of the morning and spent your energy on the cathedral, and the street artists, the performers who have cultivated a skill that could not be appreciated anywhere else. Being from cooler—and certainly dryer—climates, you are now exhausted, hungry, in desperate need of caffeine and sugar. It only makes sense that you should choose this moment to experience Café Du Monde.

Then you see the line. It wraps around the building and the people in the café move so slowly. Don’t they understand that people are waiting? Those who are truly hangry [the foul mood that results from being somewhere between hungry and angry] may walk away at this point, but locals and seasoned tourists know better. The line is itself part of the experience. I honestly find myself a bit crestfallen when hitting the strange off hour with no wait.

In my experience, there is always music while you wait—a saxophone and an open case with a few dollars. Despite the performer’s street-side status, it’s the best blues you’ve ever heard. You’ve forgotten your hunger and the need for a sweet treat. The notes creep into your soul, fill every crevice. The song alone is enough to sustain you. And just as you have stopped worrying about the line or the world around you, a young woman with a thick accent is yelling in your direction.

“How many dawlin?” She’s clearly years younger than you, but you’re in the South now; everyone is someone’s baby, everyone is someone’s “dawlin.” You hold up a number on your hand and blindly follow her to a table, still coming down from the high of the blues player. She points to a table. There are chairs enough for your party but the table top is no bigger than the trays being lifted high overhead by the waiters weaving between the patrons and pigeons. The hunter green awning flaps in the wind and the waitress is demanding your order. You look around for a menu.

“Here,” She points to the napkin holder in the center of the table. There is a short list of items in a foreign language. You recognize water and chocolate milk, order water for the moment, and she disappears. A local from the next table leans over and points to the words.

“If you like coffee, order the Café Au Lait—that’s half coffee, half steamed milk and its awesome. If you’re not a coffee drinker go for chocolate milk. The hot chocolate is awesome but I wouldn’t in this weather. An order of beignets is three and I’d figure on two a piece. Don’t breathe when you eat them.”  He winks and returns to the Times Picayune and his own Café Au Lait. It takes a moment to realize the guy is from this southern city. His drawl comes out quickly, like nectar seeping out of a peach.

You turn to thank him and find he is engaged in a conversation with what seems like an old friend at another table. The waitress returns, you place your order and relax in the familial comfort of the café. Despite your fear of birds and the presence of pigeons, this place is actually quite wonderful. (Okay, maybe that’s just my fear of birds, but be warned: there are plenty of birds and they are well-fed).

Then the waitress returns. She brings your coffee or chocolate milk—whichever option suits you. And it’s pretty perfect, but then there is the main dish. She sets the order of beignets in front of you. Three perfectly golden biscuits glistening from the deep fryer, puffed with air and heat. And the powdered sugar covers everything. It’s hard to find the corners of the pastry to lift it from the sweet snow covering the saucer. Still warm, you can just feel it melting in your mouth. Your neighbor’s warning not to breathe makes sudden sense. It is inevitable that you end the culinary excursion covered in powdered sugar, but you give it your best shot. You hold your breath, take a bite and involuntarily sigh at the pure bliss that overtakes you. And then you laugh, because, as I have said, New Orleans is an experience in suspense, followed by unadulterated joy.