Lunch: A Visit to Pre-Katrina New Orleans

Going to New Orleans for lunch sounds like a reasonable plan. At least it does when you work for an airline as I did in 1989. Airline employees can hop on airplanes like everyone else hops on buses. As long as seats are available we ride for free, so going to New Orleans for lunch really was a reasonable plan. Even if it meant traveling with Joel.

I was a reservation agent working for Pan Am in Miami. The Res. Center was a 24-hour operation with cubicle after cubicle of headsetted agents typing away in front of orange-screened computer monitors, their monotone voices muffled by carpeted walls and floors. We patiently explained baggage limits and international document requirements to travel agents who should know better, and answered moronic questions from civilians such as "What side of the plane do I sit on to see the Statue of Liberty?" and, "How long would it take to ride a bicycle from Freeport to Nassau?" All of this for $7.25 an hour. But there were perks, such as going to New Orleans for lunch.

Originally, there was a group of about six of us planning to go. No one openly canceled when Joel invited himself along. But most of us wanted to. Joel was a unique individual. Raised by his grandmother, he was 21 years old with the air of a 90 year old man. He wore his pants high and his shirts buttoned all of the way up. He never forgot to bring a sweater and an umbrella. Spicy food gave him the runs. He drove a Buick. Once you made eye contact with Joel, he'd latch onto you like a tick. Tactful excuses, hints, insults and even outright commands to leave you alone would not work with Joel. He knew you were kidding. He knew you wanted to hear all about his last four or five itineraries. He knew you probably had some Rolaids.

I had a feeling something was wrong the morning of the trip. I promised myself I'd turn around and go home if the only person there was Joel. I approached the terminal cautiously, peering between the potted palms.

"Hey Linda!" His voice came from my left, out of the airport bar: Joel, with a Bloody Mary in his hand.

"Oh, hey. Where is everyone else?" I asked hopefully.

"No one else came, can you believe that? It looks like it's just you and me!"

"Great."

"This is going to be so much fun. Let me buy you a drink. I've already had two."

"It's a little early for me," I said. It was 7:45. "Doesn't alcohol upset your stomach?"

"Nope. I'm 21. I can drink like a fish!"

"Great."

My mind was reeling with excuses to go back home. I was almost ready to try one when Frances showed up. She was a sensible young woman about my age who looked great with no make up, always wore pants and sensible shoes, and did her own car repairs. Frances and I shared the honor of being two of Joel's favorite people.

"So we're it, huh?" she observed.

"Yep," I said.

"What the hell, let's go catch a plane." Frances started off toward the terminal. Joel tossed back his Bloody Mary and jogged after her. I looked wistfully toward the escalator down to the parking garage. What the hell, I decided. I wanted some Jambalaya.

On the plane, while Joel recorded his seat number, time of boarding, time of take off and the names of the flight crew in his journal, Frances ordered a beer. Breakfast arrived in the form of a tiny cherry danish and a cup of yogurt which Joel recoiled from in horror. He ate all of our danishes. I had coffee and two yogurts. Francis had her beer.

From the New Orleans Airport, it was a short cab ride to the edge of the French Quarter, a region that defies time and place, occupying a reality of its own. While walking to the heart of the Quarter we found our path blocked by a shabby old man lurching down the sidewalk. He looked defiantly at us. We stared back. The old man lifted a plastic cup and declared, "I'm having my wine now."

"Okay," Francis said.

"Alright then," said the old man and he stepped aside to let us pass.

New Orleans smells like no other place. It is a blend of Cajun spices, mold, alcohol, dust, flowers, vomit, bread, urine, sausage, dead fish, red beans and rice, vampires, coffee and beignets, crawfish, ghosts, alligators, history, swamp muck, and the Mississippi River: horrible, and yet wonderful. If they put that scent in a candle it would be a best seller. Centuries of history fill the air; you can feel it with all of your senses. This was my second trip. I loved this city and wanted to share it with my friends. I wanted them to soak up the atmosphere, to marvel at the architecture: the old building leaning on each other to stay upright, the wrought iron artwork, the balconies heavy with bougainvilleas and ferns, the art galleries, the museums, the graveyards and the wonderful restaurants. Where to begin? Frances announced that she wanted breakfast. Joel declared that he wanted a drink. We set off in search of a bar that served breakfast.

We wandered for an hour. It wasn't because of a lack of choices. The problem was that most restaurants advertised a Cajun breakfast and Frances didn't eat foreign food. Finally we found a one that hadn't added the Cajun prefix to their menu and we went in. It was 11a.m. Having eaten two yogurts only a couple of hours ago, I wasn't hungry. Besides, I was saving room for lunch, so I had cafe au lait. Frances had bacon and eggs. Joel went across the street to get a Hurricane in a plastic cup and brought it back to our table to drink.

At noon we were finally ready to explore. I had a plan: We would catch the St. Charles trolley through the Garden district to Audubon Park, walk through the park to the riverfront then take the steamboat back to the Quarter. We'd take a break at Cafe Du Monde for coffee and beignets, stroll through Jackson Square with its musicians and artists, do a little shopping at the French Market, enter the Quarter and maybe have a peek into the Rodrigue Blue Dog Gallery, then cruise on up Bourbon Street for a drink and late lunch at Antoine's. We'd probably have enough time for a quick browse through Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo before having to catch a cab back to the airport.

"Nah," said Joel.

"What else is there to do?" asked Frances.

"Take a riverboat cruise..."

"I get sea sick," protested Joel.

"We could go to the Aquarium of the Americas..."

"And what? Look at fish?" snorted Frances.

"There are museums..."

"Museums. Wrong. Boooring," said Joel.

"We could take a plantation house tour."

"Isn't that like a museum?" countered Joel.

"Well, often the authorities need help fishing bodies out of the river..." I suggested. Or perhaps I could throw a couple in.

"Look!" said Frances, "T-shirts 3 for $12.99!"

She and Joel rushed across the street. The tourist shop was located next to "Girls Girls Girls Live Sex Show." While Frances searched among the dried baby alligator heads, ceramic masks and gilded shot glasses, Joel stared at the black and white orgy photos in the glass case in front of "Girls Girls Girls Live Sex Show." In the photos, all of the participant's private parts were covered with black tape, but Joel was confident he'd find a nipple if he looked close enough.

We would have spent the entire afternoon wandering up and down Bourbon Street looking in souvenir shops if I hadn't insisted on a side trip to Jackson Square and Cafe Du Monde. I enjoyed my coffee and beignets while Francis and Joel sat across the tiny iron table from me and looked bored. Having the advantage of knowing my way around, I led them to Jackson Square hoping that the artists and performers might catch their attention. Unimpressed, Frances asked someone for directions to Bourbon Street, then it was back to the souvenir shops.

Alright. Fine. Whatever. We passed a doorway bar. Joel stopped and ordered a Hurricane. I got one too. It was pretty tasty actually, and at $3.50 for 32 ounces, quite a bargain. We window-shopped our way down Bourbon Street, passing a number of bars, all with their own versions of Hurricanes. My second was better than the first. Frances wasn't drinking - she was in shopping mode and weaving in and out of every souvenir shop on the street. I tried to follow her into one but they wouldn't let us in with drinks, so I joined Joel back at the Girls Girls Girls Live Sex Show display case. I spotted a nipple right away but didn't tell him. Frances was still shopping so Joel and I went for another drink. We wanted to move on and tried to get Frances's attention but she ignored us. Joel suggested that I put my drink in my purse and go in after her. I did and it spilled. Joel is such an idiot. He went to get me another drink. I went into the shop to get Frances but was distracted by a display of plastic Mardi Gras beads. They were so bright and pretty and colorful and if you spun the display stand around fast, they swung way out. The manager gave me a dirty look, probably because my purse was dripping on the floor. I ignored him and went to see what was keeping Frances. She was agonizing over the vast selection T-shirts. For myself I picked up a voo doo doll with pins included, and a black feather boa - I was sure both of those would come in handy some day.

The manager wasn't looking and I was about to give the bead display another spin when Frances pointed out it was 4:30 - we had to get back to the airport. She stepped out to the curb to hail a cab. I took one last, longing look up Bourbon Street at the balconies, the ferns, the street musicians setting up outside of Antoine's, and then boarded the cab myself.

As soon as the driver pulled away from the curb the realization hit me. "Oh no!"

The driver hit the brakes and looked around.

"What? Did you leave something?" asked Frances.

"We forgot to have lunch!"

"You want to get lunch?" asked the driver.

"Yes!" I said.

"No," said Frances to the driver. "We need to get to the airport."

He started the cab again. I turned around in the seat and watched the French Quarter disappear. "We were supposed to have lunch," I mourned.

"So we'll eat at the airport," said Frances.

"Yeah, there's a McDonald's right in the terminal," said Joel.

"I am not eating at McDonald's. This is New Orleans," I hissed. "We're supposed to have etouffee, muffalettas, Jambalaya, red beans and rice, gumbo, andouille sausage, bread pudding..."

"Sounds nasty, how can you eat that foreign shit?" said Frances.

"It's not foreign; it's Cajun. It's Creole. New Orleans food is wonderful."

"Well, it's a New Orleans McDonald's," offered Joel.

I refused to speak to either of them after that. When we arrived at the airport I walked off in a huff. I wasn't playing tour guide anymore. They could find their own way to the terminal. I stalked past the souvenir shops with their stupid beads and T shirts and the fast food restaurants with their common greasy fries and burgers without glancing left or right. I was hungry, but I'd eat on the plane before I'd eat McDonald's in New Orleans.

At the concourse overlooking the runway, Frances and Joel had already arrived. They were seated eating Big Macs and fries. I sat a couple of seats away. Frances approached me. I didn't look up. She handed me a white paper bag and a soda. "Guess what I found at the food stand next to McDonald's?" she said.

I looked in the bag. Inside was a warm Styrofoam bowl. I took off the lid. It was red beans and rice. I closed my eyes as the essence of New Orleans steamed up and enveloped me in spicy culinary bliss.

"Okay now?" she asked.

"Okay," I smiled.