Cajun Gumbo Poem

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Cajun Gumbo

Chere, time I learn you sumpthin’ an um tellin’ you like a mutha,

You gotta learn to cook good gumbo if you’re gonna catch a luvah;

Your Auntie Zoe Odette, she always been just sittin’ on the shelf,

While Cousine Marie Ser’phine, I gar-on-tee, ain’t nevva by huhself.

The secret’s in the ‘tennsion you pay, and how you do sashay

And dance round the stove yer cookin’, and the fire that you lay.

 

The aprons we gone be wearin’ is hung by the kitchen door,

The weather’s nice the sun is out we couldn’t ask for more;

Now come a little closer while I ‘splain my secret theory,

I dun be tellin’ jes anyone, but you always bin my Deary.

Y’see this wonder that we’re gonna make, it needs the ‘Danse Gumbo’,

Not any dance you learn in school, more a Cajun two-step mambo.

 

G’wan run me down a chicken fine and burn off all dem feddeh

Cotch me now, that ole hen, Chere, that meat, I b’leeve tastes beddah;

Grab me down my gumbo pot that big black iron ting, I swear

Gumbo cookin’ in any udda, make me mean as a creek wet bear.

Slap more wood on the fire and grab me the grease I keep

In the ole coffee can, backa the stove; while we let them men folks sleep.

 

Kick them shoes off, take off dem socks lemme see them sweet petite toes;

Get us some music on the box like them rockin’ Los Po-Boy-Citos.

We got to move our bodies with the vittles, I swear I tells you true,

The secret ingredient’s that our gumbo’s has… is a Latin boogaloo.

Bring me out gumbo crabs and swimps that Cousine Edgar caught,

Evreetings goin’ in that pot jus’ like your Marraine Essy taught.  

 

 

Y’all don’t come out her off’t enuf so I gotta do this to learn ya

To make that roux real careful like, so’s it doesn’t up’n burn ya;

While I’m fryin’ up that hen get me the gizzards out the freezer

That I’s been savin’ for this here gumbo that’s gonna be a pleaser.

Mince them onions fine, celery too and bell peppers, uh, but

Don’t mix ‘em, they be separate add, here let me see you cut.

 

Take the chicken out the pan and add the flour slow’n steady

To that grease and get the roux a goin’ and stir until it’s ready.

Put that cornbread in the oven fire and make damn sure it’s hot;

Get ‘tater salad out the fridge, needs more hot sauce like as not.

Now show me that roux hand, stir big circles, very slow and steady;

dun let that roux go slashing you, tho I gots the aloe ready.

 

I went over down by Thibodeaux to get some that good boudin,

An while waiting for andouille too, I invited your cousine Anne;

She up and married Alphonse the fire-man, they be happy, yeah;

Got twins, a house and a fishin’ camp and they all be comin’, Chere.

I tole her of your college life and how much you done learn;

That roux is turnin’ tan to brown, now don’t you let it burn.

 

And now the roux is dark as night, so throw your onions ‘pon it,

To stop that roux right in its tracks you gotta stir like good goldarnit.

Now the celery and bell peppers, and it aint trinity without the pope,

‘cause if you forget the garlik, it be like dish washin’ without the soap.

We gun let this gumbo sit at least a day, so that all the flavors mate,

When company gets a bite of it… they’ll claim that even heaven can wait.

 

Now, the trinity has dun its work, seafood, sausage’n chicken’s in;

No tomatoes, okree or Creole stuff, I swear child where you been?

Talka ‘bout things can goes in, ersters, squirl; n’possum, if’n you jig one;

Parrain Leon bringin’ his fiddle too, makin’ our fais dodo ta be big fun.

That sweet well water’s what does the trick, Chere, add it up to here;

Now we sit, let that cauldron do its work; go’ne fetch us ‘nutha beer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mardi Gras 2026

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Rex

Or

Zulu

Slippin’, dodgin’, sneakin’, creepin’, hidin’ out down the street; see my life shakin’ with every who I meet. Refried confusion is makin’ itself clear…Dr. John: Right Place Wrong time

Hey you! Yes you! You better get ready for a busy busy February! I know, I know, you’ve been busier that a one-legged thug in an ass kickin’ contest since King Cakes came into season; however, we’re gonna start you off with a full moon on the first, just to wind you up and get you goin’.

Then, on the 2^nd we hit you with Groundhog Day, you know, when Punxsutawney Phil (“a thousand people freezing their butts off to Worship a Rodent Day” Bill Murray: Groundhog Day) predicts the end of winter (or not). Fantasize the movie is a documentary and you’re next.

Follow it up with certainly MY favorite holiday, February 7^th: National Fettuccini Alfredo Day! This is serious; in 1908 Alfredo di Lelio created (possibly) this dish for his pregnant wife Ines; they owned a restaurant (in Rome), his wife was nauseous, she couldn’t keep food down, it was a horror, it was torture, it was AWFUL! But Al’s a quick thinker, he goes into the kitchen and whips up some fresh pasta, butter, cheese (American-Italians added the cream) and wedded bliss returns. Guess what I’m having on the 7^th for breakfast, lunch and dinner (if she’ll let me)? BTW, they named the baby Amando.

Feb-nine of course: Superbowl! Place your bets, grab a barstool at the saloon that has the largest flat screen and be prepared to yell like a lunatic in an asylum! “Kill him!” “Did you see that?” “Nooooo!” Moan, groan, cheer, yell at the teevee, have another beer, and check your football pool numbers again (and again) you might win big bucks. Then go take a nap.

Calm the heck down because you got some big thinking to do; Valentine’s Day is on the 14^th it’s on a Saturday (did you make reservations? Flowers? A gift? A CARD?) Don’t tell me next month that because the day before (Friday the 13^th) messed with your mind and you… forgot(?). That special person you dissed will smile and tell you that it’s no big deal… and in their heart of hearts your image is strung up like a freshly shot-gunned bloody pheasant that has been feather-scorched, wire-brush-scrubbed, eviscerated and hung a week in a dark place to properly rot until partially decomposed, and then roasted over an open flame while people drink, laugh and point at you.

Those last days come up on the Mardi Gras weekend (13-17) when the rubber seriously meets the road (if you’ve built up your stamina and resistance); five days of parade delays, beads snatched from your grasp by some rug rat on Daddy’s shoulder, seriously jostled and possibly had your pocket picked. You’ve been reduced to begging for wampum from masked strangers who turn a blind eye; while some drunk in a clown suit spills their neon-colored drink on your new Duckfeet Jyilland lace-up derby shoes.

You plan on getting up early Mardi Gras Day to catch the Skull and Bone Gang (but you don’t). You want to see the Baby Dolls (but just barely catch them) and you’re out to see you some Indians (and indeedy you do).  You hop to Orleans Ave. where the crowds are back-to-back, belly-to-belly; you grab yourself a cool adult beverage from a sidewalk entrepreneur, smell those pig parts burnin’ on outdoor grills, catch a bit of the Zulu parade and head on down to the Quarters for The “Secret Society” of Saint Anne and an obligatory trip to the river to say a prayer for all the souls that won’t be making it this year.

Gung Hei Fat Choi brethren! Yo, Feb-17 is also Asian New Year! Go ahead with your bad Chinese self and say it loud! “Gung Hei Fat Choi!” And watch folks shy away from you; like Moses parting the Red Sea. Oh, it means Good Luck, Happy Future and Congratulations on Whatever Forever.

Don’t stop now; Feb-18: Ash Wednesday and also Elm Far Ollie Day. On this day in 1930 the first Bovine to fly in a plane (and be milked), Ollie the Guernsey, made enough history that at the National Mustard Museum in Wisconsin they celebrate with cheese and mustard and it don’t get much better than that. Oh, and it’s also National Drink Wine Day (I guess to go with that cheese and mustard).

Feb-20 is Calm The F**k Down day with a holiday called No Politics Day; that’s right no newspapers, Nightly News on TeeVee, Democracy Now or WDSU News at 5:00; figure it’s the Ignore Fox News AND Rachel Maddow Day. Take a break from the debacle.

Feb-23 is National Dog Biscuit Day where you spoil a pooch; as if you don’t spoil them every other day. Repeat after me: “who’s a Good Boy? Yes You! C’mere, That’s right, this biscuit’s for you! Ouch, Don’t Bite! Easy Big fella, have another biscuit… sit down… sit… sit.” Oh Hell, just give ‘em the treats already.  

Feb-26 National Chili Day, National Pistachio Day and more importantly National Letter to an Elder day all on the same day; so, here’s what to do: grab your nuts, paper, pen, stamped envelope and write (not type) a letter to an elder(or two); explain your thoughts, dreams, prayers and fears; tell them something that you’ve never told another person, open up, take pages and don’t edit! Send it off, lickety-split. And then go getcha a bowl of chili and a cheeseburger at the Clover Grill (and don’t tell me that you don’t know where that is). Cheers!

 

 

 

 

Leftovers and Hangovers

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Leftovers

Or

Hangovers

“I don’t want to work away, doin’ just what they all say; work hard boy, you’ll find, someday you’ll have a job like mine” Cat Stevens

        Make a New Year’s resolution to carve some time out from your harried hurried half-happy life here; go spend time someplace that you’ve never been. Perhaps where your people originate (preferably as a non-judgmental  open-minded visitor). We’re ALL immigrants here, seek a place where time stops and go there, chill and practice passeggiata.

        As you know, I visited my grandparent’s little village in the hills outside of Messina in Sicily this year. Eighteen days and nights. To show how remote this village is, it took me thirty-six continuous hours of traveling to get there; plane, plane, plane, bus, train; a missed bus but, thankfully a forty-five-minute taxi up a winding mountainous road. There’s nothing going on there but life as they know it.

        It’s a simple place called San Piero Patti and known in faraway times as Petra; Petra is the feminine form of the word Petros (Peter) which in Greek means ‘Rock’; the village in Sicily that I went to was definitely carved from a very rocky mountain. It’s assumed that it was originally a Greek settlement; I was told that the area has been inhabited for thousands of years.

        There are twenty-seven hundred people who live there, spread out across miles; it’s not densely populated. There’s a piazza (plaza) large enough for a car to turn around and a large church that together account for relatively few level surfaces; everything, all the stone streets and pathways, are either uphill or downhill (of course, it’s the same thing one way or another) and there’s a lot of walking to do if you want to get from point A to point B. Knees and leg muscles are apt to get a workout whether you like it or not.

        The usual attitude for folks in a thousand-year-old culture is: shops open in early morning and close for a four-to-five-hour break at mid-day; opening back up for the early evening and then to dinner, date and/or drink (or two). A bakery, bookstore, green grocer and commodities shopping, one each, enough to satisfy. A jeweler, hardware, auto parts and repair, pharmacy, electronics and local police etc. There is also a City(?) Hall and records department. The whole place is run ‘Piano-Piano’, in other words, ‘as time and moods dictate’.

        The younger ones travel down the hill to larger towns for work or to get away and eventually come back and stay because there’s nothing out there that they really want or need. It reminds me of the French Quarter back in the day; the smell of baking bread in the morning; everyone knowing each other; the lazy time-enough-for-everything attitude.

        The roads are crooked and hazardous, everyone drives as fast as they can (stick shift); majority smoke tobacco, drink espresso and if they want, have gelato for breakfast. Food is simple and satisfying; the fruit and vegetables are always at their peak of fresh and ripeness. The air is clean and the surrounding mountains lush and verdant. There’re more people in the cemetery than live in town.

        I stayed in a guest house in the middle of town, right on the Piazza, birds called ‘Swifts’ darted about; old men walking their dogs; people buying foodstuffs, wine, olive oil and bread. The second day I was there, I wished that I had gone to Paris or Rome; the third day, I never wanted to leave. I didn’t miss the food here; I ate olives, cheeses, ripe tomatoes and freshly baked bread, remarkable Ricotta al Forno, pistachio pesto and good red wine.

        What I missed while there was my home and my family, such as it is; however, I didn’t wish that I was back stateside, I wished that they were where I was. This is not how I feel about New Orleans; although New Orleans still is, in my mind, the only place worth living in this country, this was the way I felt when I first came to New Orleans which was before New Orleans turned into a tourist mecca. I sensed community over there, which I think has been a comfort I’d been lacking back in New Orleans, and it was a curiosity; I kept a journal, took photos, threw the I CHING and wrote back to Deb daily.

        I visited the cemetery, took long walks on cobbled streets (up-and-down-and-up-and-down) I got into a rhythm called ‘passeggiata’, which contrary to the English translation occurs at all hours and it’s more of an attitude than an evening walk-about. I ate when I was hungry, I drank when I was thirsty, I napped when I felt like it and got up and about when I saw fit; there were no rules, there are no rules there. You know what you have to do and just do it; if you’re not happy, it is no one else’s fault. Passeggiata. Chill. Take it easy. And to be truthful, not everyone in Sicily, Italy or anywhere else can be passeggiata. It’s a calm life philosophy with a little indolent Zen thrown in. Everything is as it is, even in your work-a-day chosen profession. Piano Piano.

        I am pursuing a dual citizenship, if for nothing else but to pass on to my children and/or children’s children. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but it’s crazy here, it’s really f**king crazy here; and, I might have had on rose-colored glasses, but it is not that way where my family came from, and possibly not from where yours came from either.

       

       

       

 

 

 

 

Thanksgiving2025

 

PoBoy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Guest

Or

Pest

“… we’d sing and dance forever and a day; we’d lived the life we choose , we’d fight and never lose, those were the days, oh yes, those were the days.” Mary Hopkin

        In the late seventies, I used to frequent a saloon on Grant Street in San Francisco’s North Beach; fittingly, the joint’s name was The Lost and Found Club. The kind of place where everybody doesn’t know your name.

        Z. Z. Top on the box, you drank until last call, maybe go home with a stranger; the main lighting was either from the juke box or the faux Tiffany lamps over the pool tables. Very rarely was there any trouble (unlike other joints on the street at that time); you know, old school serious. The kind of place where everyone was hiding out and no one was looking for them.

        At odds one Thanksgiving, I slouched my way hence to find the place lit up like a prison break. There were sheets of plywood on the pool tables and I surmised that possibly there was a renovation or crime scene in progress, but, seeing as I was being waved in, in I went.

        Gathered around the bar, the usual suspects were at their usual places on their usual barstools, swizzle stick legs and all; crooked smiles were forming as tablecloths were draped on the plywood and food began appearing from… wherever, until a beggar’s banquet was laid for those of us that are simply known as The Holiday Orphans. We ate, we grinned, we bought eachother’s drinks and tipped hugely; feeling like a family for one fleeting gustatory moment, we went our separate smiling ways.

        Nothing fancy; you know, the prerequisite turkey, dressing, sweet and Irish potatoes, a veg or two, gravy, cranberry and those obligatory brown and serve rolls. There could have been a pie or two, maybe a salad; I’m not really remembering it all. It was all pot luck, and began (unbeknownst to me)as a task, a request and  an assignment to the regulars, by the bartender, to bring a certain holiday meal component and show up for the giving of collective thanks, (and, who ever could refuse their bartender a directive?). If you know the story of Stone Soup, it was kinda like that. The bird was supplied by the bar.

        It’s not all fun and games for all of us on the holidays; especially if you’re in the service industry. Many of us have had to work those special times when those times are special to everyone but us. We give the roses out on Mother’s Day brunch; we dress up for your Halloween night out; we serve Easter, Christmas, Carnival and yes, we’re there when you decide that someone else will cook (and serve) the turkey on Thanksgiving.

        Not everybody who works in a service oriented town, such as we are here in New Orleans, has a family in stone’s throw of their living arrangements; generally speaking in a bar or restaurant, the people that you work with become your family. These establishments are fast paced, close quartered and semi-unpredictable in atmosphere; the unexpected circumstance is perpetually expected. You become close knit; you have a lot in common (IYKYK).

        Tending bar can be a lonely gig unless you’re either part of the rest of the ‘family’ and/or make working relationships with your customers, the more regular the better; “Mercy, mercy, mister Percy, there ain’t nothin’ back in Jersey; just the broken down jalopy of the man I left behind” (Tom Waits).

        So, what do you do when the rest of the world is gathered around a communal table of siblings, parents and relatives by the dozens celebrating a holiday that you’re spending at work, mixing up another Sazerac cocktail or delivering complimentary bread pudding to strangers polishing off a gut busting holiday table d’hôte?   

        Maybe you work in an office tower or at an auto parts store, health facility or middle school; maybe you ‘go home’ for the holidays, perhaps you are that customer out with Mom, Aunt Grace and Cousin Ralph at the casino buffet. Good on ya, Mate. However, there is a tradition for service workers (and other Holiday Orphans) and it happens just like it did at the Lost and Found in San Francisco.

        Your coworker comes up and asks you what you are doing for insert holiday here; you say you have no plans except ones concerning adult beverages and binge watching reruns of M*A*S*H*; and they say; let’s get the gang together,  go over to Alice’s (she’s got a big place with roomies to boot) and have a pot luck, I’ll bring my famous string bean casserole and we’ll get everyone to bring something and feast and gab and have a holiday!

        Or your bartender says “Listen, we’re having a potluck here for insert holiday (or saints game) here, you in? I need someone to bring a salad.”  If you’re lucky, chances are that you may have given or gotten this kind of invitation; it means that you’ve got friends, whether you want them or not, you are, in essence, made.

        I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that I can go out this Thanksgiving and find at least half a dozen pot lucks that I or any other Holiday Orphan would be welcome at; I’ve been to a few, in fact, I’m gonna call The Golden Lantern to see if they need a salad.

       

       

 

Christmas2025

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Christmas

Or

Commonplaces

 

“Those yule tide loving sickly-sweet nog-sucking cheer mongers! I really don’t like ‘em. No I don’t” (chomps onion):  The Grinch

Before we begin with this Holiday/Restaurant piece there’s some groundwork to be laid. First: In life, there are three things that will surely break your heart: betting the farm on an inside straight; falling in love with an ‘empathy-repellant’ person (making you a ‘psycho-magnet’); and 3. opening a restaurant.

Second point: (also in life) There are three things that are really stupid: playing poker for money with a guy named Lucky; asking an empathy-repellant person to move in with you (you psycho-magnet, you) and 3. opening a restaurant; especially if the location is where they have winter as a predominant season (indeed, the thought about entertaining the thought of opening a restaurant again gives me the willies, especial if it’s f**king cold outside). It’s really tempting karma to do any two or more of those things; spoiler alert: there are seemingly smart people that do really stupid things that will break their hearts walking amongst you. You Know Who You Are.

        In a perfect world, luck and hard alcohol will get you through any of the above; however, something else that’s really, really, stupid and will surely break your heart is, cooking a holiday dinner, by yourself, for a bunch of people, in a confined space. Double that trouble if you don’t know how to cook. Triple the trouble if it’s colder than a well-digger’s ass outside. That’s what restaurants are for.

        You might start to get the idea that I am averse to cold weather, so I’ll say it right here: I am. It gets cold enough for me, December-wise, in New Orleans; living here, where the weather suits my wardrobe, I can’t help reflecting how stupid it would be of me to ever consider living in a place that has brutal winters, such as they have up north. I admit, there are some wonderful places to visit up north… just not in the winter. People that enjoy winter cold weather creep me out. And, as years go by, the idea of such a thing as holiday food gives me a case of…meh; it’s like being rewarded for enduring winter and not catching a cold. Furthermore, cooking for more than one other person is strictly reserved for work, where I get paid to do it (although I love my work, it’s not something I want to do once I’m off).

        Now, I’m not the type of Negative Nancy or Danny Downer that would want to spoil anyone’s giddy holiday (wacky) rhapsodies and those that go all out for ugly sweater parties where they play secret Santa or that game where you ‘steal’ each other’s gifts from each other is a major curiosity for me, right up there, with parlor games, Trivia nights and charades. But that’s just me. Henry Higgins and I are simple men; whatever revs your tractor is perfectly fine with us.

Me, for the holidays, I have simpler plans and I’m gonna share them with you, saint that I am; and I’m not about to diss whatever sizzles your bacon; But…. (here comes the big but) my sage advice is that you don’t need to stress about living up to anyone else’s standard of comportment when it comes to holiday behavior. Period. You go roll on mister sister it’s still a free country (I think); you can march to/with your own drumette.

Here’s some winter (in New Orleans) holiday food ideas.

Go to a movie: preferably a multiplex. Go see multiple flicks and gorge on hot dogs, popcorn, nonpareils, raisonetes and whatever else they purvey; some places (Broad Theater) have alcoholic drinks as well as pop-up food venders.  

 Volunteer:  Altruism at its finest. Someone somewhere out there is feeding folks that are as less fortunate than yourself; if you go help out, you’ll be doing a good deed, making some friends and contacts and becoming available to all the food you can sneak.

Clean out your refrigerator/larder: almost as a last resort, dig into your larder, freezer and past the science projects in your fridge because surely there’s something edible somewhere. Mac’NCheeze?

Super market picnic splurge: this takes at least a day’s planning. Pate, pickled herring, cheese, crackers, wine, fruit and a tree in a park to sit under.

Visit friends; surely you know someone who is puttin’ on a feedbag big enough to accommodate another hungry mouth; go through your phone contacts and call someone. Say something like “Oh, I was supposed to have dinner at Mom’s but my flight was canceled, do you happen to know anywhere for me to get a meal?”

Waffle House: they’re open! Always a good back up plan.

And my personal favorite: Chinese takeout: don’t get taken aback, deep down you know you love that stuff. You watch folks on the teevee settling the world’s problems and solving mysteriously gruesome murders, abductions and narrow escapes, while sipping brown liquor from Glencairn whiskey glasses (two fingers, no ice) and eating, what you can only guess as Moo Goo Gai Pan, shrimp fried rice and Sweet and Sour Pork in a virtual carnage of half-eaten egg rolls, bamboo chopsticks and plastic/paper detritus. Sounds good, doesn’t it? And, I know that you know just the right hole-in-the-wall joint that’s open every holiday. Life hack: dine on the floor (your dog will thank you).  

 Or you could try to cook a meal for a few friends and when disaster occurs…go to a restaurant in New Orleans where it’s not winter. Happy Holidaze

       

Restaurant Issue 2025

 

Rest PoBoy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

 

Or

Rant

        “She’s up against the register, apron and a spatula, yesterday’s deliveries and tickets for the bachelors; she’s a moving violation from her conk down to her shoes”—Tom Waits

        Walking, strolling, stumbling, sashaying or parading into any temple of gustatory delights and confabulations, either at home or abroad, and being catered to by a member of the female sex is a distinctive experience; she who generally gets unnoticed, underappreciated, usually hit on, and/or, in the mature and best cases, adored and respected, the Goddess of the Grub. The female server, hithertofore known as a waitress, tray jockey, hash slinger, Dining Diva (or as Mr. Waits would say “an invitation to the blues”) is a person cut from different cloth, and the work of insuring your hunger is assuaged, not a simple task, requires a skill set like no other.  

        Whether it’s Danny’s All Star Joint or Chez Au Merde!; whether in a Waffle House or at The Ritz; slinging grilled cheese or Beef Wellington in traditional ‘black and white’ or Harvest Gold uniforms, a stint in the ‘chaos of kitchen to table for tips’ is a rite of passage for many women; seventy percent of servers are women and over two million women in the U.S. work the floors of our high and low brow eateries (Bureau of Labor Statistics). They also raise children, put up with husbands, lovers and landlords. They make sure that bills are paid and critters get flea drops. Debbie has 42 years under her apron and tray; she knows.

        They’ve been known to have a cocktail or two after breaking their backs to make sure that your burger is medium rare and I’ve seen more than a few raise hell in a pub or pool hall; many shop at Costco.

        I was raised in a restaurant family, my mother was a waitress and my father was a cook, my step father owned a small bar and grill on the outskirts of Greenwich Village in New York. My Aunt Katie and Uncle Jack worked the cruise lines. Aunt Dot was a philandress. Uncle Pauli was a bartender, Uncle Charlie a drunk. I grew up a conglomeration of them all.

        I learned early the disciplines of eating out, the rite of the table neatness and arrangement afterwards, the formality of the tipping procedure and the art of ‘sucking it up’ if things went awry at your table because as Mom said “you never know what they’re going through”. I was made aware that quarter tips in a coffee shop add up to dollars (sometimes many) at the end of the shift. I’ve witnessed the ultimate waitress insult when someone leaves a penny on the table instead of a gratuity. I’ve seen female servers chase customers into the street to throw their miserly tips back at them. Cursing like sailors is second nature to them.

        I’ve worked kitchens where the waitress’ smile is put on as they leave the food line into the dining area and is dropped upon their arrival back in, saying: “that jerk at table 21 says that his steak is not well done enough for him; PLUS, do we even have something called ‘Fifty-Seven Sauce’?”

        I’ve watched them take a crying baby from a mother’s arms so that she could have a moment to eat in peace; gush over new lovers; diffuse impending confrontations; have an extra pair of reading glasses for the elderly and some crayons for the young. I’ve watched the ballet that they’ve perfected working a station of six tables in a 7:30 rush. The word multitasking doesn’t come close to describing what they’re capable of. Awesome.

        Now, this is not about dissing their male counterparts and I will probably write an article about the waiters that I’ve seen and been; likewise, the bartender, Chef/cook and owner. I’ve been all those positions; this is about the women, and furthermore, come to think of it, female waitrons are also the best at training the uninitiated in the art and craft of the tray.

        “Don’t flirt, it can be misinterpreted and can lead to trouble. Pick out the person that looks like they’re the one paying  and make sure that, just like all others at the table, their experience is stellar (only theirs is more so). Make sure that the women and men at your table are treated equally. Don’t pander. Pay special attention to a table anxious about time, they need the most attention. Make eye contact when communicating; serve the women first.”

        “Change silverware if necessary; keep water glasses filled; don’t hover, but be aware of what’s going on; yes eavesdrop so you can anticipate needs; always try to exceed their expectations; a bad tip now will be made up by a good tip later, it all evens out; remember: it’s only dinner.”

        Okay, I’ll admit it, I personally prefer a female server to a male; whether in Birkenstock or high heels; ‘girls’ in or out; novice or seasoned pro, they get my vote. Sure, I’ve gotten some less than perfect service at times AND I’ve gotten some of my best from women; and no, I don’t expect better service from any gender identity food server, host or bartender over any other gender identity. It’s all the same to me; It’s literally a crap shoot who the person is that will satisfy my stomach and ease my stressed out blood sugar when I strut my stuff into a food palace of any and all statures. It just feels more like home when I hear that person say: “more coffee, Hon?”

       

 

         

 

       

Halloween 2025

 

PoBoy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Trick

Or

Treat

        Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble…. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes… Open, locks, whoever knocks.” Shakespeare

        This year we’re going to go ‘Trick or Treating’ dressed as a couple of old people, which should be easy because we ARE a couple of old people; our theme will be “On a Weekend Pass From the Apple Farm Nursing Home which is run by the Sisters of Stump jumping and Cow Tilting Exuberance.”  Our costumes will be woolen, garishly printed bathrobes over stylish flannel pajamas (footwear, naturally, fuzzy slippers); I’ll wear a watch cap and maybe Deb will have her hair in curlers. We’ll be just like your grandparents; times ten. We’ll also be pretending to be extraterrestrials that aren’t aware of Earth customs like ‘costuming and cajoling for candy at complete stranger’s houses under the cover of darkness yearly ritual’; a unique concept, considering.

        As inquisitive aliens, we’ll follow kids around wanting to know where they’re going; the kids will love us (who wouldn’t) and will think that it’s fun to have us along (we’ll bribe them with cash). They might even think that we are kids dressed up as old people, which is how we feel most often ourselves; they’ll humor us.

        First of all we’ll want to know why kids are in costume, in groups of four or more and why there are grownups suspiciously hovering in the background; the kids will laugh at us and tell us that it’s for fun and sugar, which, although dubious, will seem plausible. When they knock on your door, we will be ready to save them from any unsavory bi or quadraped being who might be behind that portal when it opens; and when the little darlings shout: “TRICK OR TREAT!!!” in unison, we’ll jump like there is a clear and present danger. Naturally you’ll give us candy also, although a cocktail is more what we have in mind.

        We’ll want to know your names, if you’re married, have children of your own, names, ages and sexes; where they are at this hour and possibly if we could have a tour of your house. At this point the kids are satisfied with their haul and are already headed to the next house, parents lagging behind in biorhythm alcohol withdrawals, looking forward to an adult beverage after this costumed chaos and possibly regretting giving up smoking and anti-depressants. Us? We’re lovin’ it!

        “What are you watching on TV? Do you have cable? Can you get the Disney channel? How much does it cost? Whatcha doin’? Your bookcase needs dusting, didja know? I could get that stain out for you. Whaddya think of swiffers?”

        “Do you have any bottled water in your fridge? Can I look? Where’s the bathroom? Do you have a pool? Can I have a sandwich instead of candy? Did you watch the news tonight? Who is that a photo of? Are they still alive? What kind of gummies are those?”

        “Do you have any pets? What’s their names? Who’s your vet? Is that your car? Does it work? What kind of mileage do you get? My cell phone needs charging; can I use your phone? What’s that smell? Who’s your doctor? You need a mint.

        Halloween in New Orleans is not only for the kiddies, just check out the French Quarter where jouissance, jubilation and jolly times reign; they ain’t looking for candy out there; they’re usually looking to get seriously inebriated and possibly casually laid. This year it falls on a Friday which means the whole weekend will be nucking futs; a regular body fluid extravaganza. The Marigny, Bywater, even Gentilly will be crazy; and, upwardly mobile uptowners will try to be decadent as well, although they haven’t the experience or the stamina that Quarter Rats do. Treme should be relatively quiet, I suspect.

        Generally speaking, real New Orleanians’ houses and apartments have closets just for costumes; and they’re not considered costumes, they’re ‘clothing for occasions’. I do, of course, have an alternate attire collection. I’m ready for Christmas season, Carnival, Jazz Fest, Decadence, generic festivals (crawfish, strawberry, po-boy, tomato etc.), Saint Anne (IYKYK) and Saint Patrick. I have yet to be in the Red Dress Drunk Run or the one where women on skates chase you with bludgeons as you run screaming like gulls through the French Quarter (The Running of the Bulls); those would, as well, require their own wardrobe. 

        I love dressing up. Naturally I have my Saints game day good luck and Dead Bean outfits. I also have fancy cocktail attire; overalls for outdoor manly mayhem; work uniforms, formal suit-ups and of course, pertinent accessories. And, you wanna talk about shoes? I’ve collected everything from bed slippers to blue suede; Tony Lamas to Chuck Taylor; Wellingtons to Dansko; and more; my passion borders on deviant behavior.

        In New Orleans and the surrounding parishes there’s pretty near a celebration four times in any month; in fact, you can’t swing a cat (a saying.. just a saying ) at your calendar without hitting a festival date. Plus our weekly music, food and Second Line excesses. It’s exhilaratingly exhausting, and reasons enough to live here.

        So, say goodnight Gracie, as we trundle home feeling more like Fred and Ginger than Ma and Pa Kettle; holding hands, dancing down the street singing: “Smelling like a brewery, looking like a tramp; ain’t got a quarter, got a postage stamp. Been five o’clock shadow boxing all over town, talking with the old man sleeping on the ground…” (Tom Waits). Happy Weenie.