Po boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Tumblin’ Dice
Or
Down The Rabbit Hole
With my perverse propensity for life’s theater, I take pleasure in reading the streets of New Orleans. I read its life forces, its vitality and its levels of triumphs and tragedies. There is nowhere better to witness this passion play unfolding than in my beloved French Quarter; believe you me, Damon Runyon has nothing on us and that’s no phedinkus. So… let’s commiserate about the Quarter.
Trust visitors to see the French Quarter at best through rose colored blinders and at worst through an alcohol induced haze. However, ask a local, and they would probably tell you that it’s more like a kaleidoscopic mosaic of neighbors and nuisances; street musicians and magicians and face painted balloon merchants; cool shops and rip off emporiums; lap dancers and aggressive street hustlers; local pubs and tourist traps; small groceries and inconvenience stores; an explosion of sensory input where nothing is revealed.
We’re still a Mecca for the great unwashed migration in winter on their way to tarnished dread locked futures, canines and musical instruments in tow. Girly boutiques add luster and tee shirt shops take it away. Why anyone would come to the French Quarter for a foot massage is anyone’s guess. Pre-owned book shops both fancy and fanciful are (thankfully) safely entrenched. Bourbon Street is on its own spiral, rolled over for the Yankee dollar and playing that ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ for the masses. Greed, destruction and neglect have robbed us of basic services: Laundromats, hardware stores, post office, shoe repair and stationary supplies. We endure like abused spouses.
The economy has taken its toll on residential offerings; a lot of previous residents have found digs elsewhere: rents go up, folks move out. Children are imported to fill the schools, service personnel come from the outside; the voting base is left in the dust, Mom and Pop stores are gone as well as ethnic and racial diversity. BUT, art, architecture and aesthetics hang in. Preservation organizations jealously keep the draw of the Quarter alive and attractive but her name is still the Mother of Exiles, taking in the tempest tossed.
Some people come here and rise up from mediocrity; some fall through the cracks into obscurity. Some follow love to get here and others are fleeing heartbreak. People that live in the Quarter, work in the Quarter, spend time in the Quarter find themselves part of a small closely knit family. They celebrate their victories and mourn their losses; for indeed, some come here to live and others to die.
They know their bartenders, shopkeepers, neighbor’s pets, and local homeless by name and they’re outgoing and giving by nature; held together by bonds of cocktails, crab boils and classless distinction.
Anyone finding that they’re too busy to notice will actually miss a lot of what is going on in the street. The hungover clown; the drunk asleep in the doorway; the overweight cop smoking a cigarette; the pickpocket ready to strike; the stripper on her way to work. Plain clothes police; a man selling bananas; another washing windows for spare change; unruly teens making more money tap dancing than the dishwasher that’s grateful for the employment and the night shift waiters heading for the Gumbo Shop pass almost unnoticed. A scruffy guitarist holding down an alcove; the day crew smoking across from the Omni or K-Paul’s; kitchen help hosing the sidewalk in back of Café Maspero or Antoine’s; Johnny’s Poor Boy delivering another of the city’s treasures; a deal going down on Dauphine and St. Louis; Joe, outside his wine shop catching a bit of sun before heading off to afternoon mass at the cathedral. Lucky Dogs and Good Friends welcoming you to my world.
Michael is up on a balcony with blood dripping down his arm as a local gendarme (gun drawn) tries to talk him down; a group gathered by the river to celebrate Jerry the waiter’s life and too bad he got drunk and fell down the stairs and broke his neck; William out walking the dogs at noon and heading down to Flanagan’s for a scotch on the rocks; a small woman is selling her homemade jewelry shop door to shop door; a second line from Fahy’s for Cindy who choked on a piece of meat and then there’s Jennifer the hairdresser with her beautiful baby girl; all going on if you’d just look a bit closer. Frank and Winnie on their stoop, seeing it all; Amzie Adams on the street, knowing it all.
Ryan rides her bike to work at Michaelopolis at five minutes to ten so regularly that you could set your watch; they’re boiling crawfish at Yo Mama’s; the best jambalaya is still at Coop’s; WWOZ is on the radio at Kitchen Witch Cookbook Shop; the server up the street got a sweet settlement from BP and hasn’t taken a sober breath since; there’s a new shop and a sucker born every minute so watch your back or there’ll be a shoeshine goon trying to bully you out of your hard earned. No wonder that Tom Waits feels so comfortable here.
Movie stars have moved into a house on Ursuline Street across from Marinette who is throwing her annual ‘Christmas In June’ cook out, Croissant D’Or still has the best pastries but the best coffee is at Royal Blend where the lox and bagels are, Mr. B. at Rouse’s agrees on the blessing of the day and Samantha the checkout lady catches you with a hearty “Howyoudoin’??”, The Toulouse Grocery has breakfast for less than five bucks, music spills out of the Touché bar, the buggy driver is stopping in for a wine; Gerry and Danny are still running their culinary show at Café Amelie and HERE COMES A PARADE!!
Most folks employed in the French Quarter are overworked and underpaid, have clean bodies and dirty minds, know where the best music is, a parking place or a restroom; wouldn’t have a drink on Bourbon Street on a bet and are here only because they want to be. They know how to get from point (a) to point (b) skirting wide hipped tourists blocking the sidewalk only to get hung up on conversations with the woman selling the Newspaper on Royal Street, listening to Grandpa Elliot or the etheric violin player.
In short, if you come here and think that you’d never want to leave…don’t; with that attitude, you’d fit right in.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
New Orleans short story interlude
“Pa, we ain’t got nothin to do” was just about the worst thing that I could have said that morning. It allowed me and my brother the unique growth experience of having our ears assaulted by an unanticipated and unusually loud parental barrage of profanities:
“Godammit!!!!!, you spoiled rotten stinkin’ sonofabitch lazyass bastard ingrates… then… do something to earn your goddamn keep! Yer Ma’s outside with the laundry an I been workin’ my ass off all week! The day’s clear as a friggin’ bell, and we ain’t raisin’ no southern god-damned piss-ant aristocrats on this here worthless piece of shit property! This ain’t no sissy dude ranch and it ain’t no time in your pipsqueak, waste of breath lives to go mopin’ round here bein’ ‘bored’; If you ain’t got nothin’ better to do with your sorry assed selves, git them poles and go catch us somethin’ for supper! When I was your age…….”
Well, I was twelve years old, goin’ on thirteen and my kid brother had just turned ten and we doubted if our Pa had ever been our age. However, acting on instinct born of experience, we grabbed our poles and got goin’ quick; little did we know that we were about to have a day of life changing occurrences that was to be a slap dash, set yer hair on fire doozy. One that has stuck with us to this day and if I’d a known then, I would have just ducked under the covers and kept my big mouth shut.
It wasn’t too late a morning on a warm spring day in our home town of Gretna, Louisiana in 1962 when my brother, Nuthin, and I set out on our way to Nunez’s Grocery for a couple of bottles of Regal Beer and some ‘twofers’ to take with us fishing just to help pass the time; we had a silver half a dollar that we’d snitched from our Pa and an extra quarter from our mama for a loaf of French bread and a dime’s worth of baloney for lunch. Now, don’t get taken aback or uppity about children and alcohol and nicotine and playing fast and loose. It was something that kids did in those days; you know, get some supplies, pack up some lunch and go fishing on a Saturday afternoon, smoke a couple of cancer sticks and drink warm beer like the big boys. Curse and scratch and spit and talk about girls. Weather permitting.
Grandma Nunez, at the store, knew us and our family and knew that when a couple of boys went off to fish for their folks dinner, instead of wasting time like little slugs, that they could be treated like the responsible young men that they were, or so she thought, and that was good enough for us. She took one look at us shoeless and already hot and dusty and gave us her biggest Grandma smile. Even with most of her teeth gone she could sure lay on a grandma smile second to none; that smile never did nothing but make us feel real good, and these days I can’t help but miss it. That smile.
“Awwww, ain’t you sunshine sweet boys good little angels to be goin’ out fishin’ when you coulda been watchin’ those communist homosexual cartoons on that mind rotting teevee set, like them other pinko piccaninnies that’s bein’ raised around here. Are y’all sure you wouldn’t rather have red drinks? I guess its okay, y’all will be on the water in case y’all gets a case of the dehydrates. Now go on with y’all, the sun’s startin’ to git high and mighty an it looks like it it’s gonna turn out to be a real scorcher”.
She was a pretty big woman for her size, with her finger on the pulse of the neighborhood, and we knew that if a whiff of any stupid behavior or mischief on our part were to get back to her that, well… we be cut off from any future grown up privileges without so much as a ‘fare thee well’. Period. Until then, with a wink and a nod, our vittles could, would and did get packed in a sack and we could, would and did go on our merry way unimpeded by anything as inconvenient as ‘adult or parental concern’; you see, in the old days, in southern Louisiana, kids had always been more mature than other youngsters in practically every way and we were treated as such. At least until we screwed up.
The day was as picture perfect as a peach pie, although getting a mite on the warm side, with a slight breeze comin’ in off the river. We had an old half sunk pirogue tied up at the batture that would drift us just far enough out to be in uncurrented water shaded by some old willows where the croakers and gaspergous liked to hang around.
My brother’s real name is Nunzio but everybody calls him Nuthin since the days when we was little and the older kids (especially the girls) used to taunt us, calling: “Nunzio, Nunzio Nuthin; you know somethin’? Somethin’ somethin’ somethin’; you know nothin’?” My folks had named me Sumpter, after the neighbor man who drove my mother to Charity Hospital when she was birthin’ me and having a hard time of it. Most folks call me Sump but the mean kids call me Sumthin’ and my brother Nuthin and we don’t get along much with the ones that they call ‘normal kids”. We don’t care much about that, we get along fine with each other; we’re Italian, and that’s why.
So, me and Nuthin were on our way after getting us some beer and butts. Incidentally, Twofers were what they called cigarettes that are sold separately, two at a time for a nickel. They’re also called ‘loosies’ and ‘stoops’. We’re workin’ our way through the old neighborhood heading towards the river when we passed by Pearl Prentiss’ house where she’s sitting in her dirt yard trying to teach her talking cat to play jacks because since her cat’s brother ran off the cat is depressed and needs some distraction. Pearl’s folks plant dirt in their yard the way some people plant okra; they wants their dirt. Rumor has it that dirt reminds them of the ‘old country’ or something.
Anyway, Pearl looks up at us and puts her finger to her lips like she wants us to hush, naturally this get our attention (as boys, we’re naturally inquisitive) and she points to a length of string sitting in the road like a long skinny snake. She calls us over and whispers: “Old Man Fennish just passed with Mrs. Fennish’s Lazy Boy chair on a four wheeled dollie heading up the street and dealing out a line of string behind him like he’s Hansel or Gretel or somebody”. Sure enough, that’s exactly what it is, a damn string in the damn road; and it sure sets us all to pondering, cat included.
Old man Fennish has been working a maintenance job at Antoine’s Restaurant in the French Quarter since before mayonnaise and everybody knows that he has been collecting the string that their laundry delivery company ties the clean towels with… at least for that long. In fact, everybody knows this because the Fennish’s two foster kids has told us AND showed us these behemoth balls of string; but, be that as it may, it still got us to wondering why he would perform so oddly on a warm Saturday in the middle of May, especially considering that if we acted that way we would catch heck and no doubt about it. Our consensus was put to voice by Nuthin when he remarked: “he finally gone off ‘round the bend, idn’t he?”. Sanity wise, I couldn’t have said it any better.
Then we hear a terrific rattling coming down the street like someone throwing ash cans full of old silverware down the steps of the courthouse and we look up to see the Fennish kids pushin’ a shopping cart down the road with Mrs. Fennish sitting inside of it. Yep, here come Immaculata and Timpani Fennish rollin’ their Mama down the road and trying to follow that there string, and the three of them sweatin’ like hogs and all out of breath, each for their own reason; Timpani because he has the asthma, Immaculata because she’s doin’ most of the pushin’ and their mama ‘cause she just can’t breathe too good to begin with. Mrs. Fennish is perched up on some pillows puffing away on one of those Chesterfields that she’s partial to and the kids stop to take a break from their exertion long enough for us to query them; Mrs. Fennish goes into another of her coughing fits. Ever since that cold snap last winter Mrs. Fennish can’t hardly take a clean breath-- without hacking her lungs out-- between her smoking them non-filtered cigarettes and her terminally clogged sinuses.
Immaculata, who is nine and is called that because she never seems to get dirt upon her, tells us in a low voice “none other than Conway Twitty is coming down to a revival at the skating rink and my papa has gone ahead with the Lazy Boy to get a good spot for mama, he’s trailing the string behind him so’s us kids can follow in his footsteps, so to speak”. Obviously Mr. Fennish perceives his kids to be as dumb as a box of rocks; of course, he knows them better than we do, so it is possible.
We had all seen the posters hung about town with a large image of the star, Conway Twitty, posed Elvis like, in a sky blue leisure suit heralding the big to do with a large white banner acrossed his chest announcing in no uncertain terms that the event was to take place for ‘ONE NIGHT ONLY!!”. Mr. Twitty was ditching his singing career for one in the preacher business, having been called by the lord to go forth and heal the sick and such and we all vowed to sneak out after nightfall and be witness to this auspicious nonsense. Especially since none of us believed that anything could cure Mrs. Fennish of her emphysema and constricted air passages.
Of course, we have to explain this all again and again to Timpani who is kind of slow in the head and too busy trying to peer through those coke bottle thick eyeglasses of his. He’s eight years old and is called Timpani because, in his old home, his Pa who plays bass drum in a brass band, used to whup up on him with his drumstick, which led to Timpani’s inability to concentrate, or so word has it. Old Timpani has got his attention glued to that line of twine and hardly hears us with our plans for the evening. We made plans nevertheless, including him and the cat, for seven thirty that night.
The sun had barely set and the moon was on the wane when we gathered behind the Livaudius Middle School. We had agreed, or so I thought, that we would all wear dark clothing to aid our inconspicuousness. Immaculata obviously didn’t understand because there she was in one of her white dresses, shining in the moon like an apparition. Timpani were still in his dirty coveralls and barefoot just like we had last seen him that afternoon, the only difference was that he seemed to have spilled his whole supper down the front of his clothes.
“Immaculata! We’s ‘spossed to be movin’ on the sly! What don’t you know about dressing darkly?” Hissed Pearl (dressed all in black, like a shadow)
“I ain’t got no dark clothes!” Immaculata hissed back.
Immaculata was found roaming on highway 90 late one night by Mr. Fennish one night on his way home from work, dressed in a white night shirt. She was dressed in the white night shirt, not Mr. Fennish.
“Like to scare me sober” Mr. Fennish would always recall.
He took her to the police station who told him to take her home and that they would see who was missing a girl in a clean white nightie. Well, nobody came to claim her and she just kinda stuck around. That was two or three years ago and at first it was like she couldn’t talk at all, but, she gradually came out of that and could talk, sing, yell and curse with the best of us. Except that at times she would get a faraway look in her eyes and we would wonder if she was in hypnosis or a trance or maybe even Egyptian or something.
We made it to the skating rink just about the time that things were heating up and sure as shootin’ there was Mrs. Fennish in the front row in her Lazy Boy with Mr. Fennish standing up at her side. There was a band playing in the background and a choir of women dressed up like angels and they was all hummin’ like angels would do, and all of a sudden a spotlight appears and here comes the now Reverend Mister Twitty in that self same sky blue leisure suit and he gets up to the podium and starts his salvation show.
“Brothers and Sisters!” he begins “I am not here to tell you that you are going to heaven, to get your halo, to sit with the heavenly host in glory and eat fried chicken and lemon meringue pie forever and forever after!” A great groan was heard from the congregation. “NO!” he continued “I am, here to tell you that you will all burn in hell with fire and brimstone and suffer eternal damnation and third degree burns! YES YOU WILL!!!” here he started raising his voice and pacing like a panther, “for you are unclean and unfit to sit with the angels on high basking in the glory of Jesus Christ and his father, the one god of us all. You all are sinners and you all will be damned to drink bitter water and eat hog slop on your knees in dirty clothes!”
His choir of angelic voices began singing a dirge and the band started in at a cacophony of angst and terror. The crowd was swaying and lowing like cattle, when of a sudden a high pitched keening sound started coming out of Mrs. Fennish which just about scared us to death.
‘eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” it was like nails on a chalkboard and the entire tent dropped to silence. “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee’ and here it come again “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” and Mrs. Fennish all glassy eyed starts up from the Lazy Boy. And Immaculata starts drifting dreamlike towards her, and the reverend, like he’s walking in his sleep, is also drawn to the same spot. The cat has jumped out of Pearl’s arm and, hissing like an air hose at the filling station and with all its fur stuck up like a porcupine, starts sidling up to the commotion and we can see that they all are going to collide like planets in a space movie. The choir starts a wailin’ and the band has put down their instruments and they’s all moaning and the congregation is gnashing their teeth and rending their clothing and falling down and crying and a screeching in tongues. We kids are struck as dumb as Lot’s wife and frozen in our places when the apparitions start in to materialize.
There are sounds coming from outside the rink of thunder rumbles and lightning crashes to beat the band and all of a sudden -- and this is just from what us kids can recall because nobody else that was there that night seems to be able to remember anything that happened—
A black cobra about sixteen feet in height raised itself up in back of Mrs. Fennish with eyes as red and luminous as a Highway Patrol car’s lights, forked tongue lashing and slithering like a gargantuan garden hose toward the preacher who had turned into a giant bald eagle with a gnashing beak and beating wings working up a wind and cawing like a freight train whistle. Pearl’s cat had turned the size if a tiger and was snarling like a hurricane wind advancing into a tornado and Immaculata had risen up twelve feet with the biggest damn archangel type sword that I could ever have imagined and Mr. Fennish appeared like a demon possessed with his eyes rolled to the back of his head and drooling enough to wet down the front of his shirt and I could have just puked on the spot yesterday’s, today’s and tomorrow’s breakfast, lunch and supper. Had I not been so scared, frozen in my tracks and trying my best not to wet my pants or throw up; friends or no friends, brother or no brother, I swear I would have run off so fast it would have made all of their fool heads spin.
Just then a lightning bolt split through the roof of the building smack dab into the middle of the impending chaos and my kid brother stepped right into the light and commanded “STOP!” and everyone collapsed like a bunch of rag dolls. I looked at Pearl and Pearl looked at me and she said: “damn, that was something!”
And I said: “no that was Nuthin”.
Shaggy Dog.
“Godammit!!!!!, you spoiled rotten stinkin’ sonofabitch lazyass bastard ingrates… then… do something to earn your goddamn keep! Yer Ma’s outside with the laundry an I been workin’ my ass off all week! The day’s clear as a friggin’ bell, and we ain’t raisin’ no southern god-damned piss-ant aristocrats on this here worthless piece of shit property! This ain’t no sissy dude ranch and it ain’t no time in your pipsqueak, waste of breath lives to go mopin’ round here bein’ ‘bored’; If you ain’t got nothin’ better to do with your sorry assed selves, git them poles and go catch us somethin’ for supper! When I was your age…….”
Well, I was twelve years old, goin’ on thirteen and my kid brother had just turned ten and we doubted if our Pa had ever been our age. However, acting on instinct born of experience, we grabbed our poles and got goin’ quick; little did we know that we were about to have a day of life changing occurrences that was to be a slap dash, set yer hair on fire doozy. One that has stuck with us to this day and if I’d a known then, I would have just ducked under the covers and kept my big mouth shut.
It wasn’t too late a morning on a warm spring day in our home town of Gretna, Louisiana in 1962 when my brother, Nuthin, and I set out on our way to Nunez’s Grocery for a couple of bottles of Regal Beer and some ‘twofers’ to take with us fishing just to help pass the time; we had a silver half a dollar that we’d snitched from our Pa and an extra quarter from our mama for a loaf of French bread and a dime’s worth of baloney for lunch. Now, don’t get taken aback or uppity about children and alcohol and nicotine and playing fast and loose. It was something that kids did in those days; you know, get some supplies, pack up some lunch and go fishing on a Saturday afternoon, smoke a couple of cancer sticks and drink warm beer like the big boys. Curse and scratch and spit and talk about girls. Weather permitting.
Grandma Nunez, at the store, knew us and our family and knew that when a couple of boys went off to fish for their folks dinner, instead of wasting time like little slugs, that they could be treated like the responsible young men that they were, or so she thought, and that was good enough for us. She took one look at us shoeless and already hot and dusty and gave us her biggest Grandma smile. Even with most of her teeth gone she could sure lay on a grandma smile second to none; that smile never did nothing but make us feel real good, and these days I can’t help but miss it. That smile.
“Awwww, ain’t you sunshine sweet boys good little angels to be goin’ out fishin’ when you coulda been watchin’ those communist homosexual cartoons on that mind rotting teevee set, like them other pinko piccaninnies that’s bein’ raised around here. Are y’all sure you wouldn’t rather have red drinks? I guess its okay, y’all will be on the water in case y’all gets a case of the dehydrates. Now go on with y’all, the sun’s startin’ to git high and mighty an it looks like it it’s gonna turn out to be a real scorcher”.
She was a pretty big woman for her size, with her finger on the pulse of the neighborhood, and we knew that if a whiff of any stupid behavior or mischief on our part were to get back to her that, well… we be cut off from any future grown up privileges without so much as a ‘fare thee well’. Period. Until then, with a wink and a nod, our vittles could, would and did get packed in a sack and we could, would and did go on our merry way unimpeded by anything as inconvenient as ‘adult or parental concern’; you see, in the old days, in southern Louisiana, kids had always been more mature than other youngsters in practically every way and we were treated as such. At least until we screwed up.
The day was as picture perfect as a peach pie, although getting a mite on the warm side, with a slight breeze comin’ in off the river. We had an old half sunk pirogue tied up at the batture that would drift us just far enough out to be in uncurrented water shaded by some old willows where the croakers and gaspergous liked to hang around.
My brother’s real name is Nunzio but everybody calls him Nuthin since the days when we was little and the older kids (especially the girls) used to taunt us, calling: “Nunzio, Nunzio Nuthin; you know somethin’? Somethin’ somethin’ somethin’; you know nothin’?” My folks had named me Sumpter, after the neighbor man who drove my mother to Charity Hospital when she was birthin’ me and having a hard time of it. Most folks call me Sump but the mean kids call me Sumthin’ and my brother Nuthin and we don’t get along much with the ones that they call ‘normal kids”. We don’t care much about that, we get along fine with each other; we’re Italian, and that’s why.
So, me and Nuthin were on our way after getting us some beer and butts. Incidentally, Twofers were what they called cigarettes that are sold separately, two at a time for a nickel. They’re also called ‘loosies’ and ‘stoops’. We’re workin’ our way through the old neighborhood heading towards the river when we passed by Pearl Prentiss’ house where she’s sitting in her dirt yard trying to teach her talking cat to play jacks because since her cat’s brother ran off the cat is depressed and needs some distraction. Pearl’s folks plant dirt in their yard the way some people plant okra; they wants their dirt. Rumor has it that dirt reminds them of the ‘old country’ or something.
Anyway, Pearl looks up at us and puts her finger to her lips like she wants us to hush, naturally this get our attention (as boys, we’re naturally inquisitive) and she points to a length of string sitting in the road like a long skinny snake. She calls us over and whispers: “Old Man Fennish just passed with Mrs. Fennish’s Lazy Boy chair on a four wheeled dollie heading up the street and dealing out a line of string behind him like he’s Hansel or Gretel or somebody”. Sure enough, that’s exactly what it is, a damn string in the damn road; and it sure sets us all to pondering, cat included.
Old man Fennish has been working a maintenance job at Antoine’s Restaurant in the French Quarter since before mayonnaise and everybody knows that he has been collecting the string that their laundry delivery company ties the clean towels with… at least for that long. In fact, everybody knows this because the Fennish’s two foster kids has told us AND showed us these behemoth balls of string; but, be that as it may, it still got us to wondering why he would perform so oddly on a warm Saturday in the middle of May, especially considering that if we acted that way we would catch heck and no doubt about it. Our consensus was put to voice by Nuthin when he remarked: “he finally gone off ‘round the bend, idn’t he?”. Sanity wise, I couldn’t have said it any better.
Then we hear a terrific rattling coming down the street like someone throwing ash cans full of old silverware down the steps of the courthouse and we look up to see the Fennish kids pushin’ a shopping cart down the road with Mrs. Fennish sitting inside of it. Yep, here come Immaculata and Timpani Fennish rollin’ their Mama down the road and trying to follow that there string, and the three of them sweatin’ like hogs and all out of breath, each for their own reason; Timpani because he has the asthma, Immaculata because she’s doin’ most of the pushin’ and their mama ‘cause she just can’t breathe too good to begin with. Mrs. Fennish is perched up on some pillows puffing away on one of those Chesterfields that she’s partial to and the kids stop to take a break from their exertion long enough for us to query them; Mrs. Fennish goes into another of her coughing fits. Ever since that cold snap last winter Mrs. Fennish can’t hardly take a clean breath-- without hacking her lungs out-- between her smoking them non-filtered cigarettes and her terminally clogged sinuses.
Immaculata, who is nine and is called that because she never seems to get dirt upon her, tells us in a low voice “none other than Conway Twitty is coming down to a revival at the skating rink and my papa has gone ahead with the Lazy Boy to get a good spot for mama, he’s trailing the string behind him so’s us kids can follow in his footsteps, so to speak”. Obviously Mr. Fennish perceives his kids to be as dumb as a box of rocks; of course, he knows them better than we do, so it is possible.
We had all seen the posters hung about town with a large image of the star, Conway Twitty, posed Elvis like, in a sky blue leisure suit heralding the big to do with a large white banner acrossed his chest announcing in no uncertain terms that the event was to take place for ‘ONE NIGHT ONLY!!”. Mr. Twitty was ditching his singing career for one in the preacher business, having been called by the lord to go forth and heal the sick and such and we all vowed to sneak out after nightfall and be witness to this auspicious nonsense. Especially since none of us believed that anything could cure Mrs. Fennish of her emphysema and constricted air passages.
Of course, we have to explain this all again and again to Timpani who is kind of slow in the head and too busy trying to peer through those coke bottle thick eyeglasses of his. He’s eight years old and is called Timpani because, in his old home, his Pa who plays bass drum in a brass band, used to whup up on him with his drumstick, which led to Timpani’s inability to concentrate, or so word has it. Old Timpani has got his attention glued to that line of twine and hardly hears us with our plans for the evening. We made plans nevertheless, including him and the cat, for seven thirty that night.
The sun had barely set and the moon was on the wane when we gathered behind the Livaudius Middle School. We had agreed, or so I thought, that we would all wear dark clothing to aid our inconspicuousness. Immaculata obviously didn’t understand because there she was in one of her white dresses, shining in the moon like an apparition. Timpani were still in his dirty coveralls and barefoot just like we had last seen him that afternoon, the only difference was that he seemed to have spilled his whole supper down the front of his clothes.
“Immaculata! We’s ‘spossed to be movin’ on the sly! What don’t you know about dressing darkly?” Hissed Pearl (dressed all in black, like a shadow)
“I ain’t got no dark clothes!” Immaculata hissed back.
Immaculata was found roaming on highway 90 late one night by Mr. Fennish one night on his way home from work, dressed in a white night shirt. She was dressed in the white night shirt, not Mr. Fennish.
“Like to scare me sober” Mr. Fennish would always recall.
He took her to the police station who told him to take her home and that they would see who was missing a girl in a clean white nightie. Well, nobody came to claim her and she just kinda stuck around. That was two or three years ago and at first it was like she couldn’t talk at all, but, she gradually came out of that and could talk, sing, yell and curse with the best of us. Except that at times she would get a faraway look in her eyes and we would wonder if she was in hypnosis or a trance or maybe even Egyptian or something.
We made it to the skating rink just about the time that things were heating up and sure as shootin’ there was Mrs. Fennish in the front row in her Lazy Boy with Mr. Fennish standing up at her side. There was a band playing in the background and a choir of women dressed up like angels and they was all hummin’ like angels would do, and all of a sudden a spotlight appears and here comes the now Reverend Mister Twitty in that self same sky blue leisure suit and he gets up to the podium and starts his salvation show.
“Brothers and Sisters!” he begins “I am not here to tell you that you are going to heaven, to get your halo, to sit with the heavenly host in glory and eat fried chicken and lemon meringue pie forever and forever after!” A great groan was heard from the congregation. “NO!” he continued “I am, here to tell you that you will all burn in hell with fire and brimstone and suffer eternal damnation and third degree burns! YES YOU WILL!!!” here he started raising his voice and pacing like a panther, “for you are unclean and unfit to sit with the angels on high basking in the glory of Jesus Christ and his father, the one god of us all. You all are sinners and you all will be damned to drink bitter water and eat hog slop on your knees in dirty clothes!”
His choir of angelic voices began singing a dirge and the band started in at a cacophony of angst and terror. The crowd was swaying and lowing like cattle, when of a sudden a high pitched keening sound started coming out of Mrs. Fennish which just about scared us to death.
‘eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” it was like nails on a chalkboard and the entire tent dropped to silence. “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee’ and here it come again “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” and Mrs. Fennish all glassy eyed starts up from the Lazy Boy. And Immaculata starts drifting dreamlike towards her, and the reverend, like he’s walking in his sleep, is also drawn to the same spot. The cat has jumped out of Pearl’s arm and, hissing like an air hose at the filling station and with all its fur stuck up like a porcupine, starts sidling up to the commotion and we can see that they all are going to collide like planets in a space movie. The choir starts a wailin’ and the band has put down their instruments and they’s all moaning and the congregation is gnashing their teeth and rending their clothing and falling down and crying and a screeching in tongues. We kids are struck as dumb as Lot’s wife and frozen in our places when the apparitions start in to materialize.
There are sounds coming from outside the rink of thunder rumbles and lightning crashes to beat the band and all of a sudden -- and this is just from what us kids can recall because nobody else that was there that night seems to be able to remember anything that happened—
A black cobra about sixteen feet in height raised itself up in back of Mrs. Fennish with eyes as red and luminous as a Highway Patrol car’s lights, forked tongue lashing and slithering like a gargantuan garden hose toward the preacher who had turned into a giant bald eagle with a gnashing beak and beating wings working up a wind and cawing like a freight train whistle. Pearl’s cat had turned the size if a tiger and was snarling like a hurricane wind advancing into a tornado and Immaculata had risen up twelve feet with the biggest damn archangel type sword that I could ever have imagined and Mr. Fennish appeared like a demon possessed with his eyes rolled to the back of his head and drooling enough to wet down the front of his shirt and I could have just puked on the spot yesterday’s, today’s and tomorrow’s breakfast, lunch and supper. Had I not been so scared, frozen in my tracks and trying my best not to wet my pants or throw up; friends or no friends, brother or no brother, I swear I would have run off so fast it would have made all of their fool heads spin.
Just then a lightning bolt split through the roof of the building smack dab into the middle of the impending chaos and my kid brother stepped right into the light and commanded “STOP!” and everyone collapsed like a bunch of rag dolls. I looked at Pearl and Pearl looked at me and she said: “damn, that was something!”
And I said: “no that was Nuthin”.
Shaggy Dog.
Friday, April 1, 2011
New Orleans Story part 11... I, The Cat
Short Story Part 11: I, The Cat
So, I gather first of all, that you may be a mite skeptical about me, my attributes and my abilities; this, I suspect, is due to your lack of a cohesive definition of my species written for your perusal; one that you can study at length and digest at your leisure. A sort of ‘when in doubt, see point (a.)’ sort of thing. Well, as a vehicle to your awareness here is the point (a.) to which you can refer to, recall and hopefully remember.
Point (a.) The cat: (felius catus), also known as the domestic cat or housecat, to distinguish it from other felines and fetids, is a small (relatively speaking of course), furry domesticated carnivorous mammal that is valued by humans for its companionship and for its ability to hunt vermin and household pests. Cats have been associated with humans for at least 9,500 years, and are currently the most popular pet on the planet. Owing to their close association with humans, cats are now found almost everywhere in the world. Cats are similar in anatomy to the other felids, with strong, flexible bodies, quick reflexes, sharp retractable claws, and teeth adapted to killing small prey. As nocturnal predators, cats use their acute hearing and ability to see in near darkness to locate prey. Not only can cats hear sounds too faint for human ears, they can also hear sounds higher infrequency than humans can perceive. In cat society, all felines have a three part name, and as a species are supremely superior to all other animals.
I am all of that to the tenth power and more, but, my life did not begin that way.
Fifty years ago (in cat years) the human that you know as Pearl Prentiss found myself and my littermates one cold rainy morning in a dumpster behind a cheap motel in the Treme section of New Orleans. There had been six of us, four were dead. Our mother, feral herself, had chosen the dumpster as a place to birth us because it was out of the wind and weather, and all was well for the first couple of weeks. The dumpster was thick with rags, cardboard and debris that kept us, if not comfortable, at least, protected from the elements. The dumpster was also home to some rodents; however, with mother’s presence they kept their distance. One morning mother stepped out to forage for food. She could not have foreseen someone closing the lid of the dumpster, leaving us inside without the comfort of her warm body, her nourishing milk and her protection. We did not see her again.
Days and days and days later, my brother and I, shivering and starved saw the lid lifted and were practically blinded by the cloud covered daylight that brought in rain and colder air. A giant, what we thought was giant, head appeared, looking, peering about and curious about the pitiful mewing sounds that we were making. It was Pearl.
Two of my siblings had died of the elements, namely, hunger and cold; two had been taken by the rats. My brother, who Pearl named Bob, had had his tail eaten by one of the rodents and we were literally with our backs to the wall when she open the lid that fateful day, calling for deliverance of any kind.
Pearl Prentiss rescued my brother and I, came back to bury what was left of my siblings and even to search for our mother. She fed, comforted and cared for us into a strong kittenhood. We both had voracious appetites, grew strong and by the time six months had passed we had lost any physical signs of our trauma. My brother was consumed with anger and the need for revenge against the entire rodent world. At a half a year of age he was big for his age and was obsessed with getting away from our home and beginning his murderous crusade. One night during a full moon, the bedroom window was left open; which is when my brother, a fine dusty colored male but more feral than I, escaped and wasn’t seen again. I am much wiser, possessed with more talent, cunning, and above all, the gift of loyalty; you might say that I got the brains in our family. Pearl had become the center of my universe and I loved her like a mother. My real name is Midnight Secret Seeker; my brother’s name is Shadow Rodent Slayer, we are of the breed. You may do well to seek out your feline’s ‘real name’.
One night while napping in Pearl’s lap she heard me purring a song that she had sung to us in the early days and the cat, so to speak, was out of the bag. Little by little, Pearl pampered, cajoled, encouraged and wheedled my ability to communicate, in words, from me. We did, however, make a pact at the onset that promised that I would only speak in her presence-- even to other humans-- that way, if pressed, she could always admit to a practical joke and explain that she was a ventriloquist.
Oh the joy of being able to tell her the pleasures of being feline. Almost all humans regard us with varying degrees of love, fear and hatred; with a little envy thrown in for good measure. Not Pearl. I would sit on her lap for hours telling of my prowess in hunting with fang and claw; of my abilities to run, jump and turn; hurry and hide; wait and strike, to bathe in the sun and to stalk by moonlight. She alone knew of all the little things that amused and attracted me, the ways that I would toy with my victims, the triumph of the killing bite and the taste of warm blood in my mouth. We are much alike, we are each-others familiar.
And now my mission is simplicity itself; to find the best, most direct (with stealth as a primary concern) route across the neighborhood rooftops from Pearl's point a. to Pearl's point b. It’s something that I excel at, finding routes; huntress that I am. I love my job.
So, I gather first of all, that you may be a mite skeptical about me, my attributes and my abilities; this, I suspect, is due to your lack of a cohesive definition of my species written for your perusal; one that you can study at length and digest at your leisure. A sort of ‘when in doubt, see point (a.)’ sort of thing. Well, as a vehicle to your awareness here is the point (a.) to which you can refer to, recall and hopefully remember.
Point (a.) The cat: (felius catus), also known as the domestic cat or housecat, to distinguish it from other felines and fetids, is a small (relatively speaking of course), furry domesticated carnivorous mammal that is valued by humans for its companionship and for its ability to hunt vermin and household pests. Cats have been associated with humans for at least 9,500 years, and are currently the most popular pet on the planet. Owing to their close association with humans, cats are now found almost everywhere in the world. Cats are similar in anatomy to the other felids, with strong, flexible bodies, quick reflexes, sharp retractable claws, and teeth adapted to killing small prey. As nocturnal predators, cats use their acute hearing and ability to see in near darkness to locate prey. Not only can cats hear sounds too faint for human ears, they can also hear sounds higher infrequency than humans can perceive. In cat society, all felines have a three part name, and as a species are supremely superior to all other animals.
I am all of that to the tenth power and more, but, my life did not begin that way.
Fifty years ago (in cat years) the human that you know as Pearl Prentiss found myself and my littermates one cold rainy morning in a dumpster behind a cheap motel in the Treme section of New Orleans. There had been six of us, four were dead. Our mother, feral herself, had chosen the dumpster as a place to birth us because it was out of the wind and weather, and all was well for the first couple of weeks. The dumpster was thick with rags, cardboard and debris that kept us, if not comfortable, at least, protected from the elements. The dumpster was also home to some rodents; however, with mother’s presence they kept their distance. One morning mother stepped out to forage for food. She could not have foreseen someone closing the lid of the dumpster, leaving us inside without the comfort of her warm body, her nourishing milk and her protection. We did not see her again.
Days and days and days later, my brother and I, shivering and starved saw the lid lifted and were practically blinded by the cloud covered daylight that brought in rain and colder air. A giant, what we thought was giant, head appeared, looking, peering about and curious about the pitiful mewing sounds that we were making. It was Pearl.
Two of my siblings had died of the elements, namely, hunger and cold; two had been taken by the rats. My brother, who Pearl named Bob, had had his tail eaten by one of the rodents and we were literally with our backs to the wall when she open the lid that fateful day, calling for deliverance of any kind.
Pearl Prentiss rescued my brother and I, came back to bury what was left of my siblings and even to search for our mother. She fed, comforted and cared for us into a strong kittenhood. We both had voracious appetites, grew strong and by the time six months had passed we had lost any physical signs of our trauma. My brother was consumed with anger and the need for revenge against the entire rodent world. At a half a year of age he was big for his age and was obsessed with getting away from our home and beginning his murderous crusade. One night during a full moon, the bedroom window was left open; which is when my brother, a fine dusty colored male but more feral than I, escaped and wasn’t seen again. I am much wiser, possessed with more talent, cunning, and above all, the gift of loyalty; you might say that I got the brains in our family. Pearl had become the center of my universe and I loved her like a mother. My real name is Midnight Secret Seeker; my brother’s name is Shadow Rodent Slayer, we are of the breed. You may do well to seek out your feline’s ‘real name’.
One night while napping in Pearl’s lap she heard me purring a song that she had sung to us in the early days and the cat, so to speak, was out of the bag. Little by little, Pearl pampered, cajoled, encouraged and wheedled my ability to communicate, in words, from me. We did, however, make a pact at the onset that promised that I would only speak in her presence-- even to other humans-- that way, if pressed, she could always admit to a practical joke and explain that she was a ventriloquist.
Oh the joy of being able to tell her the pleasures of being feline. Almost all humans regard us with varying degrees of love, fear and hatred; with a little envy thrown in for good measure. Not Pearl. I would sit on her lap for hours telling of my prowess in hunting with fang and claw; of my abilities to run, jump and turn; hurry and hide; wait and strike, to bathe in the sun and to stalk by moonlight. She alone knew of all the little things that amused and attracted me, the ways that I would toy with my victims, the triumph of the killing bite and the taste of warm blood in my mouth. We are much alike, we are each-others familiar.
And now my mission is simplicity itself; to find the best, most direct (with stealth as a primary concern) route across the neighborhood rooftops from Pearl's point a. to Pearl's point b. It’s something that I excel at, finding routes; huntress that I am. I love my job.
Friday, March 11, 2011
More about the Short Story
Okay, so you've read all ten pieces of our adventure in New Orleans larceny by a group of pretty much lovable n'eer do wells (or have you?. And, by now you would have surmised that the actual deal is about to go down at that French Quarter restaurant. (haven't you?. Well in a couple of real weeks there is going to be a real Tennessee Williams Literary Festival at a real French Quarter restaurant where I will attend and see exactly how the gang is going to pull this one off, really. Stay tuned for Parts 11, 12, and concluding with part 13!If all goes well I'll get this published as a complete work which will include a lottery ticket with each copy sold!
Sunday, March 6, 2011
New Orleans Chocoholic
Po-boy Views
By Phil LaMancusa
Theobroma By The Bayou
Looking over the family library last night, my eye was caught by a
book on chocolate. Then another book on chocolate. Then another and another
AND another, and surprisingly, others. This gave me cause to pause. So pause I did; then, I counted twenty, yes twenty, different books that I had collected on this one subject. Books whose titles read like exotic perfumes at the “Smells R’US” counters at J.C.Macy’s Fifth Avenue.
Titles like Chocolate Obsession, Chocolate Decadence and even Chocolate Sex! Or books that promise The Joy of chocolate, Chocolate Ecstasy, The Chocolate Fantasy, or Chocolate: the Consuming Passion. One that threatened: DEATH By Chocolate, and one to be used when all else failed; Chocolate Suicide.
Then it happened. (what?) I began to sweat. I was trembling……I was dazed and confused. (huh?)
I thought I had kicked it (what?). I thought it was over. (WHAT?), (I'll tell ya).
There I was, at eleven at night, in my BunnyJammys having a full-blown CDA! (a what?) Chocolate Deprivation Attack! ( whaddya do?)
I opened the Chocolate Bible, where for years I have saved my favorite
wrappers with little notes to myself:(“Valentine’s Day '97; she’s gone, but at least I’ve got the Godiva". Or,” Xmas ‘98: Champagne Truffles RULE!") and
hyperventilated the remains of past acquisitions like an asthmatic in the throes.
My heartbeat returned to normal. I calmed down. Almost.
After a strong glass of Nestles Quik, which I keep for such emergencies,
and with my Chocolate Bible under my pillow, I spent a restless night; resolving
to find out what our fair city has to offer a Chocolate Addict such as myself.
Directory Assistance has no listing for Chocoholics Anonymous and The Yellow Pages has only two listings under Chocolates and Cocoa: Cuccia Chocolates at
622 Royal and Wilbur Chocolate Company, on Clearview Parkway in Metarie, the
latter being a distributor and not a retail outlet. In the morning, I headed to Royal Street.
Even when we hit bottom, the truly lost soul of a chocolate addict will never take chocolate at face value, buy blindly, or stoop low and sample a perspective supplier’s wares in their presence. We do have some standards; and with those standards I made my way to Cuccia’s with an innocent look on my face and my stomach creeping up my throat (to be closer to the goods when they entered my bod).
. I met Jace Cuccia without knowing it when a booming “Howya Doin?” greeted
my arrival. We exchanged pleasantries about chocolates, sizing each other
up. Hmmm, I thought; "clean store, kinda geared for tourists, he’s big for his size
and young for his age". What he thought of a bald, slightly overweight, middle
aged man taking eyeglasses out of a Curious George holder I couldn’t say.
Then we got down to it. “You local?” he says. More of an observation than
Question. “Yep”, Says I (two can play this game I thought).
“whatcha lookin for?” He asks, eyeing me intently.
Our gazes lock. The moment of truth. “Solid Hit” I say firmly, quietly.
We look into eachother’s souls. We understand. He guides. I ask questions. We
drop names. We talk formulas and percentages of cocoa to fat. We shake hands
three times before I leave with my purchases.
Theobroma (food of the Gods), is another contribution to world cuisine from the Americas; others, such as, vanilla, chilis, tomatoes, and corn will have to wait for their own stories to be told, we're talking chocolate here.
The Aztecs, Toltecs, and Mayas knew about choquatl (bitter water) long before Columbus decided to find a shortcut to India; and on his fourth voyage (1502), Chris brought some back home to no one's amazement.
1519 saw Montezuma and Cortez at a party turning each other on to things they both would regret, except possibly the exhilaration of the drink that they share; and in due time, Cortez queries his host (about the drink).
Well, Cortez (from Montezuma), learns about a tree native to the area that grows forty to sixty feet high and bears gourdlike fruits, that are harvested year round, each containing twenty five or so 'seeds'. These seeds are laid out to ferment, then roasted, and ground up, mixed with spices and water. The brew gets him off like a shot (in more ways than one). Cortez brings some back home too, but this time with instructions.
. The king of Spain thinks the brew is too bitter and dumps a bunch of sugar in it and we get another reason to celebrate the caprice of a Monarch. History is made over a cup of cocoa!
Anyway, to make a long story longer, it takes a half a dozen complex steps to turn a slimy seed into a religious experience and you should read up on the subject; right now, you've caught me with the goods; red, I mean brown, handed.
In the doorway of a closed shop I open my bag, salivating and sweating, I remove and consume the first candidate. It's called a Mintini: (.75) a dark, minty, chocolate square, rich, nice. But I’m not looking for nice.
Next, Dark Chocolate Truffle ($1.00) smooth, almost smoky in flavor, yummy, but not quite an epiphany. Nobody knows the truffles I’ve seen.
Now, lastly I remove the final contender, saved for last because of its potential
and my intuition. The Dark Chocolate Bar ($2.00).
In the New Orleans heat it’s already starting to get a little sticky. I break off
a piece and place it carefully on my tongue. It melts slowly. Yes. Smoothly.
Yesyes. The taste spreads of its own accord enveloping my soul and senses.
The night air purrs. Close by, an acapello group sings “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”
The sunset receives The M.C. Echer award and I drift home in a haze of glory.
I’m there. I’m really there.
My wife takes a look at my faraway eyes. “Where have you been?” she asks.
Where else? (thinking of a great name for a book); “Chocolate Heaven”.
By Phil LaMancusa
Theobroma By The Bayou
Looking over the family library last night, my eye was caught by a
book on chocolate. Then another book on chocolate. Then another and another
AND another, and surprisingly, others. This gave me cause to pause. So pause I did; then, I counted twenty, yes twenty, different books that I had collected on this one subject. Books whose titles read like exotic perfumes at the “Smells R’US” counters at J.C.Macy’s Fifth Avenue.
Titles like Chocolate Obsession, Chocolate Decadence and even Chocolate Sex! Or books that promise The Joy of chocolate, Chocolate Ecstasy, The Chocolate Fantasy, or Chocolate: the Consuming Passion. One that threatened: DEATH By Chocolate, and one to be used when all else failed; Chocolate Suicide.
Then it happened. (what?) I began to sweat. I was trembling……I was dazed and confused. (huh?)
I thought I had kicked it (what?). I thought it was over. (WHAT?), (I'll tell ya).
There I was, at eleven at night, in my BunnyJammys having a full-blown CDA! (a what?) Chocolate Deprivation Attack! ( whaddya do?)
I opened the Chocolate Bible, where for years I have saved my favorite
wrappers with little notes to myself:(“Valentine’s Day '97; she’s gone, but at least I’ve got the Godiva". Or,” Xmas ‘98: Champagne Truffles RULE!") and
hyperventilated the remains of past acquisitions like an asthmatic in the throes.
My heartbeat returned to normal. I calmed down. Almost.
After a strong glass of Nestles Quik, which I keep for such emergencies,
and with my Chocolate Bible under my pillow, I spent a restless night; resolving
to find out what our fair city has to offer a Chocolate Addict such as myself.
Directory Assistance has no listing for Chocoholics Anonymous and The Yellow Pages has only two listings under Chocolates and Cocoa: Cuccia Chocolates at
622 Royal and Wilbur Chocolate Company, on Clearview Parkway in Metarie, the
latter being a distributor and not a retail outlet. In the morning, I headed to Royal Street.
Even when we hit bottom, the truly lost soul of a chocolate addict will never take chocolate at face value, buy blindly, or stoop low and sample a perspective supplier’s wares in their presence. We do have some standards; and with those standards I made my way to Cuccia’s with an innocent look on my face and my stomach creeping up my throat (to be closer to the goods when they entered my bod).
. I met Jace Cuccia without knowing it when a booming “Howya Doin?” greeted
my arrival. We exchanged pleasantries about chocolates, sizing each other
up. Hmmm, I thought; "clean store, kinda geared for tourists, he’s big for his size
and young for his age". What he thought of a bald, slightly overweight, middle
aged man taking eyeglasses out of a Curious George holder I couldn’t say.
Then we got down to it. “You local?” he says. More of an observation than
Question. “Yep”, Says I (two can play this game I thought).
“whatcha lookin for?” He asks, eyeing me intently.
Our gazes lock. The moment of truth. “Solid Hit” I say firmly, quietly.
We look into eachother’s souls. We understand. He guides. I ask questions. We
drop names. We talk formulas and percentages of cocoa to fat. We shake hands
three times before I leave with my purchases.
Theobroma (food of the Gods), is another contribution to world cuisine from the Americas; others, such as, vanilla, chilis, tomatoes, and corn will have to wait for their own stories to be told, we're talking chocolate here.
The Aztecs, Toltecs, and Mayas knew about choquatl (bitter water) long before Columbus decided to find a shortcut to India; and on his fourth voyage (1502), Chris brought some back home to no one's amazement.
1519 saw Montezuma and Cortez at a party turning each other on to things they both would regret, except possibly the exhilaration of the drink that they share; and in due time, Cortez queries his host (about the drink).
Well, Cortez (from Montezuma), learns about a tree native to the area that grows forty to sixty feet high and bears gourdlike fruits, that are harvested year round, each containing twenty five or so 'seeds'. These seeds are laid out to ferment, then roasted, and ground up, mixed with spices and water. The brew gets him off like a shot (in more ways than one). Cortez brings some back home too, but this time with instructions.
. The king of Spain thinks the brew is too bitter and dumps a bunch of sugar in it and we get another reason to celebrate the caprice of a Monarch. History is made over a cup of cocoa!
Anyway, to make a long story longer, it takes a half a dozen complex steps to turn a slimy seed into a religious experience and you should read up on the subject; right now, you've caught me with the goods; red, I mean brown, handed.
In the doorway of a closed shop I open my bag, salivating and sweating, I remove and consume the first candidate. It's called a Mintini: (.75) a dark, minty, chocolate square, rich, nice. But I’m not looking for nice.
Next, Dark Chocolate Truffle ($1.00) smooth, almost smoky in flavor, yummy, but not quite an epiphany. Nobody knows the truffles I’ve seen.
Now, lastly I remove the final contender, saved for last because of its potential
and my intuition. The Dark Chocolate Bar ($2.00).
In the New Orleans heat it’s already starting to get a little sticky. I break off
a piece and place it carefully on my tongue. It melts slowly. Yes. Smoothly.
Yesyes. The taste spreads of its own accord enveloping my soul and senses.
The night air purrs. Close by, an acapello group sings “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”
The sunset receives The M.C. Echer award and I drift home in a haze of glory.
I’m there. I’m really there.
My wife takes a look at my faraway eyes. “Where have you been?” she asks.
Where else? (thinking of a great name for a book); “Chocolate Heaven”.
Man Bites Dog in New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By Phil LaMancusa
Man Bites Dog: A guide to fun on a bun
“Do you know what’s in that thing?” My daughter asked.
With all the control I could muster I delayed that first bite, my mouth filling with saliva, the dog poised, hovering inches from my incisors, canines and molars; fully loaded. “You mean nitrates?” I inquire
“No” she said, “Piggy toenails.”
I was ready to campaign for this pup like a southern diplomat; turning the dog sideways and presenting it like the model of a great sailing schooner, I said proudly: “You see before you, representatives of all the major food groups!”
A sympathetic hand on my sleeve was attached to a patient: “Papa, I hate to tell you, but there are food groups in that thing that we haven’t begun to suspect exist.”
“This”, I replied undaunted, “is a Chancy Dog. And it says right there: A New Orleans Creation Since 1938.”
“THAT one may have been around that long. Why would you want to put that thing (she said “that thing” as If referring to a real canine appendage) in your mouth?”
“Research” I bravely announced, taking off the first three inches in a single bite, chopped onions flying, cheese product on my shirtfront, chili oozing from the corners of my mouth, and the rest of the bun falling apart; leaving me with two hands full of ingredients, and an impotent, soggy, six inch square of wax paper.
“Ah,” I thought brightly, “A two fisted!"-- I made a mental note: "use Italian Death Grip” (a hold usually reserved for one of Elizabeth’s famous Potato and Gravy Po-boys).
My daughter and I had searched half the world looking for the perfect “dog”. We had eaten bowsers in baguettes in Paris, Mongrel con Mayonaisa in Mexico, Jodi Maroni’s Haute Dog in Venice, Ca. and Sabrett’s on the streets of the Big Apple.
We’ve had them made out of turkey, beef, chicken, pork; alone and in combinations, even tofu. Fully loaded (dressed is a term for sandwiches not pups) and Spartan.
We checked them out in Airports, Train Stations, Circle K’s, K marts, and high falutin’ restaurants in San Francisco. We even once went to a baseball game (but, that's another story).
This is some of what we’ve found out:
The Dog. The dog is a total experience, beginning with the seller. We learned to turn away from a stand solely because of the demeanor of the dealer. They have to enjoy what they do or it can throw the taste off. No kidding. The best ones will remind you of the Dickens’ character Fagin, if you get my drift. This MAY be what drove my daughter to become vegan.
Loading the dog: the seller, not the self, should load the dog; this in itself is an art. Too much or too little of any one of the condiments can ruin the balance and is best left to the professional. Feel free to observe technique before you commit to a purchase.
The condiments: are best put on with wooden implements, (this practice is largely lost,) the onions fresh chopped and uniform in size or nicely stewed, the relish not liquidy, the sauerkraut not soupy, the chili thick and viscous, the cheese product loose and fluffy. Choice of mustard is nice, but always pick the brightest color. Catsup only from a non-refillable squeeze bottle and optional. Putting the catsup and mustard on the bun instead of the meat is always a nice touch. You should be able (except, we found in Chicago and San Francisco’s windy wharf area) to almost sniff out the individual ingredients as well as the accoutrements. Temperature should be “HOT”
The bread should be soft enough to give easy access to components yet strong enough to contain them. We find the more “economical” types that need a bit of tearing open to be the best. In other words cheap, white buns. They should last all the way to the end of the pup, neither running out too soon nor being leftover. Steamed or grilled or not at all. Never toasted.
The meat; (first of all: sausage is for a sandwich and should not be considered of the same philosophy as pups.) What we’re looking for is bits and pieces and parts of farm animals, ground very fine and mixed with all of those unpronounceable ingredients that will build up our immunity to nuclear fallout, stuffed to bursting in casings preferably of natural origin. Either seared crisp or stewed in juices for days. When bitten into they should “pop” and the meat (?) and juices should fill the receptors of both oral and olfactory senses. The experience should be transcendental the closer you get to the perfect dog. Needless to say, we haven’t found it. Yet.
“I approach each new test as a quest for a Guru at a sacred shrine.,,,,,,,,” I continue.
“I ain’t eating nothin’ made from mechanically separated animals” is the response I receive. Where did I go wrong?
The dog’s not bad, it bears further testing. I return to the shrine. “Please” I ask, “make me one with everything”.
By Phil LaMancusa
Man Bites Dog: A guide to fun on a bun
“Do you know what’s in that thing?” My daughter asked.
With all the control I could muster I delayed that first bite, my mouth filling with saliva, the dog poised, hovering inches from my incisors, canines and molars; fully loaded. “You mean nitrates?” I inquire
“No” she said, “Piggy toenails.”
I was ready to campaign for this pup like a southern diplomat; turning the dog sideways and presenting it like the model of a great sailing schooner, I said proudly: “You see before you, representatives of all the major food groups!”
A sympathetic hand on my sleeve was attached to a patient: “Papa, I hate to tell you, but there are food groups in that thing that we haven’t begun to suspect exist.”
“This”, I replied undaunted, “is a Chancy Dog. And it says right there: A New Orleans Creation Since 1938.”
“THAT one may have been around that long. Why would you want to put that thing (she said “that thing” as If referring to a real canine appendage) in your mouth?”
“Research” I bravely announced, taking off the first three inches in a single bite, chopped onions flying, cheese product on my shirtfront, chili oozing from the corners of my mouth, and the rest of the bun falling apart; leaving me with two hands full of ingredients, and an impotent, soggy, six inch square of wax paper.
“Ah,” I thought brightly, “A two fisted!"-- I made a mental note: "use Italian Death Grip” (a hold usually reserved for one of Elizabeth’s famous Potato and Gravy Po-boys).
My daughter and I had searched half the world looking for the perfect “dog”. We had eaten bowsers in baguettes in Paris, Mongrel con Mayonaisa in Mexico, Jodi Maroni’s Haute Dog in Venice, Ca. and Sabrett’s on the streets of the Big Apple.
We’ve had them made out of turkey, beef, chicken, pork; alone and in combinations, even tofu. Fully loaded (dressed is a term for sandwiches not pups) and Spartan.
We checked them out in Airports, Train Stations, Circle K’s, K marts, and high falutin’ restaurants in San Francisco. We even once went to a baseball game (but, that's another story).
This is some of what we’ve found out:
The Dog. The dog is a total experience, beginning with the seller. We learned to turn away from a stand solely because of the demeanor of the dealer. They have to enjoy what they do or it can throw the taste off. No kidding. The best ones will remind you of the Dickens’ character Fagin, if you get my drift. This MAY be what drove my daughter to become vegan.
Loading the dog: the seller, not the self, should load the dog; this in itself is an art. Too much or too little of any one of the condiments can ruin the balance and is best left to the professional. Feel free to observe technique before you commit to a purchase.
The condiments: are best put on with wooden implements, (this practice is largely lost,) the onions fresh chopped and uniform in size or nicely stewed, the relish not liquidy, the sauerkraut not soupy, the chili thick and viscous, the cheese product loose and fluffy. Choice of mustard is nice, but always pick the brightest color. Catsup only from a non-refillable squeeze bottle and optional. Putting the catsup and mustard on the bun instead of the meat is always a nice touch. You should be able (except, we found in Chicago and San Francisco’s windy wharf area) to almost sniff out the individual ingredients as well as the accoutrements. Temperature should be “HOT”
The bread should be soft enough to give easy access to components yet strong enough to contain them. We find the more “economical” types that need a bit of tearing open to be the best. In other words cheap, white buns. They should last all the way to the end of the pup, neither running out too soon nor being leftover. Steamed or grilled or not at all. Never toasted.
The meat; (first of all: sausage is for a sandwich and should not be considered of the same philosophy as pups.) What we’re looking for is bits and pieces and parts of farm animals, ground very fine and mixed with all of those unpronounceable ingredients that will build up our immunity to nuclear fallout, stuffed to bursting in casings preferably of natural origin. Either seared crisp or stewed in juices for days. When bitten into they should “pop” and the meat (?) and juices should fill the receptors of both oral and olfactory senses. The experience should be transcendental the closer you get to the perfect dog. Needless to say, we haven’t found it. Yet.
“I approach each new test as a quest for a Guru at a sacred shrine.,,,,,,,,” I continue.
“I ain’t eating nothin’ made from mechanically separated animals” is the response I receive. Where did I go wrong?
The dog’s not bad, it bears further testing. I return to the shrine. “Please” I ask, “make me one with everything”.
Insect eaters guide to New Orleans
The Next few unrelated blogs are from a long lost floppy disc that I have found and resurrected. These stem back over ten years when I just began to explore the thousand word (give or take) word format. Please forgive the naiivete.
Po-boy Views
By Phil LaMancusa
An Insect Eaters Guide to New Orleans
“If you haven’t eaten ‘gator tail before, you’re in for a surprise. It’s so good, you’ll wanna lay down and scream!”
“Don’t change the subject”, I replied, “I said…. People all over the world eat insects.”
“Yeah, but in Looosiana, we just steps on ‘em!” Matter of factly, I was getting nowhere, with this subject, with my coffee companion slash culinary professional slash tall, cool drink of water.
“Okay, let me start again”……….I can be patient, I patiently told myself. “It may surprise you to know that in many foreign countries insects are eaten as part of a regular diet”……..I began.
"And that’s why they call ‘em that”. “Call them what?” “Foreign countries.” She said, I said, she replied. I was starting to get dizzy.
“Huh?” (I said)
It was now her turn to be patient, as she addressed me as though I had the intelligence of a box of rocks. “That’s why they call them "foreign" countries: only someone foreign would eat a bug!"
Well folks; that’s how it started, two consenting adults, speaking the same language over coffee, and as usual, one of them (me) gets intellectually cut off at the knees.
But I haven’t given up! I lay my case before you, Gentle Reader. (I stole that Gentle Reader thing).
Scorpions, Waterbugs, Dragonflies, Termites, Ants, Spiders, what we know as Stinkbugs, Water beetles, Crickets, Grasshoppers, Tarantulas, and a large variety of Grubs, Worms and Caterpillars, are in fact perfectly acceptable parts of daily diets around this old globe of ours. And we’re not talking isolated countries here. We’re talking countries with nuclear weapons, fashions and digital watches!
They’re served up (the insects not the watches) fried, sautéed, in casseroles, soups and stews as well as eaten (especially termites) fresh from wherever they happen to live.
Does this scare the insects? Not a bit. Does it scare me? Let me put it this way: I’m a reasonable man, against prejudice of any kind, especially culinary; however, the thought of crunching down on a deep-fried cicada throws me off my feed. Immature? Ignorant? Unenlightened? I hang my head in shame.
But, do I mind YOU eating insects? Not one bit. Just don’t try to kiss me until you use some Lavoris. No, really, insects contain a lot of protein, can be prepared a number of ways (are you listening Paul?) and as we all know, they do be plentiful in New Orleans!
I would like to interject here that none of my researches uncovered (?) cockroaches as delicacies, so they still don’t deserve respect. Thankya Lord!
Anyway, perhaps as a culinary Mecca, New Orleans can be at the forefront of the next undiscovered cuisine: Entomophagy.
Do I detect an amount of scoffing out there? Did you know that a lobster is cousin to a spider? And what about those little items we call Mudbugs? Ever wonder about Shrimp? What is so far fetched about a nice steaming dish of Grasshopper Ettoufee? Or, Fire Ant Gumbo? We can Join the dozens of other countries (foreign or not) that hold up their heads and floss that antenna from their teeth with no embarrassment. After all, as Jonathan Swift said in 1738 “ He was a bold man that first eat an oyster”. Think about THAT one!
Armed with my argument on paper, I returned to coffee the next day and confronted my companion. She read. She sipped her coffee, stretched those long legs, flashed her eyes a big blue “NO”, and she said quietly, slowly, almost venomously “I ain’t no bug sucker!” Then she brightened, and like a window opening to a cool coastal breeze said: “ “Now, Possum Gumbo, you ever had possum? Or Squirrel?……………”
Po-boy Views
By Phil LaMancusa
An Insect Eaters Guide to New Orleans
“If you haven’t eaten ‘gator tail before, you’re in for a surprise. It’s so good, you’ll wanna lay down and scream!”
“Don’t change the subject”, I replied, “I said…. People all over the world eat insects.”
“Yeah, but in Looosiana, we just steps on ‘em!” Matter of factly, I was getting nowhere, with this subject, with my coffee companion slash culinary professional slash tall, cool drink of water.
“Okay, let me start again”……….I can be patient, I patiently told myself. “It may surprise you to know that in many foreign countries insects are eaten as part of a regular diet”……..I began.
"And that’s why they call ‘em that”. “Call them what?” “Foreign countries.” She said, I said, she replied. I was starting to get dizzy.
“Huh?” (I said)
It was now her turn to be patient, as she addressed me as though I had the intelligence of a box of rocks. “That’s why they call them "foreign" countries: only someone foreign would eat a bug!"
Well folks; that’s how it started, two consenting adults, speaking the same language over coffee, and as usual, one of them (me) gets intellectually cut off at the knees.
But I haven’t given up! I lay my case before you, Gentle Reader. (I stole that Gentle Reader thing).
Scorpions, Waterbugs, Dragonflies, Termites, Ants, Spiders, what we know as Stinkbugs, Water beetles, Crickets, Grasshoppers, Tarantulas, and a large variety of Grubs, Worms and Caterpillars, are in fact perfectly acceptable parts of daily diets around this old globe of ours. And we’re not talking isolated countries here. We’re talking countries with nuclear weapons, fashions and digital watches!
They’re served up (the insects not the watches) fried, sautéed, in casseroles, soups and stews as well as eaten (especially termites) fresh from wherever they happen to live.
Does this scare the insects? Not a bit. Does it scare me? Let me put it this way: I’m a reasonable man, against prejudice of any kind, especially culinary; however, the thought of crunching down on a deep-fried cicada throws me off my feed. Immature? Ignorant? Unenlightened? I hang my head in shame.
But, do I mind YOU eating insects? Not one bit. Just don’t try to kiss me until you use some Lavoris. No, really, insects contain a lot of protein, can be prepared a number of ways (are you listening Paul?) and as we all know, they do be plentiful in New Orleans!
I would like to interject here that none of my researches uncovered (?) cockroaches as delicacies, so they still don’t deserve respect. Thankya Lord!
Anyway, perhaps as a culinary Mecca, New Orleans can be at the forefront of the next undiscovered cuisine: Entomophagy.
Do I detect an amount of scoffing out there? Did you know that a lobster is cousin to a spider? And what about those little items we call Mudbugs? Ever wonder about Shrimp? What is so far fetched about a nice steaming dish of Grasshopper Ettoufee? Or, Fire Ant Gumbo? We can Join the dozens of other countries (foreign or not) that hold up their heads and floss that antenna from their teeth with no embarrassment. After all, as Jonathan Swift said in 1738 “ He was a bold man that first eat an oyster”. Think about THAT one!
Armed with my argument on paper, I returned to coffee the next day and confronted my companion. She read. She sipped her coffee, stretched those long legs, flashed her eyes a big blue “NO”, and she said quietly, slowly, almost venomously “I ain’t no bug sucker!” Then she brightened, and like a window opening to a cool coastal breeze said: “ “Now, Possum Gumbo, you ever had possum? Or Squirrel?……………”
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