Jazz Fest Week Two 2026

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Festing

Or

Resting

“I hear a rhythm playing beautiful sounds of art, it’s the sounds of the beat you’re making in your heart; and he paused for a moment just to hear if I was right” Jazz Fest: Jon Batiste

        The second week of Jazz fest and you made it (or are here in spirit) and your trek to the Fairgrounds is like a pilgrimage toward Musical Mecca, complete with the sidewalk entrepreneurs who entertain, entice, provide and beguile you with their ability to know just what you want to make your coming and goings from the Holy Land just a bit more special because the music and action doesn’t begin and end inside the Fairgrounds.

        If you’re in luck, walking in after you pass the beverage entrepreneurs; Liuzza’s famous bloody Mary; and macrame/budding artist stands, you might be greeted by Eddie of New Orleans finest police officers who will welcome you to the Fest complete with high fives, handshakes and hugs if you want them. You’ll Fest all day, and flushed with the afterglow you’ll get hit with a second wind musical round of young brass bands on corners; beauties selling batiks; puppets painting; tie dyes for sale and drinks of every kind (Liuzza’s is still Ground Zero every year and they have that Bloody Mary that you’ve been wanting since this morning). There’s buttons, beads, Jello shots and folks dancing to avoid bicycles, kids, dogs and folks hurrying to catch a taxi or the shame train (bus). Breath deep Alice, you’re still in wonderland.

        Because, now it’s time to plan the evening’s festivities--get back to where you stay or are staying, shower, shave, shampoo and Shinola. Slick back whatever you got to work with and tune in to the WWOZ 90.7 (WWOZ.org) hotline and find who’s playing where and at what time (or check out the info in this mag that you’re holding); spoiler alert; some attractions don’t start until 4:00 (or even 5:00) in the ahem. Just enough time for you to pace yourself, absorb all you can, get back home, catch a power nap and frappe la rue (hit the street) for another day of excruciating great times at the Fest.

I’ve known people that do Friday or Saturday all-nighters. And you may fanaticize that you can heroically do this starting on Thursday and marathon it until early Monday morning (if you’re pure of heart and have the strength of ten); but, are you up to that challenge?  Probably not. It’s merely urban legend that says that there are stalwarts that can actually hoe the whole row. Do yourself a favor and don’t overtax your body; smart money knows when to check yourself before you wreck yourself, ya dig?

        Going out and about after the Fest, of course there’s Bourbon Street; but it’s hard to find a diamond in that coal mine (Maison Bourbon and Fritzel’s Jazz Club) and so that’s pretty much a one (brief) and done thing for Fest devotees, just so you can say that you did it. Then there’s Frenchmen Street, if you want to buck the crowds and melee of 10 clubs in three blocks (Snug Harbor is always a class act); or you can (ad)venture out to where true locals dig the digs.

        Have a short one at Hanks before dropping in to the Mother-in-Law lounge, head down to Bullets Sports Bar or bop on over to the Bywater/Marigny strip to Vaughan’s; The Hi Ho; The Allways; or B Js; (all Lounges) also drop by The Saturn Bar if you want some local ‘culcha’.

        Staying uptown? Say no more. The Maple Leaf Bar; The Rabbit Hole; Carrollton Station; Tipitina’s; Le Bon temps Roule or Gasa Gasa, and these are but a few joints and jams around town. Use your street smarts; don’t accept (or purchase) candy from strangers; travel in a pack; use a ride share; be aware of your surroundings and take advice from seasoned Festers (ask). Now go get that power nap ‘cause it’s back to the Fest.

        (“Wasted and wounded it aint what the moon did; I got what I paid for now” Tom Waits; Tom Traubert’s Blues)

        You back? Don’t worry, you can sleep on the plane, nononononono, stay away from the Bull, it’ll mess up your mind and you won’t remember sh!t about the haps at the Fest; go get yourself an Affogado from the ice cream stand. I hope that you enjoyed all you did even if you just had a few at a local watering hole and went to bed after watching Democracy Now! If you need to, take that towel that you brought with you, Arthur, and go catch a nap on one of the grassy places (not for too long though, you’ll miss Earth Wind and Fire, Stevie Nicks or Rod Stewart if you’ve got that on your docket.

I’ve got a docket of my own. My docket is to recall the day the Stones played the Fest: May 2^nd 2024 (Thursday) the Rolling Stones took over The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival; it’s the first day I didn’t go to Jazz Fest in over twenty years. Pre-sale tickets were $185.00 and went up to $250.00 (not my budget, even for Keith and the boys). May 2^nd 2026 I will be at Jazz Fest second lining with Marques and the One-Shot Brass Band parading in the Fest Grounds, rockin’ to Dumpstaphunk, the Soul Rebels, the Skatelites and others from my tribes and vibes. Wave.

 

Jazz Fest Week One 2026

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Infield

Or

Outfield

I saw a peanut stand, heard a rubber band, I saw a needle that winked its eye; I heard a fireside chat, I saw a baseball bat and I just laughed ‘til I thought I’d die. (Dumbo)

JAZZ FEST 2026 week one! Who would want to be anywhere else on Earth; you do have choices, you know: how about the myriads of places that sound as appealing as a poke in the eye with a sharp stick… at this point…on this planet; right? No. The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival is literally the “land of the free and the home of the brave”.

Yeppers, I ‘m Jazzed and ready to Fest! I’ve waited all year; squirreled away, in increments, my hard earned so that I can purchase tickets for each and every day. Do I want a coveted Brass Pass? No, and I’ll tell you why. This wise woman (Debbie) posited to moi that without the Brass thingy, I was virtually held ‘captive’ by the Fest and, in the case that I wanted to leave, I certainly could; BUT, I would not be able to return without the purchase of an additional ticket. So, with a single ticket I HAVE TO stay all day or leave for the day and not return without penalty, and who wants that?

Debbie, of course, as you know, goes right to her favorite seat in the WWOZ Jazz Tent and sits among her Jazz Tent regulars. I on the other hand go wandering; speaking seldom and spectator-ing everything that I can within sight and hearing. For me it’s a type of meditation that I practice; a kind of (extraterrestrial) alien amnesiac yoga-nomics.

As I wander and drift, so does my mind. Take for example: What’s up with this propensity for sites that you log into that want your User Name, Password and your email address to send you a secret code to enter before you can get to where you want to be, pay a bill or find out where that package is?  Did you know that a UPS tracking number is 18-25 letter/numbers long? I have to log into Netflix for goodness sakes; does that mean someone else might break into my house, use my computer to pay my mortgage, find out when my Best of Bread 8-track stereo cartridge is gonna arrive and then go watch The Godfather trilogy? I say, ‘let them’!

Or, why when a package says “tear here to open” it’s impossible to do so. Or opening your mail (you still get mail, doncha?) you need a sharp knife or you have to shred the blessed envelope? All this while I’m dancing through the crowd to get a Vaucresson hot sausage po’boy and trying to decide what side of the bread to put the Creole mustard on or should I go for the top and have it spill on my shirt like last year; and where should I sit to eat it or do I take it to a tent and look like an audience interloper?

It seems that it’s a wonder that I get anywhere at all; so, I don’t, and that’s the point. I’m at the FEST and I aint gotta do nuthin’ at all or I can do anything I wanna do because I’m here ‘til closing and time has just shifted into a dimension otherworldly.

Okay, I’m weird as dirt. I don’t drink alcohol at the Fest; I don’t strive to see a car exhibit; I don’t buy handcrafts (although you should), art or eat anything that I can cook at home (which is over half of what’s for sale); nor do I carry anything that weighs over a pound and a half (bottled water maybe). Don’t get me wrong, I’ll schlep a pillow for Deb and maybe a music program (like this here Where Y’at) or a towel to sit on; but, I’m a hands-free kinda guy when it comes to cruisin’. I also am inherently against a backpack unless I’m going mountain climbing and need to carry a sixpack; and I don’t need to charge a phone.

And, I don’t know how you feel about the subject; BUT (big but) I find here at the Fest there is an epidemic of diversity, equity and inclusion; from the Gospel Tent at the front door to the Blues, Jazz and stages galore, it’s like we’re all part of this big jigsaw puzzle. Pieces fitting together. The audiences seething, the food booths wafting and even the Port-O-Lets sweating, steaming; hungry mouths, moving bodies, overdosing eardrums and body function eliminations all wrapped up in music and grooves. Like one big sensual, sexual, primitive tribal gathering. And I dig it.

Speaking of digging, do all those sacks of potting soil come from a big hole somewhere? Is someone just digging up dirt and sending it in bags to Home Depot and other places? Where does that stuff come from? That must be some big ass hole somewhere.

Anyway, I realize that you have several reasons and/or excuses for not going to the Fest, and I understand, I really do. The crowds; the cost; those smelly Port-o-Lets; the weather; the mud; the cost. Heck, you can spend two weeks grocery money just over one weekend, I get it. Luckily for over a quarter of a million participants shoveling their hard earned to Quint Davis and his non-profit foundation the show goes on; last year, (55 years and counting) this year and with the grace of all the gods and goddesses, next year as well. And with that same grace, I’ll be there also.

        P.S. Don’t forget to vote those f*ckers out of office.

    

Restaurant 2026

 

  Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Dixie Chicken

Or

Tennessee Lamb

“I was always, eh, kinda want to like consider myself kind of a pioneer of the palette; a restaurateur if you will. I’ve wined, dined, sipped and supped in some of the most demonstrably beamer epitomable bistros… ” Tom Waits: Eggs and Sausage

        I’ve opened/owned two restaurants in New Orleans; and, I’ve been in the restaurant business a long time; I have one word for anyone that has taken a shine to opening a palace of gustatory delights… “don’t”.  My excursions in the Big Easy restaurant scene taught me how Not Easy it is to make a living in the biz; some people can, most people cannot. It’s work, luck, money, work, chutzpah, business acumen and more work. And the aim is the same: give you food and take your money. Having you hand over your hard earned willingly and continually is what makes a place a success.

        And, not to brag; but, my forays in the world of restaurant eating, is a sauce of another color. I’ve had what’s considered the best croissant in the world with a cup of hot chocolate, thick as tar sludge, in a little pastry shop in Paris (France) with my nineteen-year-old daughter who claimed that she had not had all the croissants in the world so she couldn’t agree with that assessment.

        I had the most delicious combination of a cheeseburger with a bowl of chili seated at a counter of a small joint in Saint Louis Mo; you know, where they give you those little packets of saltine crackers that you crush up for your chili topping. The kind of chili that is the perfect balance of tomatoes, onions, vinegar and chili powder. Yum

        The soba soup at Mifune in San Francisco’s Japantown is not to be missed; it’s a broth redolent with dashi, noodles cooked to perfection and you eat with chopstick slurping loudly with noodles, broth streaming from your mouth as you suck in as much as you can. The booths are a tight fit and you have to pass the other (sushi) spots to go there on purpose.

        Speaking of sushi, I was part of a foursome in the early nineties at Nobu Matsuhisa’s first restaurant in Beverly Hills where the person that brought me there told the master to send out whatever he wanted to and not to stop until we told him to. Three hours later the bill came to fifteen hundred dollars and not a penny was wasted. I still remember the beautiful quivering sea scallop in its own shell with a fragile broth covered with a sheet of edible gold and topped with caviar.

        I’ve never had a better slice of pizza than the one(s) I had at walking to the beach in Far Rockaway from a guy who sold out of an open front window that he made right in front of everybody who passed; you had two choices: one with pepperoni or one without. You would be served (upon payment) a slice, fresh from the oven, on a piece of waxed paper that you would then fold in half and try to get to your mouth before the tip drooped onto your tee shirt.

        In Ensenada Mexico at a stand in a line of stands that sold the same thing: Fish Tacos, I was served by a ‘woman most gypsy-like’, the perfect fresh dorado taco that was so good that I spent the afternoon drinking Pacifico beer and eating one after another until I thought that I could duplicate them. No, I never could.

        When the Dungeness crabs run up (or down) the coast of California and you sit at a deuce and order them with garlic bread and cheap red wine and get butter all down your chin, wrists, forearms, shirtfront. Erotic.

        My first Cobb Salad at the Ivy in Santa Monica, Ca. blew my mind to find that array of wonderful tastes laid before me like a gustatory harem.

Lemme tell you: I’ve had menudo on Christmas Eve in Puerta Villarta; eggplant at Daino in San Piero Patti, Sicily; Barbecue at The Rendezvous in Memphis, Tenn.; lobster ceviche and pollo al carbon in the Yucatan; beans, tomatoes and eggs for breakfast in London; and, bratwurst and pomme frites in Hamburg, Germany; Oeufs a la Niege in Angers, France and more. Now let’s talk about New Orleans.  

I’ve had red beans and rice at Buster Holmes for less than a dollar; I’ve eaten Ya Ka Mein at a dozen different places; I’ve spent a week’s wages at a fancy restaurant and can’t remember what I ate and I’ve had the boiled turkey necks and pig’s feet at John & Mary’s that I still dream about. I’ve tried every vegan eatery in the city and I’ve leaned against my car in a Dollar General lot and consumed a can of Vienna Sausages.

I’ll eat anywhere that Susan Spicer is involve with; I had Christmas dinner at The Golden Wall Chinese take-out; I’ve had Pho at Eat Well and Bahn Mi at Dom Phong; I love the rib eye (Pittsburg style) at Crescent City and the gumbo at Dooky Chase’s. I’ve had ten cent oysters at some hole in the wall saloon; sipped $500.00 champagne at Muriel’s; love the hot dog and soft drink (free refills) at Costco; Betsy’s for brekkie; the food line at Ideal Market: salivatious!; I’m still eating Tres Leches wherever I find it; Borek at Fatma’s Cozy Corner (a must); I’ve stood in line for free lunch with homeless people (tried to pay but they wouldn’t accept); Ian McNulty’s recommendation for fried chicken at a gas station turned out to be gospel as is the shrimp po’boy at the Orange House. And, oh yeah, this is the Where Y’at Restaurant Issue.  

       

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.