Swamp Ass June 2021

 

Po Boy views

By

Phil LaMancusa

June Bug

Or

Steam Tea

        Surprise, it’s June, named for the Roman goddess Juno, the goddess of marriage and the wife of the big guy Jupiter. And at this point the year is either half empty or half full depending how you look at it, and in New Orleans it’s the start of a long hot summer. Crock Pot hot; sidewalk egg frying, wet blanket, steam room, Swamp Ass Hot.

        Now, you readers that were lured here from northern climes may still have the biorhythms of a race of bipeds that have been conditioned to four distinct and separate seasons; not so here.

        Autumn is like a drunk on a park bench that wakes up only to doze again; winter, like a guerilla, forays in to strike when we least expect; zephyrlike Spring makes cameo appearances in April and May while the Dire Wolf of Summer, after butt dialing us in those months appears, for true, in June to nestle its 600 pounds of sin into our otherwise fun loving auras. Besides that, our seasons are shrimp, crawfish, gumbo and football.

        In June, the heat and humidity are amplified by the street stupidity as if folks here have not realized that again any clothing is too much clothing, you should avoid getting drunk by daylight and if you’re not using hot sauce for anything else, you use it to cool yourself down. That’s right, it’s time for tee shirts and shorts, stick to one (maybe two) beers with that barbecued shrimp poboy and smother everything you eat in Crystal Hot Sauce; ergo, the weather will bow down to you. Dig your capsicum high and don’t forget your SPF 50 sunscreen. You really want cool (?) go to a movie.

        I’ve spent many summers street level in the French Quarter; June is when people start wishing to go back to May, better yet February or maybe December. June is when brains start melting, psyches explode and peoples’ hair catches fire; June is when the reality of summer sets in. June is when Louisiana’s Mother Nature says “tant pis pour toi, Chere, summer’s returned, I’ve turned up the thermostat and I’m coming for you with my unique heat and humidity can of Whup Ass (ready or not); relax and flow into it or draw the shades and live in that space under the air conditioner in your bedroom with cool condensation dripping on your heated brow. You complained about it being cold last winter? Suck it up, Chuck, it’s only gonna get hotter!”

        June is when ghosts come out because it’s too warm to stay inside wherever they’ve put you when you die; Madame Delphine Lalaurie comes strolling up Royal Street with her daughters; Tite Poulette is meeting her lover Kristian Koppig on Dumaine Street; Bill Faulkner is having a game of chess with Lyle Saxton in Jackson Square and the infamous Raspberry Mahogany is back chain smoking his Camel straights. The lovers, the muggers, and thieves are out as well as additional clandestine revelers immuned with absinthe and other liquid spirits enjoying the relative coolness of the after dark. Vampires hum ancient mesmerizing melodies luring you in for a nibble, as do all manner of insects that inhabit our tropic clime: mosquitoes buzzing, cicadas singing and those gigantic roaches that we call Palmetto Bugs that can take wing and fly into your face, sometimes stinging, going clickity clacking around the walls and ceiling fans. Welcome to New Orleans with stinging caterpillars, spiders and all manner of nocturnal, sometimes marsupial in nature, critters; summer is not for the faint of heart. And the breeze whispers “Stella!”

        June is when the specter of storms past herald storms in your near future and smart money starts thinking about tempest preparedness; it’s our simultaneous eyes in the rear view and on the road ahead weather outlook. We tune in regularly to watch our favorite climate forecasters, judging their level of excitement when a blower in the gulf looks like it’s gonna eat our lunch. It’s a real Russian roulette of doom and gloom and each spaghetti model will always include a direct hit. Good luck, this goes on until November, don’t let it affect your blood pressure. Check your battery supplies, eat what’s in your freezer and get the car tuned and gassed.

        June is also when we take stock of water to immerse ourselves in; whether it’s a weekend getaway to the gulf, across the lake or sussing who will give us ‘pool privileges’. The city provides free swimming pools and the hip get to enjoy moments of aquaculture gratis. Smart money always knows someone that can sneak them into a hotel for a couple of hours poolside (women are great at this) and you’ll learn sooner than later that you’d better be on your best behavior or you’ll be back on the street with the rest of the melting masses.

        So this June when you turn on the cold water tap and get Luke warm, ask yourself: “who is this Luke person anyway? Was he moderately warm, tepid? Lacking convictions, half hearted? This faucet says cold; what am I to believe? Who can I believe, who can I trust? Oh hell, I’m going back to the bathroom and lie naked on the cool tile floor!”

        Also in June, and at all times, never purchase a tomato that’s been refrigerated; also, drink cucumber juice, stay hydrated and have some Viet Cajun crawfish which is like other boils only this one is drenched in butter with fresh ginger and garlic. I don’t know what else to tell you, June’s here and today is the first day of the rest of your long sunshiny summer; be brave, start looking forward to a healthy Jazz Fest and plan on attending every day, even if you have to quit your job. Happy coming up solstice y’all!

Covid Purgatory

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Covid Purgastory

Or

Suspended Animation

        Am I mistaken or did I just lose a year (plus) of my life? It seems so; a year. Gone. What happened....? What happened was/is a worldwide epidemic that is innocently enough called a ‘pandemic’ (it’s less tragic sounding on the mind, I think) that threw a monkey wrench wet blanket buzz buster of a life style reality change at me and then kicked me to the curb and under a bus and I still am not allowed to hug any of my friends for commiseration, compassion and/or consolation!

        The rumor of our collective disruption began January 2020 and the hammer came down in March: “wear a mask, practice social distancing, avoid large gatherings, and wash your hands; rinse and repeat”. Folks are catching it and dying; this shyte is hella serious!

        Mardi Gras 2020 was the last hurrah before the curtains started to close in like a fade to black B movie scene. No Jazz Fest (we had already purchased tickets for ALL the days). No French Quarter Fest or any of the other ‘Fests’ that happen around our area (crawfish, strawberry, boudin, Satchmo etc) that I may or may not have attended given my ability to freely choose. Any travel plans that we might have had hatching in our fun and fantasy musings got smothered at birth as the rest of the country, and the world, closed for business and pleasure; I admit that that only made my wanderlust more acute.

        In the summer our local city’s free swimming pools began taking only on line reservations for attendance; the Stallings pool (Olympic size, outdoor venue) was limited to eight people at a time, down from an all welcome affair; the Treme Center down to six. Museums, galleries, theaters, aquarium, Zoo and any other alternative activities shut down like a café with a rodent infestation. Restaurants were closing (some permanently), reopening and shutting down again in an endless covid19 threat level tango. All around people shopping like we’re under attack; there were shortages of paper products, hand sanitizer, disinfectants and food products such as baking flour and yeast.

        Our lives became upended as the unemployment rate skyrocketed; the gravy train rolled in and we caught a ride at six large a week which we did our best to give away, our stimulus check went to a Latino church, we gave freely and even got mostly out of debt ourselves, we got the car fixed.

        Debbie assures me that my shopping has not abated but I don’t concur; I haven’t been to any places that pose a health risk which, until very recently, have been corner markets, convenience stores (for lottery tickets) and any place where people who don’t take precautions as they shop; you see, a lot of folks around here did not take the plague (that’s what it is) seriously and it was suspect that we could venture anywhere with safety and security because of these ignoramuses that could very well be walking virus spreaders.

        The weather didn’t help either. We had heat, street flooding, power outages, hurricanes, and this winter we had freezing cold. We had a political landscape that mirrored our weather: ups and downs and downs and downs and with it my optimism and my faith dove for the covers and hid. We hunkered down as much as humanly possible while still trying to carry on in some type of normalcy; shopping became for the most part, a weekly affair, buying in quantity meals ahead and stocking up on essentials (critter food) just as the rest of the city did.

        We watched the news incessantly. We watched the numbers go up. We lost a friend and a few acquaintances to the disease. We got tested as often as possible. We have morning coffee with the New York Times (delivered). Happy hour became potato chips and a cold beer in bed. We bake bread, cookies, prepare meals and muse of things lost. Even our staff meetings for Where Y’at are on Zoom now.

We’re damn near aliens to our friends and families, socially distanced, you might say. I catch up with my family through electronics (cell phone, social media); my grandkids are getting bigger and are getting virtual educations.

        We ask each other “What do you miss most?” “Where would you go eat?” “What trip would you take?” “Who would you hug?” Pick the first three that come to mind; GO!

        I finally scored a job, Debbie is still looking, it’s not been easy; sure the government is still willing to kick in, but we enjoy gainful employment, the interaction, the productivity, the work. I work with a dozen masked people; the other day I realized that I don’t know what any of them look like, I wouldn’t recognize them on the street (unless they were masked).

        New Orleans is a tactile city; we hug, bump, kiss, hustle and show affection to each other and to people we just have met. We dance together and close. I’m wrapped in a social cocoon, unable to touch or be touched; luckily I have a house full of critters and a woman who loves me dearly. But, it still feels like I lost a year (plus) of my life and still no one knows when our lives, as we knew them, will return or if this really is the new reality.

        We collectively imagine our future to look like our past but I’m not sure that that’s ever going to be possible. They talk about herd immunity. They talk of political harmony. They talk of environmental and social safety and nurturing. They talk as if this is the first year of the rest of our lives; they talk of shaking off the past and bravely pulling up our big boy pants after taking it in the shorts. They talk and talk and talk about striding boldly where no one has gone before. Me? I just don’t know.

My Unslung Pass codes

 

Po Boy views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Spectrophobia

Or

Accessible Codes

A friend of mine made fashionable cloth facial coverings for the plague and was selling them on line; mentioning them on FaceBook, she said that they were available on line but if we were in the neighborhood we could pick them up less expensively. Cool, I thought, and tried messengering her back about info on where to pick them up. Picking up my cell I received the instructions: “Please sign into your FaceBook account, user name and password” Me: “Hell, I don’t know; I’ll do this later”.

Later I couldn’t remember where I saw the darn info on the FaceBook so I looked on Intsagram; didn’t find it there so I went to her Intsagram page to send her a message. I received similar admonitions precluding the preceding of my proceeding: “Sorry. That message is not sent. Please sign into Intsagram using your … username and password”.

Please enter your special pin number if you want to use your Debit card, pay a bill on line, get technical support for your computer, get a bank balance over the phone or log onto your web address. “Please punch in your Social Security number and pass code” Can’t remember your user name or password? “Reset by clicking here. Enter the email and phone number associated with this account and we’ll send you a one-time passcode of six numbers, enter them below to reset your password. Your new password should be 8-16 characters, at least one upper case and one or more symbols i.e: !#$%&*”.

Periodically, a seemingly innocent message is sent to my phone advising me to open an attachment sent by a ‘friend’ (“I think I saw you in this tell me what you think! Click here to open attachment”) open it and I’m hacked! I need to change all my passwords. Where do I start?

I have three bank accounts (savings, checking and credit card), I have two debit card numbers to remember; I have three email addresses, I have FaceBook, Intsagram, Paypal, Ebay, different websites that I purchase things from (yes, even that one). I have my cell phone password, a keypad front door, username and password to file for unemployment, contact my healthcare provider, open my laptop, check with my auto insurance company and check the status on my covid19 testings.

I log on to stream shows, I use three different remote control thingies for three different screens, I identify myself by license, passport, voter registration, I need to show my ID when I buy beer at Winn Dixie and enter and leave Cosco.

I punch a keypad at Walgreens, Petco, CVS, AutoZone and I’ve got to punch in my zip code when I buy gas. I never wanted this. Then there’s the keys.

I have two keys for my car, one each for front door, back door, side yard, back yard and I have the neighbor’s in case they lose theirs; instead of leading a simple life, I’m a frickkin’ hostage!

I foresee a possible future where I have a microchip imprinted in my left palm, a barcode tattooed on my right wrist, an MP3 implanted behind my right ear and my cell phone attached to my medulla oblongata; implanted behind my left breast nipple is an ALEXA-like device connected to my ocular lenses.

I’ll buy beer with the wave of my wrist and pump gas with abandon; ALEXA will make and break my appointments and direct my deposits and automatically withdraw my expenses all to the soundtrack of my life pumping into my cerebral cortex. The guesswork will be taken out of an exercise routine, I’ll learn to speak Italian and play the piano. Life will simply be a matter of whatever I wish, I’ll be free to evolve spiritually; “ALEXA, book a yoga class for me with my guru and a reservation for a vegan late lunch, block out some time for a nap and have a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape 2015 delivered. Oh, and remind me that the dog’s been promised a long walk this afternoon. Thank you.” Naturally ALEXA will answer “No problem Boss” ( Master, Biatch, Honey or whatever I might be calling myself that day).

I’ll get up in the morning and coffee will be made, the paper delivered and the thermostat set on a lovely seventy-eight degrees; the laundry service will have come and gone and I’ll be free to take my sketch pad to the park (with pup in tow) and capture nature as it’s intended, pausing just long enough to apply some sun block to my solar paneled bald head. If I’m approached by a friend ALEXA will remind me of their name and where I know them from. I’ll invite them for tea, we’ll wear tiaras. Oh, I will sing the body electronic.

The only challenge is that that would be too perfect. You see, objectively speaking, for every stress that I‘ve created there is a compensation and each compensation comes with a responsibility to accept or not. Some stress I create, others just come with the turf; that’s the beauty of it, that’s the gift of the Magi, the Christmas miracle. Life is what you make it or make of it. Within you, without you.

I have a friend that when confronted by another’s less than perfect condition (weakness) usually counters with cutting sarcasm, I’m sure if he reads this, he’ll make fun of my complaints and my complaining. It’s okay, I know his heart, we both listen to Tim Buckley. I’ll think of him when I edit, do a word count, go to my editor’s website, write a brief note, attach the article and push the ‘send’ button.

I’ll stop counting the ways I dwell on paying attention to annoying minor insignificant details in my life and focus on counting the blessings that I have with the people around me that have my user name and pass code: it’s simply: “Where y’at Phil!”

 

Mother's Day 2021

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Birds Do It

Or

Mother’s Day

The story goes: Boy meets Girl meets Girl Meets Boy and they fall in love love. Girl loses Boy loses Girl (a misunderstanding, infidelity, unforeseeable distancing or that old saw “I need more space”). Then--Viola! Boy and Girl get back together; there’s romance, adventure, mystery and the next thing, Girl’s in a white dress with bridesmaids; Boy’s in a tux with groomsmen. They say “I do” and go on a honeymoon; settle down, have beautiful and gifted children and live happily ever after. The End.

What’s generally left out of the story is that somewhere in that story there’s some steamy hot monkey love going on that creates those babies. Yes, somewhere along the way, Girl goes from virginal to vaginal and the result is--surprise--YOU! (reminder: call your mother and wish her Happy Mother’s Day, if you can.)

Way back, when we were wee bairn growing, dealing with our own selfish wants, needs, impulses, appetites and egos our moms and dads while ‘sleeping late’ on Saturdays--as we boggled our wee minds with cartoons on the telly--were actually doin’ the mambo boudoir upstairs and the next thing you know, the stork has dropped Brother Clem down our chimney. What chimney you ask? Why, the same one that Santa uses! Simple. Or maybe mom went to the cabbage patch (where the Easter Bunny lives) and picked out Sister Sue. What did we know?

We rarely thought of our moms as sexual beings with the same drives and lusts that we come to think of as specifically unique to ourselves and our peer groups. We surmised that we had actually invented sex. Well, surprise again; whatever your parents didn’t tell you about procreation, they were practicing (and sometimes perfecting). In fact, they were up to their stars and garters indulging in it! Upstairs! Behind your backs! While you were watching Elmer Fudd “twacking wabbits”!

And having just as much fun as you do now, once you got the hang of it.

Yes, as eventually our hungers and hormones kicked in and we learned about sex from our friends and in the street; let it be known that mom (and dad) knew about it all along, unless she was in one of those relationships where “she cries alone at night too often, he smokes and drinks and don’t come home at all” (Only Women Bleed, Alice Cooper 1975) and amazingly, even then, offspring often occurred.

Speaking of moms (and who isn’t?) In most families I know, sex and procreation are hardly a dinner table conversation; I mean, how would mom bring up that subject? “Hey Son, let’s have a little talk about orifices.” Or “Lois, did I tell you what I saw while visiting Uncle Sid’s sheep farm?” All the while, she knew all about it but couldn’t bring herself to explain it to you; she probably couldn’t picture Grandma getting it on with grandpa either. Don’t fret, it runs in the family.

But we’re not here to talk about the birds and the bees and your parent’s sexual escapades. We’re here to talk about Mother’s Day and May and margaritas and mischief and all the mayhem that you’re expected to bring into your life this month. It’s springtime and your mind should be focused on pagan hedonistic tendencies and not your mama’s uterus.  However, let’s back to serious Mother’s Day madness.

Anyone who has a mother knows that they come with a toolbox; the tool most apparent is her presence. Then comes nurturing; discipline; inspiration; critiquing; loving; spoiling; guilt tripping; educating; encouraging; sarcasm; and perfecting the look that says that: “you’re working my last nerve, Little Missy” and/or “you’re not leaving the house wearing THAT!”

In most cases, Mom was also there to wake you in the morning and offer you your Cheerios with milk and a pair of clean drawers to go with your clean clothes. She’ll get you off to school or wherever and go about her day, either going to work herself and/or planning the groceries; cleaning; laundry; appointments for the dentist; PTA (do they still have that?); staying in touch with family and friends; and seeing to your health, well being and soccer practice. She may want you to take music, dance or diction lessons. She did all those things until she didn’t. She wanted you to have better than she did.  It’s not so simple. She was not perfect. She wiped your bottom, your nose and your tears; she wrought you and she warped you. It’s the Universal Mother Syndrome (UMS).

This mother’s day you’ll beg for a brunch reservation at Chez Wha. She’ll arrive dressed in Scarlett O’Hara taffeta; she’ll be given a complimentary mimosa, a single rose and a cramped table by the kitchen where she will stoically avoid telling you that she’d rather you had done a crawfish boil where she could relax in her festival chair, in her Saints sweats, drink beer until she got stupid and fall into an afternoon nap.

So, what do you really want to say to your mother on Mother’s Day who either: 1. after champagne and a candlelight dinner at Mario’s Bistro; or 2. role playing The Sailor and The Slutty Barmaid while her roommate was on vacation; or 3. simply knocking off a piece for the hell of it on a Saturday morning, got ‘in the family way’ and gave you life?

How about: “Mom, I’m sure I was no piece of cake; but, all things considered, you really didn’t do such a bad job of raising me; I wouldn’t be here without you. Thanks.”

Note: sometimes your Dad filled the role of your Mom. Thank him and Happy Mother’s Day to ALL you Mothers.

Missing saint Joseph

 

Missing Saint Joseph by Phil LaMancusa

With the advent of steam engines in the early 1800s, transatlantic crossings became more efficient and timely. Entrepreneurs in a small island kingdom called Sicily began opening Mediterranean commerce bringing high quality, and at that time exotic, products including wines, olives, cheeses and especially the wonderful Sicilian lemons. Each lemon was wrapped individually in paper, carefully placed in a bed of shredded paper and sent on its 29 day trip to the ports of New York and New Orleans timed to arrive perfectly ripe and sold to waiting brokers.

Sicilians began staying in these ports in large numbers, farming, fishing and opening businesses; by the 1840s New Orleans was the third largest city in the USA with tens of thousands of immigrants from Sicily settling in and around what we call the French Quarter, so many so that at that time the area was known as Little Palermo. The immigrants also found seasonal work harvesting sugar cane; they brought a saint with them: Saint Joseph the Worker, patron saint of laborers and artisans, (Also known as the husband of Jesus’ mother Mary) with a feast day of April 19th.

Historically, Saint Joseph is said to have saved the Sicilians from drought, famine and starvation allowing them to plant and harvest fava beans. To celebrate, altars of food are erected in Catholic churches and Catholic homes; ritually the altars are three tiered, acknowledging the Holy Trinity and decorated with flowers, pastries, breads, wine and at times seafood; it is during Lent so traditionally there is no meat. The altars are erected starting April 10^th and will remain until the feast day of the 19^th when an ample meal is prepared for visitors. The food is served to anyone hungry. Anyone. Any leftovers are donated to the underprivileged.

I’ve been to St. Joseph’s meals throughout the city in my tenure here (31 years and counting) the last one before the pandemic was a lunch at St. Augustine, where two Sicilians who had baked and donated thousands of cookies explained to a largely African American congregation that they did this each year for them because in the early days they (Sicilians)were banned from worshiping in Creole churches and it was St. Augustine’s church that took them in and they would not forget that kindness not even after 200 years.

The Mardi Gras Indians come out to celebrate St. Joseph’s Day also, and when I asked Big Chief David Montana of the Washita Nation why, he simply said “because St. Joseph was black!”  I had not thought of that aspect, but given the proximity and cultural geographics 2,000 plus years ago, I find no argument either for or against and for me, St. Joe (I call him Joe) could be any color or ethnic profile. You see, I am a fan and a believer of and in St. Joe, his style, example and message; I dearly miss celebrating his special day because of this friggin’ plague.

I miss getting my little goody bag with the prayer card, the blessed fava bean to keep in my wallet all year for luck and money, the fig and sesame cookies and that slice of French bread to throw out of my back window in case of storms.

The story is that Mary was engaged in marriage to Joe (arranged, I’m sure) and he found out that she was already pregnant; he was about to call it all off when an angel visited him in a dream and told him that the child she carried was the son of God. The wedding was back on and he spent his days providing for and protecting their lives and limbs. He is called Jesus’ ‘Earthly Father’ and, to me, that is worthy. I look up to him and as a child of the universe, I can truthfully say that Joseph the Worker is truly a saint and I call on him whenever I need patience, perseverance and understanding. I want to be like him when I grow up.

Saint Joseph, who was a carpenter by trade, is the patron saint of workers, artisans and some say, of unwed mothers; others will tell you that he is the patron saint of secrets (if you tell St. Joe a secret, you can be sure that he’ll keep it) and that he has the power, through your prayers, to steer storms away. He is the consummate everyman and, if you believe, he will keep you from harm.

I consider myself a spiritual rather than a religious person, and as such do not adhere to limiting doctrines and house of worship rituals; I also am a proud Sicilian. This gives me the freedom to believe any fanciful, celebratory, joyous, loving and positive occasion, especially, if they include Mardi Gras Indians and big lunches.

 

 

 

 

Restaurants 101

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Restaurants 101

Or

The Right Stuff

        As we all know (or should), there is the fear of 50% of New Orleans restaurants closing mostly forever because of the pandemic (nola.com), and that gives you, my optimistic entrepreneur in a fit of spontaneous enthusiasm, the chance to exercise an innate inclination to open your very own bistro, trattoria, café, joint, beer garden, boite or gourmangerie. The word from your culinary visionary, advisor and all around restaurant consultant (me) is “consider”.  

        Just because you make a dynamite Bolognese, Tarte Tatin, Vegan Seitan Bourguignon or have the inside track to the next greatest raging collective culinary epiphany doesn’t mean that you’ll be able to make a go where/when others have failed--statistically about 60% in the first year and 70-85% in the first five years (cnbc.com). Unless. Unless you are a wizard with mathematics, have money to invest expecting little chance of return and are willing to give up your life and free time for the more than foreseeable future you’re in for a major heartbreak, my friend. Consider.

        Purchasing a defunct restaurant is logistically sane because the location is mentally ingrained in eater’s consciousness; especially considering that the three most important considerations of opening any restaurant are generally location, location and location.  If it is in an average or so so location you’ll spend about $2,500 per seat to purchase (40 seats = $100,000.00) if you’re lucky. This will not include the rent; this is where you walk into a place and tell the previous owner “look, I’ll give you a hundred grand to turn it over to me”. For a functioning restaurant you’ll pay more or usually the equivalent of a year’s profits. Purchasing something existing and believing that you can make it better is called a “blue sky” investment. If you look at taking an empty space and turning it into your dream eatery, figure on $5,000.00 a seat for the location not counting your rent.

        Rent. Consider your rent will be 5% of your income; if your rent is $7,500.00 a month, you’ll have to take in $150,000.00 a month (I speak from professional knowledge, experience and failure in this field). Get a long lease with an option and beware the ‘triple net’, which is where you pay also the upkeep, maintenance and insurance on the property aside from the business. Don’t forget to register the lease at City Hall to cement it in legally.

        As you peruse your space, after learning the rent, count your tables and seats. Let’s get back to those 40 seats; at $150,000.00 a month income each seat will need to bring in $3,750.00 a month; we’re talking real estate here. Here’s where mathematics becomes mind blowing. Dinner only? Lunch and dinner? Take out and/or delivery? Six days a week or seven? Weekend brunch? Menu prices, average check, liquor license, counter service. How much are you willing to spend on labor, food cost, and ambiance?

        Next: identify your customers; who are they, where are they coming from, what do they want and how much are they willing to spend? Will you consider media presence, advertising, billboards and/or sending out flyers? How will you get customers to notice you? Celebrity chef, two for ones, happy hour, catering, early bird dinners, live music, free beer and hand jobs?

        Hiring and training staff: once you’ve decided how many you need; this is a real challenge. Do you have a manager? Hire one that you’re sure that you can tell what to do and not the other way around, your dream should have but one boss: you; right or wrong, it’s you that will take it in the shorts should you go down the tubes. Get someone that you can bounce your ideas off of that can advise you when it’s time to get back in the box. Encourage input but retain veto power. You may want to avoid hiring relatives.  Hire only the malleable and career minded, no one too young (immature) or too old (may know too much); I know it’s not fair, but reality sucks, get the young, eager, and full of body fluids, you’re building a team here. If the culinary business wanted experience and wisdom, I would be employed out there; obviously that (hiring veteran service workers) is something the industry as a whole shuns, so, it must be a tenet or something.    

Pay people fairly and reward loyalty; consistently treat everyone, from lowest to highest, with respect and let all know that you expect their best. Lead by example, don’t micromanage, be firm and sensitive and most of all don’t flaunt your position. Learn to do everyone’s job; yes, even the dishwasher. Create passion. Be careful of what you say at all times and how you say it, you’re an example, so be a righteous one.

Get a good office staff or at least a qualified accountant to keep track of all the pennies; learn to read the numbers, numbers don’t lie. Remember that volume covers a lot of sins and things will look good when you’re busy, you’ll tend to count the dollars and forget the pennies; but beware, let pennies slip and dollars follow.

Always have a resident maniac on duty and a nag in the office, keep eyes on everything all the time, insist on accountability from anyone involved in anything; listen to staff unrest with mindfulness.

I’ve worked in food service all my life and believed that I would until my last breath, and when I hear of another closing it’s like a death in the family; I’m looking forward to eateries roaring back after this is over. New Orleans has an appetite for life and needs to be fed. Hopefully rents will be reasonable so that you can forge ahead and be part of the wave of maniacs that against all odds will take us to the next level. I’m counting on you and that monster spaghetti sauce.

Valentines 2021

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Valentine’s Truth

Or

Consequences

            “Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, had a wife but couldn’t keep her; put her in a pumpkin shell and… she left him for Abe the green grocer.” Pete didn’t know what to make of it; he was completely surprised. Happy Valentine’s.

I knew a man once who drank after work well into the night while his woman slept so that she could get up early to exercise; I knew a woman who couldn’t grasp the meaning of fidelity and couldn’t understand why it bothered her fiancé. I know a headstrong man and a loving woman that would follow his ignus fatuus adventures with stars in her eyes until he exhausted her. I knew an intelligent woman that dumped her lover because he couldn’t read a sentence without moving his lips with the words.  I knew a good hearted woman in love with a good timing man.  I knew a lot of relationships that just did not work out because sometimes people are attracted to alternatives and because someone sees that what was enjoyable in the beginning of a relationship can get old and there’s more to life.

            Someone once told me that in a relationship of any kind “first comes love, then comes work and then love comes back” I have to admit that it took me a long time to stick around for that ‘work’ part. Ask any of my ex-wives. I’ve gone through most of my life headlong, leaving collateral damage in my wake until I gave up fighting myself; that may not make any sense to anyone but me, but finally I started paying attention.

Love goes away if you don’t pay attention to it; same goes for romance, both unique in their own ways and at many times at odds with each other. Research (mine) shows that while love (at times spelled with a capital ‘L’) can be viewed from an objective viewpoint, romance (also sometimes ‘R’) is very very subjective; what they have most in common is that when you have one, the other or both, if you don’t pay attention, nurture and foster their growth, they will simply go away. Romance is first to jump ship; love will stick around for a while and then get bored, distracted and head in another direction. You know this to be true, you just didn’t think about it this way. And by the way, Valentine’s Day is not a quick fix.

            Romance is spurred by impulse e.g. beauty, lust, sight, sound, taste, i.e. “he/she was humming that tune I love so much while cooking Pasta Arriabiata and dancing around the kitchen in that sexy way and I could have just……”  (you get the picture).

Love is when you wake up in crumpled sheets (hopefully not alone) with red sauce stains on the pillow still humming that tune.

            Now, about that paying attention stuff. A cavity in that rear molar, that leaky pipe under the bathroom sink and that little Screek! Screek! sound you hear when you apply the brakes will probably not be going away until you do something about them; conversely, the unfed cat, the untended rose bush, that wallet you left on the counter at the Seven-Eleven will, sure as shoot, not last long. It’s as simple as that. Live and learn or live and don’t learn.

            What do you do? What you do is what you should be doing, not only on Valentine’s Day with flowers, dinner and some heavy petting, but what you should be doing all year; paying attention. Pay attention to what you love and certainly, feed, tend and celebrate what you romance; read the signs and follow the breadcrumbs, the relationship you save, if it’s worth it to you, may be your own.  Paying attention means that you realize that people grow and if you don’t grow together, you can surely grow apart. 

            Little things and big things keep romance alive; taking care of yourself is the biggest; if you want to keep attracting, you have to be attractive. Next, if you can name counterproductive attributes that you have (be honest with yourself) and get rid of them; generally that’s another plus. Be ready to admit your weaknesses and your faults; it’s alright to be wrong and saying that you’re sorry only matters if you are ready to change your ways.

            Why am I on this rant? Because Valentine’s Day has special meaning to me and at this point, I can look back on my life and count them like railroad ties. Lately, I don’t count on nuthin’; there are so many variables in relationships that one slip and it’s down that slope.

            I have a theory that each relationship will attempt to teach you something and if you don’t learn, it’s on into the next one until you either learn how not to be such a ____ ____ ______ (fill in the blanks) you’ll keep missing the point and die lonely and alone.

            Now, if you don’t mind being alone, being your own best friend and getting in touch with yourself on those cold and lonely nights, have at it; most of us miserables like a little company.

            That’s my story and I’m stickin’ with it; now go out and make reservations at a romantic spot, buy expensive flowers or maybe some trinket or other, a card would be nice that says “Roses are red…” or some such rot. I’m satisfied that I’ll only get what I deserve.

            My Valentine’s present will be when she says to me “you know, Honey, we don’t need those things, it’s Valentine’s Day every day for us”. Happy Valentine’s Day Y’all!