MARDI GRAS!!!
Day 1 Saturday
We flew in and made it to Peristyle for our
10pm reservations. I knew their scallops were amazing, so I ordered them as an
appetizer. The menu options were exotic, and I knew it would all be good, so I
let the server choose. I had duck, with duck bacon and foi gras. Normally I
would not order fois gras, but it something to try once in your life. Remember
SQUIRT gum? Your entire mouth is flooded with pure fat. It is like meat
custard, the richest fattiest thing in the world. The duck was not at all
gamey, but cooked medium rare, the flavor was just too “ducky”. Although most
people probably prefer that their duck taste like duck, I need it cooked longer
and to have some type of fruit sauce to make it palatable.
I had a mission to get a
photo of me flashing at "Girls Gone Wild" for the comedic effect. We
walked over to their party. They didn’t have banners for me to pose in front
of, but I put on one of their hats while Kristina got a photo...mission accomplished.
We went over to where their back rooms were and saw a giant, burly guy
"escort", no..., "lead", no, "strong arm" a
young, totally wasted girl into the back room. It made the hair on our necks
stand up. We were skeeved out, and left immediately. We walked a few blocks
down Bourbon street and soon hated everybody. It was a bad vibe. Withing 10
minutes, I was splashed with beer, Pimm's cup (mine) and vomit (not mine). I
cleaned up at the Napoleon House. I scrubbed up with water hot enough to burn
me. I noticed Kristina hadn't given away any of her beads and she said,
"Those people don't deserve my beads."
We went to Coop's, quite a walk away, but
by now we needed crab claws and sanity. We sunk into a cozy wooden bench. We
feasted on their unbelievable crab claws, and Pasta Opelousas. I bought their
cookbook, since that Pasta Opelousas is Bob's favorite.
Now we were ready to go
home, but there were no taxis. NO TAXIS. So we walked over to Hotel Le
Richeleau where I knew they have a taxi stand. But there were NO TAXIS. We went
into Le Richeleau and the lady called for one. She wouldn’t let us wait outside
because she said the driver would get mad if she called them and then we were
gone when they arrived. She insisted that we wait in the lobby. We passed
through the bar on the way to use the ladies room and there were only two
people in the bar, one at a table, and one on a stool, both sound asleep. We
went back into the lobby and each took a seat on their two Queen Anne sofas. We
slowly slid down in the couches, and Kristina immediately fell asleep. I gave
up after trying to wake her up twice. The next thing I knew, I was waking up
myself and asked the lady how much time had passed. She said, "Only twenty
minutes...I called twice...they'll come." So I let myself drift off again.
Soon I awoke in a panic. We were in the poppy fields of The Wizard of Oz! As we
left, Kristina said, "I don't think that lady really called a taxi".
We luckily caught one a block away (well, I stood in front of it and it either
had to stop or run me over....desperate times...desperate measures).
Day 2 Sunday
I woke up around 2 pm.
We looked out the window and the parades were going right past us, plus we were
kitty-corner from Mother’s Po Boys. We went over and got in line at Mother’s.
They had a cop working the line to make sure everyone followed protocol. We
ordered a Ferdi (roast beef, ham, and pan drippings known as “debris”), a roast
beef sandwich, grits, red beans and bread pudding. We could only manage to eat
one sandwich and some bread pudding. One tip I learned...take the sandwich and
turn it upside down. That way the meat doesnt fall out the soggy bottom. We
were stuffed. That sandwich was a revelation for Kristina. A parade started
going by and I ran out for a quick sec to watch. I was almost immediately
beaned right between the eyes with a full dozen bag of beads. OUCH!!! There is
an art to parade watching.
Kristina came out and we
got caught up in the fun. The mood was festive, everyone was cool, it was the
exact opposite of Bourbon Street. We spent around two hours out there, and
caught a bunch of stuff. But then as I was going long for a doubloon, I fell on
my ass in the gutter and broke the lens right off my new digital camera! But at
least the pics are still accessable. And Kristina got a great shot of me
falling down. Then Kristina got beaned in the head with a full bag of beads, so
we returned to the hotel and relaxed in the jacuzzi.
Sunday evening we walked down to the Bacchus parade. We had been
led to believe it was a somewhat risque parade, but there were kids on the
floats and it was your standard parade. It had a football theme this year, so
we weren’t that into it.
The crowd was not as
cool as the day crowd. One guy in particular managed to pull off a
triple-header of spilling my own beer on me, screaming at ME for it, and
copping a feel off Kristina. Here is what happened: a float rider had tossed
some beads to me, even though I was standing away from the crowd with my beer.
This guy leapt in front of me to intercept the beads as if he were taking a
bullet for the president. Then he screamed at me when my beer spilled. As I
yelled back at him, an incredibly smooth local woman took my by the elbow and
led me away, saying, "Look! Look at that! You have to get a picture of
that!" (Look at the birdie, look at the birdie...) I took the obligatory
picture, accepting her intervention. Then I got hit right in the eye with a
huge bag of beads.
After a fresh beer and bag of ice, we
continued walking along the parade route. Someone yelled in my face,
"Peristyle!!!" I stared at him stupidly, dumbfounded that he knew my
favorite restaurant, before recognizing him as the maitre d'. We asked him
where we should eat, and he yelled over the marching band,
"Eat Elvis Presley!!!!
"What????"
"Go Eat Elvis Presley!!!"
"What????"
"LeKit Brossree!!!!"
"Oh,
Le Cote Brasserie!!!"
"Kristina asked, "What's a brossree??" Then she took a bag of beads
in the side of the head.
At Le Cote Brasserie, we
took seats at the bar and ordered appetizers (tempura shrimp and crab cakes).
When I returned from a restroom break, I found a Phish-type guy cozying up to
Kristina. He was in the middle of a hard-luck tale about how he had no place to
stay. I told him to go to Le Richeleau and ask them to call him a cab.
Day 3 Monday
From the moment we were awakened
prematurely by a call from the front desk, almost everything went wrong Monday.
Mostly the usual hotel problems, but I had a total drama trying to get my 90
pounds of beads to the Mardi Gras party we were planning to attend at Mike
Andersons. They insisted we bring them Mardi Gras day, when cabs don't run in
the Quarter, or that night, when we had Neville Brothers tickets. They wouldn't
let me bring them right then. They fought me and fought me on it and Janis, my
"connection" there was off that day. So I called the bell desk and a
guy came up to discuss the situation. I wanted them to take the beads over for
me in a taxi later that night since we had Neville Brothers tickets and
couldn't. What followed was a conversation straight out of the Sopranos. The
bellman wanted to know how much I would give him to "take care of
the...ummm…”situation". He shook me down for 40 bucks and assured me he
was going straight to Mike Andersons and they were "gonna take dem
beads". Kristina asked me why I gave money to such a pushy jerk. I figured
fight fire with fire.
We had breakfast/lunch at Mulates. It is
made to look like a big warehouse, in a Disneyesque way. There was a zydeco
band playing and old people dancing the two-step. It was clearly the kind of
place where a local would not be caught dead. My stuffed crabs were mediocre
but Kristina went nuts over her crab-stuffed catfish.
We walked over to the Orpheus parade, which
was just gorgeous. Their parades were covered with gigantic flowers and the
bands were rocking. Very "Drum Line". As I was taking a picture of a
lovely float, a bag of beads hit the camera lens, smashing the camera into my
face and possibly scratching the lens.
By now I had learned how
to catch beads. You have to block the face with the hands, like you would catch
a baseball. But then a huge bunch of beads came flying towards me that were not
in a bag so I could catch them. They were tied together with a band at one end,
and were like a spinning whip. They flew between my hands and got me right in
the face. Hard. REALLY HARD. It felt like what I imagine it would be like to
get shot with 100 BB guns at once. Tears immediately streamed down my face as I
staggered away. A parade worker tried to lead me to an ambulance. I refused,
saying, "I'm OK, I just need to cry for exactly 5 minutes." As he
continued trying to coax me into the ambulance, a bright shiny float passed by,
and I ran off to take a picture. Oooooh, pretty....
I thought I would have
purple dots on my face the next day, but it seems my face can take alot more
than I had ever given it credit for. No bruises at all. But Kristina and I were
wondering if the Krewe meetings went like this:" OK, I'll give you 10
bucks for every hat you can knock off an old man, and 20 bucks for every
redhead you can smash in the kisser..."
We headed over to House
of Blues at 11:30 and the Neville Brothers were right on schedule. It was
packed like a sardine can, if sardines were really big and sweaty revelers. I
figured if we couldn't see, we could at least hear well, so we went to stand by
the soundboard. We were lucky and got a clear view from the platform by the
board. When they played "Iko Iko" and "Hey Pocky Way" it
was magic. Mostly they played religious music and covers. They did "Ball
of Confusion" and two Bob Marley songs. Aaron did an a capella version of
"Amazing Grace" that was so touching it probably would have made me
weep if not for the distraction of the pain in my feet from all the walking,
and the pain in my face from all the bead not-catching. I was disappointed that
Art didn't do his old stuff, but he didn't really look well. They had to help
him from the keyboard when they left the stage.
After the House of Blues, we headed over to
Jumani, my favorite late-night bar that also serves food. I was very
disappointed to discover that during Mardi Gras they don't make their infamous
“ass-pork sandwiches”.
If I may digress for a moment, I will tell
you the story of the ass-pork sandwich. Delicate ears need read no further. The
first time I ate at Jumani, it was on the recommendation of a cab driver. It
was very late at night, or very early in the morning, depending on your
perspective. On that first visit, my boyfriend and I ordered pulled pork
sandwiches. While we waited, I asked a patron if I could sit on the empty
barstool next to him. He looked at me as if I had just suddenly appeared out of
thin air, and he could do nothing but blink uncomfortably at me. I looked
around and I noticed that I was the only woman in the bar. I looked up at the
TV and I saw a screenful of BARE NAKED ASSES. It was some kind of home video
shot outdoors in a large crowd, comprised of nothing but naked ass after naked
ass. In retrospect, it was probably a “Girls Gone Wild Mardi Gras Ass Fest,”
but I was still innocent of such things at the time. I’m not a prude, but those
asses weren’t just playfully wiggling. Those asses were up to no good. I asked
for our sandwiches “to go”. The aggravated bartender groused, “Why didn’t you
tell me they were ‘to go’ before I started making them?!” I replied, “ Because I
just now decided that I prefer my pork without so much ass on the side.” Well, as
it turned out, those were the best damn pulled pork sandwiches we have ever had
outside of Tennessee. We have returned to Jumani time and time again, willing
to brave homemade porn just to get to those sandwiches. Ever since that night, though,
there has never been anything on the television except for ESPN sports. But the
damage had been done, and for us Jumani will forever be known as the home of the
“ass-pork” sandwich.
Back at Mardi Gras, the complete and utter
lack of “ass-pork” was strike one for Jumani that night. We ordered and paid
for beer and fried Nackitoches meat pies intead. Second strike, they were
CRANKING heavy metal. Slayer. And I mean LOUD. I had just come from a live
concert. I have been front row at The Who, Alice Cooper, AND Ozzy Osbourne.
Those concerts were loud. But this jukebox was LOUD. I screamed into the
bartender's ear, "What's up with cranking the music?" He said, "It's
Mardi Gras!"
That is pretty much the
standard answer to every single question from
"Why isn't the
toilet working?"
"It's Mardi
Gras!!!"
to something as
conversational as "What song are they doing next?"
"It's Mardi Gras,
Baby!!!"
I guess I would
interpret it as basically, "Chill out. All hell is breaking loose and you
should just ride with it.” It also means "No."
Soon, every time
Kristina and I experienced bizarre, inexplicable, or rude behavior, after
staring at eachother momentarily puzzled, we just yelled simultaneously,
"It's Mardi Gras!!!"
Finally we couldn't deal
with Jumani’s Slayer torture any longer, and got “to go” cups for our beer. The
guy asked, "What about your food?" I said "You eat it! It’s
Mardi Gras!”"
We got in a taxi and
asked him to take us to Camellia Grill, which I know is open late, is
"Roadfood" approved, and was somewhere on St. Charles. He insisted he
knew where it was and proceeded to take a very strange route. I thought,
"Where the fuck is he going? He picked us up a block away from St
Charles." but I figured he was taking some shortcut. We were soon in a
spooky, deserted warehouse district. This was no shortcut. Then we were driving
through a dense fog near the shipping docks. I thought, "Oh Fuck. We are
going to be sold into white slavery. That's all we need." But aware that I
am prone to hysterical paranoia, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt
that possibly he was not running a white slavery ring into East Asia. I asked,
"Is St Charles closed to clean up after the parades?" He parroted
back to me as non-native English speakers tend to do, "Yes. The parade.
The parade." We arrived at a dark
restaurant. Kristina, with great foresight, had us wait while she ran over to
check it out. Not only was it closed, it was the wrong restaurant. I called on
my cell phone for the cross street while he insisted he knew where he was. As
we drove down St Charles. Which was clearly not closed.
There is a point during
every vacation where I decide I hate this city/country/world. This was my
moment.
Finally the comforting glow of the Camellia
Grill came into view. A juicy burger, a chocolate-cherry shake and a waiter dripping
with charm made me hate everything just a little less. Kristina told him of our
long expedition, and he told us in great detail how the taxi driver ripped us
off by going out of the way.
People in New Orleans love to tell you what
you did wrong after it’s too late. They are full of head-shaking hindsights and
dire warnings. Sometimes it seems like half the city is trying to take
advantage of you, and the other half is desperately trying to prevent them from
doing so.
As I headed to the restroom at the Camellia
grill, I chanced upon a man in the hallway, just standing there, randomly
holding a cabbage in one upraised hand.
After a much faster cab
ride back to the hotel, we got to bed at 4 am, and decided to not set the alarm
and let fate decide if we would make the Zulu Parade at 10 am the next
morning...
Day 4 Fat Tuesday!!!!!
Mardi Gras morning I woke at exactly 8 am
and decided that it meant we were supposed to go to the Zulu parade. You may
wonder why I was willing to get up so early for a parade. Or why I would want
to go to another parade at all. Especially after taking to many beads in the
face. Because the Zulu parade is the greatest parade of Mardi Gras. It is the
African-American parade and they have the best costumes and bands. Also,
Professor Longhair insisted "When you see the Zulu king, you gonna know
what carnival's for."
But the big draw was the coveted golden coconut,
the holy grail of all parade throws. They are not allowed to throw them; they
are gently bestowed upon the chosen few. Which was lucky for me, because they
are big, fucking heavy, real painted coconuts. I'm sure if they were throwing
them I would not be here writing this today. It soon became clear to me that
for various socio-political reasons, as well as an abundance of adorable
children and sexy college girls, that I would not be getting a coconut. So I
aquired one in what was perhaps the most New-Orleanian way of all...I bought
one off a shifty-eyed street person on Bourbon Street later that afternoon.
***WARNING: If you are at all uncomfortable
with the discussion of breasts, and my breasts in particular, read no further.
It is not too late to turn back***
We had paid for an
all-day package at Mike Andersons for Mardi Gras. Open bar, buffet, balcony:
200 bucks. Clean bathroom: priceless. We had felt a little ripped off by the
price, but when we escaped the screaming, sweating, undulating throng and
entered the cool, dark sanctuary of Mike Anderson's, it was so worth it. Elbow
room!!! Freedom!!! Personal space!!!
We took one look at the
seafood buffet and immediately regretted drinking gin and tonics the night
before. We asked the bartender for a hangover cure and he made us
"Colorado Bulldogs" which involved milk, coca-cola, Kahlua, and
possibly Baileys. I was somewhat wary, but they did the trick and we proceeded
to drink them for the next 10 hours.
We soon discovered that the overkill of
beads I had ordered paled in comparison to the other guests'. One person had 26
boxes of beads. And they had the big, giant strings...some with stuffed animals
dangling from the beads. Mike Anderson's has the best beads in town, and the
guests are all very competitive about it. We joined the others on the balcony
and soon saw the reason for the elaborate beads. Tits. We saw tits. We saw tit
after tit after tit. We saw more tits than a person who does mammograms (a Mammographer?
A Mammogrammer???). The tit gangs worked in threes. One guy dangled a long,
tempting string of beads. The second manned a camera or video. The third guy
was down on the street, pointing to the beads and cajoling girls into
flashing...closing the deal. They were total pigs. Within a few hours we were
total pigs too, cheering on the girls and throwing beads. The women throwing
beads from the balcony were always trying to figure out what they should make
the men do for beads. Some of them were totally brutal, "Kiss the
ground!!" I don't think an offer to pay off my mortgage could make me kiss
Bourbon street, the filthiest street in America. Mostly I made guys guys
pop-lock or do the robot. One of the tit-gang guys mocked my modest beads, which
I was throwing with abandon. I told him, "You should be grateful. This is
chum. I'm chumming the waters for you."
While on the subject of
tits, one of the girls there told us about "The Judges". They had a
spot in a little bar down the street, and meted out judgement and certificates
of exposure to those willing to flash their tits. Kristina and I had a mission
#3. To flash on Bourbon during Mardi Gras. We decided that sounded like the
best way to do it, in a lighthearted spirit, with less chance of Webcams or being
grabbed by strangers. Plus, we were about 5 "Colorado Bulldogs"
along.
As we walked out, Janis, who is a
combination plate of motherliness with a side of
I-take-no-shit-and-I-mean-business, who also happened to have been my wedding
planner, blocked the door and asked suspiciously, "Where y'all
goin????"
"To the
judges."
"Oh no you're
not!!! Over my dead body!!!"
"Look, Janis,
they're almost 40. If they're ever going to come out to play, this is
definitely the time and the place."
"Oh no, they never
get to come out to play. The puppies NEVER get to play!!!"
Finally, after much
discussion, she threw her arms up in disgust and sat down, glaring at me.
Kristina and I wandered
down Bourbon, and soon came across a group of men in robes and old-fashioned
barrister wigs. I said, perhaps a bit melodramatically, "We have come to
be judged." We were ushered one at a time into the small, dim room. Before
I went in, I put on a mask (I'm not totally insane). Four “judges” sat at a
table with such props as yardsticks, scales, and calipers. A fifth man had a
digital camera, and a sixth a video camera. I was told to lift my shirt. Click,
whirr, STAMP!!! Stamp?? Out of nowhere came 2 rubber stamps and stamped my
breasts with the seal of approval...a circle with the number 10 in the middle!
I was totally taken aback by being rubber-stamped and warned Kristina as she
stumbled in. Maybe not "warned", so much as screamed in her face,
"Oh my God, Kristina!!! They rubber-stamped my tits!!!!"
As we swayed back towards Mike
Anderson's it started to rain. I don't think I mentioned before that we were
dressed as Catholic school girls. In flimsy white tops. With no bras on. In the
rain. I looked over and Kristina's right breast was bright red. The other was
bright green. I looked down at my own shirt. The ink from the judge's seal had
seeped through my shirt intact, like the shroud of Turin, with the number “10”
perfectly visible on my right breast.
Walking back to the hotel, we were followed by two men who refused to pass us
when I slowed and moved to the side. I turned and acknowledged them just to let
them know I knew they were there. The one said casually, “I was just thinking
about grabbing that ass” as he gestured in Kristina’s general direction. I
channeled Janis’ take-no-shit N’awlins attitude and said, “Look, MISTER, Mardi
Gras
We shopped for gifts, CDs and cookbooks, then headed over to
Acme. I figured if the “Peacemaker” was truly meant to be brought home after a
night of drinking, Acme must be open past 11pm. Who gets in trouble with their
wife before 11pm? I was sadly mistaken. Or perhaps that story is apocryphal.
We had a scant few hours before we had to leave for the airport. Acme or
Uglesich’s??? Uglesich’s or Acme??? The Sophie’s choice of Po’ Boys was driving
me mad. Finally, since we were worried about missing the flight, and Kristina
was still waxing romantic about her Ferdi, we made the rash decision to go back
to Mother’s a second time.
We almost missed our connecting flight home, but were able to move up to
first class for the first time in my life. The seats were luxurious and large
enough to curl up in. The flight attendants actually treated us as though we
were not horrible inconveniences. And the flight meal was a chicken breast
stuffed with goat cheese. It was horrible. Absolutely horrible.