Breakfast in New Orleans

1996 was the first time I went to New Orleans was with my fiancé (now husband of 9 years) Dan. It was just before our wedding and we were in infatuated with each other. We stayed at our friend Steven’s apartment and he stayed upstairs at his girlfriend Caroline’s place. The whole apartment complex was full of young hip people in their twenties and their patios all faced inwards towards each other and the in-ground pool in a great horse-shoe shape. It was unseasonably warm, actually in the 70s during Mardi-Gras that year. We would stay down in the French Quarter, just a trolley ride away, till the wee hours of the night and then go home to our own little 'on loan apartment' to sleep. The next morning we would begin againto slowly work ourselves into the frenzy of night time on Burbon Street.

The Parades were endless and they were only a step outside of the apartment gates into the giant oak trees and street lamps and ladders that line the parade route. The city smelled like hickory and sea salt, it was sweet. Children yelling “Hey Mista, Throw Me Somethin'” were rewarded with hand-fulls of sparkly beads and doubloons. There was treasure all over the ground and in the air and happiness and party everywhere. Funny to think, there were little stands lining the streets selling ‘hurricanes’ (Rum, Bacardi 151, Amaretto, Triple Sec, Gin, Grapefruit, Pineapple, Orange & a dash of Grenadine) for a dollar. They tasted wonderful at eight in the morning.

One of our fondest memories from that vacation was lying in bed one morning watching cray-fish scuttle into Steve’s living room through the slightly cracked patio door. The neighbors were having a craw-fish broil. Yes, for breakfast. They had two gigantic bags of crayfish and a great big kettle on a big flame on the sidewalk boiling with onions and peppers and corn and all kinds of voodoo seasonings. They were going to throw the cray fish in and a few of them were trying to escape.

We were lying in bed discussing their fate when we heard Steve’s girlfriend Caroline screaming out into the courtyard “It’s Harry Connik Jr.! Get your asses out of bed! It’s Harry Connik Jr.!” Dan and I rolled our over sexed selves out of our borrowed bed and walked out into the courtyard to tell Caroline we’d be out of our showers in a few minutes and she just grabbed us up “No time! I can HEAR him! I just know it’s him, we gotta see this!” She yanked us out onto the corner of St. Charles and Washington in our PJs (it was just two doors down). We were still rubbing sleep out of our eyes when Steve casually walked up and stuffed hurricanes in our hands.

Dan and I plopped down on the sidewalk with our bed-head and drank our tonics and were serenaded by Harry Connik Jr. and the procession that followed while Caroline squealed “He’s so sexy!” About the time we finished those first hurricanes Steve came back with two more drinks and a cup full of cooked craw-fish. Dan snapped their heads off and slurped the juice right out of ‘em, I was dainty about it and gave Dan all my slurping rights and just ate the tails. Nobody seemed to care we were in our PJs not even we. I believe that may have been the best breakfast I’ve ever had.