T.

We decided to hang in the Quarter this morning/early afternoon,

keep an eye on the weather. It was hazy, warm, humid; black clouds

loomed in the distance. We discovered a bookshop --Kitchen Witch --

that specializes in new and vintage cookbooks: heaven, for me, 

at least. Many of the older books had recipes cut from newspapers 

slipped in between pages. Many of the books I have at home were here,

some in better shape than mine, others worn and food-splattered

from years in some cook's kitchen. The owner stood behind the counter

and explained how to make a good roux to some young Asian women.

There was a shrine for his recently departed cat, "Bob," on a kitchen chair

with candles, photos. His black lab, "Sophia," slept curled on an

upholstered dining-table chair, hanging off the edges, oblivious.

Here's an excerpt from The Virginia Housewife or Methodical Cook,

copyright 1860:

To roast a fore-quarter of shote: joint it for the convenience

of carving, roast it before a brisk fire; when done, take the

skin off, dredge and froth it, put a little melted butter with 

some caper vinegar over it, or serve it with a mint sauce.

Our next stop was Faulkner House Books, a lovely alley-of-a-store

with shelves all the way to the very high ceiling. Mostly new books,

save for a glass case of Faulkner early editions. I was delighted to find

a copy of my Seattle friend Peter Pereira's book Saying the World.

So nice to run into old friends when far from home!

We stopped for pralines: I say praw-leans, Paul says pray-leans.

I say that I'm right and he says that he's right. Don't ask why

we didn't ask the sales clerk how she says it...and we stopped

for PRAWlines twice. So.

The French Market was overflowing stall after stall with ticky-tacky

imported tourist crap: polka-dotted luggage sets (come with a guarantee

that the zippers will break first time you use them), faux African masks,

piles of voodoo dolls for $1 each, feathered masks, plastic mardi-gras beads

by the thousand. Peppered about were a few actual artists with

their own work, but few is the key word here.

We stood on the sidewalk for about 15 minutes and listened

to a teenage brass band -- two trombones, trumpet, tuba,

two drums -- as the clouds pushed in darker and darker

above us, finally to let out tremendous booms of thunder

and a few scattered raindrops which quickly increased

to a massive downpour. We ducked into Fiorella's

for some lunch. As two cockroaches flicked in and out

of the newspapers beside us on the counter, the storm outside

continued to grow until there appeared to be a waterfall

just outside the door, descending over the awning.

We moved to a table slightly away from the roaches,

and  when our food finally came, after a very long wait

(and the cook neglected to make my deep-fried dill pickles)

it was worth it -- fried chicken, red beans-n-rice, stewed cabbage

with a vinegar tang.  Iced tea. Paul had an oyster po'boy.

I took a long time to eat, tucked-in there from the storm.

Fiorella's (which has been open since 1936)

was a bit of a dive the last time I was there, in 2003,

and seems to have suffered post-Katrina. There were huge

water stains along one wall extending from the ceiling

to about halfway down, peeling plaster, chunks missing

in the plaster. Very run down, dingy.  But after a few bites

of that chicken, and those beans, and that cabbage, I noticed

nothing but what was in front of me. It was one of those

food moments where you exist in only food-time, shut off

from the rest of experience.  I made Paul wait as I savored

and chewed, the perfect blend of flavors and -- dare I say it -- grease!