Lost City: New Orleans Edition: Gaiety at Galatoire's

Do people have fun in restaurants? I know, they seem to have fun, they say they have fun, they go with the aim to have fun. But is it really a party atmosphere? Not in my experience. Manhattan's high-end eateries are mainly tension-making hives where everyone is worrying if the waiter likes them; if they've got a good table; if they've ordered right; if people are watching them in approval. Ugh.

I have never seen people have as much carefree fun in an eating establishment as I did at Galatoire's, the 100-year-old restaurant on Bourbon Street, where jackets are required, and so is a good attitude. I went on a Friday night, which I discovered later is party night at Galatoire's. All night, as I sat at my table for one with my Sazerac, turtle soup and pompano, I witnessed toasts being made (loudly) and birthdays being celebrated. Men in seersucker delighted in picking up the check, and well-dressed kiddies seemed genuinely grateful, smiling and kissing their elders. Ladies of a Certain Age happily gossiped. Mirrored walls meant you could easily witness the ebullience in total.

My waiter, who seemed to have a Brooklyn accent, led me through the menu, seeing I was a N'awlins newbie. ("Let's stick to what I like," he said. We did, and it was good.) The owner actually stopped by my table to see how I was doing. Imagine if you could go to such a place on a regular basis—how much more fun life would be. And imagine if were denied its delights—how dejected you would feel. No wonder old folks died of broken hearts when displaced by Katrina.

Come Back When You Can't Stay So Long

Not only has the quality of life in New York gone steadily down in recent years; so has the quality of tourists.

Used to be, folks you knew would give you weeks, nay months, advance notice of a visit, and invite you to spend as much time with them as possible. These days, I find visiting friends and relatives try to sandwich you into a brief slot like you're a job applicant or something. I had a friend from far off come to the city a few weeks back. Hadn't seen her in a year. She gave me about 48 hours notice or her arrival and then offered to meet me between 2 PM and 4 PM on a Wednesday. How convenient. Now, she knows I'm a working a stiff, but this is the option I was given. I said, impossible on such short notice; are their other times? No, was the answer. So, we didn't meet. Thousands of miles, and we didn't meet.

Another recent visitor expressed a desire to meet me and my wife, but at 8 PM or so in Manhattan. This pal knows good and well that we live in Brooklyn and have a young son. If that brain of his was working, he should have understood that a night in Manhattan was a no-go. Kids don't have bedtimes of midnight, and they don't much enjoy nightspots. But, again, this was the only option offered. And God forbid that anyone should have to go...all...the....way...to.....(pant)....Brooklyn! (There is no match for insensitivity in this world than the carefree childless when confronted with the demands and needs of the parents with children. Unless, of course, it's the carefree childless on holiday.)

What's going on here? Now, before you think me oversensitive, keep in mind that these are people on vacation. They are free and easy, with no pressing engagements. I, meanwhile, am still a functional drone in my native city, with working hours and other sundry responsibilities. Yet, THEY are the ones with no flexibility. It's like something out of Alice in Wonderland.

Perhaps there is no such thing as a good tourist. Even if you know 'em.

Lost City: New Orleans Edition: Sazerac, Mon Amour

Within minutes of checking in at the Hotel Monteleone on Rue Royale in the French Quarter, I made it my mission to visit the lodge's Carousel Bar as my Stop One. The Carousel is actually a carousel, and a more appropriate symbol for a bar to adopt in a merry-go-round town like New Orleans there never was. You perch on one of the stools surrounding the circular bar, and it will take you round the world once every 15 minutes. This means: good people watching; mild disorientation; and more disorientation, once you'd had a refreshment or two.

I found my seat fairly easily—quite a trick, as the Carousel is a popular joint among locals and tourists alike. The critical question of What to Order was answered quickly. New Orleans has birthed many a cocktail; perhaps more than any other city, save New York. One of these is the Sazerac. I had never tried this ancient concoction, which some say is the oldest cocktail on record. I wasn't about to let another hour pass in Crescent City without knowing its taste. So I put in my order. A rocks glass held its ingredients: Bourbon, Pernod licorice liqueur, sugar, Angostura bitters and lemon peel. A lovely look it has; a sort of burnt orange, accented by the yellow lemon peel. I took a sip.

Now, where has this drink been all my life? Some old cocktails—a Sidecar, say, or a Rusty Nail—take some getting used to. You don't wonder why they've gone out of style; instead, you wonder why they ever WERE in style. A Sazarac bewitches from the first. Some sweet, some sour, some tang, some fruit, and refreshing in a way many cocktails aren't. (I would soon find out that, to survive in New Orleans, a cocktail must be both potent and refreshingly light. The Pimm's Cup and the Hurricane also fit this description. They are stealth drinks: all lemonade going down, with a blackjack hidden inside.)

Encouraged and delighted, I ordered that other famous Big Easy cocktail, the Hurricane. Once again, I was ignorant of the drink. I only knew that folks in college drank it when they wanted to get drunk, and fast. Another revelation. Pure enjoyment in a tall, hourglass vessel. Story goes that inventor Pat O'Brien came up with it in order to move a lot a rum sitting around in his store room. The drink still moves a lot of rum—both light and dark—plus plenty of fruit juice, ranging from passion fruit to grapefruit to pineapple, lotsa ice, and various fruit garnishes.

The Carousel served a superior Hurricane. The next night, I dropped by Pat O'Brien's proper to taste the original. Not nearly as good. I later discovered that Pat O'Brien sells its own "Hurricane Mix," which just makes me go "ick." I have to believe the mix is swilled by barrelful at the bar, explaining the commonness of their Hurricanes.

The Monteleone, by the way, is a literary landmark. Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote and Ernest Hemingway hung out at the Carousel. Capote claimed to have been born at the Monteleone. In truth, he was born at a nearby hospital, but his mother stayed at the hotel until it was time to give birth. Truman was a good little liar, and a romantic one, too.

Neglect, Mine and Con Ed's

I have been neglecting the Web Site during the last couple weeks, but I have a couple good excuses.

One: I work in one of the areas recently afflicted by the impotence of Con Ed and its sad excuse for a power grid. I have been working from home off and on since July 18, and have been one hot boy both here and there. And hot boys don't feel much like blogging. They just want to get cool, or find that next glass of chilled rose. (Con Ed's underground cables are not, by the way, one of the aspects of Olde New York that I cherish or wish to preserve.)

Excuse number two: I was in New Orleans from July 20 to July 23 and far to busy soaking up culture, food and drink to be running my hands over some prosaic keyboard. However, since New Orleans most certainly ranks as a city of historical and cultural treasures in danger of being wiped off the face of the planet, I will be spending the next few days relating it's wonders, as recorded by yours truly.

So, let us begin (keep in mind I am still very hot) with...

McClellan the Great

I was trolling about Battery Park looking for the water taxi that goes to Red Hook when I noticed the city had slapped on a handsome new paint job on the 1909 Battery Marine Terminal. A hideous cast-iron relic as recently as 2004 when I entered it to board a ferry to Governor's Island, it now looks fine in colors of army green and umber. A not easily seen plaque inside the building reminded me it was dedicated by then mayor George B. McClellan Jr.

McClennan's name has cropped up regularly in recent years, making me wonder if this now completely forgotten politico might have actually been one of the most significant Hizzoners the city ever had. Everything seemed to have happened during his six years in office from 1903 to 1909. He was there to inaugurate the New York City subway system, and officially renamed Longacre Square as Times Square. He oversaw the building of the Queensboro and Manhattan bridges, Chelsea Piers, the Municipal Building, and the Catskill water system. On the darker side, he was Mayor during the horrid tragedy of the General Slocum, a touring boat that caught fire in the East River, killing more than 1,000 people, making it worst loss of life in NYC until 9/11. He battled William Randolph Hearst and won, and willingly committed political suicide by challenging Tammany Hall.

Certainly a better man than his dithering father, the Civil War general who could never find a good enough reason to fight Johnny Reb. And a better politician than any George we've got these days.

Lonely Town

I often have occasion to pace the streets of this town while running errands or killing time between work and evening engagements. Lately, as I've executed these aimless, self-made trails, I've wondered: is New York the best place in the world to be lonely, or the worst.

Favoring Gotham as a home base for the lonesome is the fact that you can be alone in the crowd—solitary but not isolated. This presents you with the (perhaps fictitious) possibility that you could engage the throng at any moment you choose. Another plus is that the city gives your ample license to be down; no one's going to upbraid you with asinine comments like "Turn that frown upsidedown!" or "Cheer up! It may never happen!" New York embraces unhappiness, understands it's part of the cycle of emotions.

The flip side of the above is the fact that if you choose to wallow in your loneliness, no one's going to try and snap you out of it. In a small town or smaller city, some friend or workmate might express concern. New York is pitiless. No one really cares how you feel, and the surest way to earn contempt is to complain, show weakness or—worse!—ask for help. (I've always said, the best way to get rid of somebody in NYC is to ask them for something.) So when you're alone in New York, you better like it that way to some extent, because you're REALLY alone, bub.

Another numbing consideration is the knowledge that if you cross city lines, no one will notice. When you're gone, you're gone. Your apartment's been rented. You job is filled. Your table reserved. The Deathless City moves on in an instant. Leave a village and at least someone will wonder, "What happened to him?" Here, if they think anything, it's "Poor bastard—couldn't hack it." I think this is one of the main reasons people remain in New York long after their love affair with the place has died—they'll be damned if they give any of their fellow New Yorkers the satisfaction of seeing them in retreat.

Sand, Surf, Strikes

I attended my first Brooklyn Cyclones game last night, and though the team is of only a few seasons' standing, the experience had the feeling of age-old tradition. The pairing of Brooklyn and Baseball goes back a long time after all, as does Coney Island, the honkytonk neighborhood that gives the stadium a home, its name (after the famed nearly rollercoaster) and a certain raffish character which only adds to the sportive fun. (You can "Shoot the Geek" on the way to the game, while munching on your funnel cake.)

Attending this smallish stadium, one can get an inkling of the homey, intimate pastime baseball once was, as well as the slat-air-and-neon appeal Coney Island used to hold. The worst seat in the stadium will afford you a fine view of the ocean and the neighboring attractions The Wonder Wheel and the Cyclone itself—as well as bountiful ocean breezes. Charming, too, are the low-tech advertisements for local exterminators and waste disposal outfits that adorn the big screen beside the scoreboard.

Unfortunately, the Cyclones stunk up the place on this particular day, in an error-filled game against State College's Spikes. I wanted to wait until the sky was sufficiently dark to witness the illumination of the long-dormant Parachute Jump, of which the stadium has a commanding view. This tradition began on July 8. But, by the middle of the ninth inning, the towering metal structure remained a shadow, so we left. Curse Daylight Savings Time.

Barbarian at the Dive Bar Gate

The other night, I was holding up a section of the bar at Jimmy's Corner, the last great dive in Times Square, drinking a Sam Adams, listening to the random output of what may be the best juke box in Manhattan (Chi-Lites, King Curtis, Stylistics, Billy Paul), when Mr. Clean Cut Connecticut engaged me in conversation.

Are there any other bars like this around here, he asked? Nope. Last one. Gentrification drove them out. He was sad. He gravitated toward these "scummy" dens no matter what city he was in. Well, good for him. Said he lived in Fairfield with his wife and three-year-old girl. Was staying at boutique hotel a couple blocks north. He was in real estate, whatever that meant.

Then he mentioned he actually owned the hotel he was staying at. Oh. That's convenient. Owned another nearby. Uh huh. Was developing a condo highrise on Flatbush in Brooklyn. $750,000 a unit. Great. Where'd I go to school? Northwestern, in Evanston, IL. Hey! He owns the Orrington Hotel, just across the street from the campus. I said I knew it well. He said, Oh, it's much nicer now than when you were there. (Funny, I remember it being pretty nice.)

Talked with this guy for 45 minutes, mainly because he bought me a beer and I felt obliged. What I wanted to say was: Stop building your ritzy boutique hotels and condo highrises, and these dive bars you love won't be driven out of business, you land-raiding fuck. What I said instead was "You know what you should do? Buy this building. Save this bar. That would be a good deed." That was the polite Midwestern version.

I Walk Along the Street of Sorrows

I was wending down 57th Street, the sometimes glorious, sometimes unlovely crosstown artery, when I noticed that developers had had their way (again) and were busy tearing down the former Automat building between Sixth and Seventh avenues on the north side of the street. Activists had tried to save it, arguing that the white-tiled, two-story edifice was the most visible architectural relic of the now-fabled self-service eats chain.

Built in 1938 in the Art Moderne style, the building was Horn & Hardart flagship store. According to web postings, jackhammering began before a permit was even secured. There's a certain rude urban poetry in a money-mad real estate baron tearing down what was once a dining haven for working class New Yorkers.

Walking further west on 57th, I realized the strip is strewn with sad stories of lost wonders. Near Carnegie Hall, the late, lamented, sui generis Russian Tea Room awning still stretches over the sidewalk, it's lettering stripped off but the outlines of the words still visible. The hours for the restaurant are still there on a gold plaque near the revolving door, and a gold relief sculpture of a couple dancing dears hovers yet above the entrance. You can still peek through the glass of the revolving door and glimpse the bad oil paintings on the walls and the fire-red décor. (To complete the picture, I swear two old women speaking Russian passed by me as I was peering inside.)

Now, here's my question: If the place had to close, why then does its corpse just sit here for years on end to make the passerby's heart hurt?

Ditto for Uncle Sam Umbrellas across the street. This is one of my favorite (if that's the word) mercantile ghosts. The small storefront was the last New York store dedicated to selling umbrellas and canes exclusively. (You can still find such shops in London—natch. James Smith is the outstanding example.) It shuttered more than six years ago. And yet, it's never been outfitted as another store, and the red, white and blue sign remains perched above the door.

Maybe developers like to close nice, old shops for fun, not just profit.

Time in a Bottle

So I was given a tour of the fabled wine cellar at the more fabled "21" Club last week. (Don't ask why.) What a wonder of a place. Few place drip in one-of-a-kind New Yorky history like this cavern, which was constructed back in Prohibition days—thus, the 5,000-pound, brick-and-mortar secret door fitted snugly under one of the arches in the building's foundations. The hidden chamber is opened by inserting an old meat skewer in a termite hole until it meet with a metal plate and triggers a mechanism. (Dunno how that works. They explained it, but it's hopeless. I'll never get it.) Prohibition must have been a fun time to be alive. Who wants to buy drinks legally? I wanna drink gin in teacups!

Inside, it's 61F degrees, 44F in the white wine room. Ceilings are low, space is limited, the woodwork is all original. Jimmy Walker, the law-breaking-est Hizzoner New York ever had, and the best-dressed (walking stick, derby, spats,etc.), used to come down here with his showbiz mistress. His private booth remains as it was.

Back in the day, the owners obliged their guests by storing bottles they purchased from the wine list for future guzzling. That tradition ended 10 years ago because people kept forgetting they left bottles down here, and "21" has only so much square footage for errant booze. Still, about 2,000 bottles of vino wait down there for the rich and famous to uncork them. Elizabeth Taylor, Joan Crawford, Richard Nixon, Sammy Davis, Jr., Jackie Kennedy, and a bunch of titans of industry.

Obviously, some of these worthies will pass no more through the iron gate of "21." Their children are welcome to some nice Bordeaux, Burgundy and Dom Perignon, though. Trish? You out there?