Making Friends at Elizabeth's
Having a bad day in New Orleans isn't allowed.
It wasn’t even my last day in New Orleans, but I woke up in A Mood. I wasn’t hung over, having limited myself to a single cocktail at Cure the night before. It wasn’t overly hot, just springtime warm and humid with bright sunshine. And yet, I felt foul in the city that care forgot.
I was staying in The Bywater, one of my favorite neighborhoods. Maybe I was picking up some bad gris gris from my neighbor, the voodoo priestess of Rosalie Alley. I don’t think that’s the case. I remember my angst being more concrete than that. Something specific that’s been forever erased from my mind.
When I stayed in the Bywater at Halloween last year, I was a block away from Elizabeth’s, an adored restaurant in an old house at the corner of Chartres and Gallier St. by Crescent Park. For whatever reason, I put off eating at this daytime-only spot until the last day of my trip—a Saturday. I thought I’d pack, put my stuff in the rental car, then stroll down for brunch.
That’s when I saw the packed-full 15-passenger van cruising the neighborhood for brunch parking.
The happy ending to that story is that I happened upon Bywater Bakery and had a fantastic time. But that’s a story for another time.
This time, on a Monday between the breakfast and lunch rushes, no one in a commercial passenger vehicle was looking to get to Elizabeth’s, yet it was still hopping. Walking inside, I was greeted by a blast of bright orange walls covered in Dr. Bob’s art and tables draped in vintage oilcloth. The more-is-more aesthetic told me that my bad mood might be in danger.
Most of the time, I know what I’m going to order when I walk into a restaurant. I’m a Libra, bless my heart, and any decision, especially those related to food, can take days. I was there for redneck eggs—fried green tomatoes with poached eggs and hollandaise—and a side of praline bacon. But then I was struck by a huge menu of specials, and everything went to hell. Fried green tomatoes were necessary, though.
Eventually, it hit me that scallops were on the specials menu. I never turn my back on my favorite bivalve, especially when they’re wrapped in bacon, in a puddle of buerre blanc, with a side of grits.
This is the exact moment that whatever had me in a shitty mood left my mind, never to be recalled. I was awake and happy, in a delightful room that was starting to fill with lunch customers, eating a bunch of my favorite foods, made as perfectly as they could be. Why be sad? What is sad, anyway?
And that’s when I saw my server carrying some biscuits to a table. Now, I’m the biscuit-making queen of the lower Midwest, but even I had to marvel at the height and layers and golden shell on these babies. They also looked familiar…
When my server checked on me, I asked if I could order a biscuit, and if she would be so kind as to do me a favor.
I think it was around this time that a couple at the next table caught my attention. I don’t remember how the conversation started, but I mentioned that I had been having a bad day, but was over it because I had a biscuit the size of my hair.
“Bad days aren’t allowed in New Orleans! Can I give you a hug?”
Absolutely!
“Happy Jazzfest!” she yelled, jumping out of her chair and rushing over to hug me.
Susan and Greg aren’t locals. They travel to New Orleans every year for Jazzfest, which had ended the night before. I’d noticed them when they walked in because Greg was wearing a Guided by Voices shirt. Had I been in a better mood, I would have complimented it when they arrived, but I didn’t have enough scallops in my system at that time.
We talked at length about music, traveling to shows, and what it means to miss New Orleans. How some people, like us, show up to this city, with its questionable leadership, crumbling infrastructure, abject poverty, and undercurrent of fear, and feel nothing but love.
It’s not even love that’s directed at anything specific. It’s the feeling that you’re where you belong, with the other people who might not fit anywhere else. We come from all corners of the world to this European Caribbean American city, finding each other, old friends who finally physically meet when they happen to be on the same astral plane where their souls have resided for lifetimes.
We swapped phone numbers and social media info, and talked about getting tacos at Bud Rip’s that night, but we were all exhausted by then. And that’s fine. I was tired but happy, which means all was well in New Orleans that day.
If you like what you read, you can buy me a coffee before my next brunch at Elizabeth’s. Thanks!
Honestly would never have thought of having the waitress hold the big ass biscuit by my head, but I’ll be ready next time I encounter a truly memorable one! Thanks for the smile 🙂