Ponderosa Stomp Day One: Memphis Soul Conference, Remember Me?, Chef Convention, Not So Struggling Artist and My House of Blue Heaven

Tuesday April 28, 2009

New Orleans, La.

I now know why funerals are so big down here: the hangovers will make you wish you were dead. It was a busy day on Basin Street. That street is in New Orleans Esmond.

I got into New Orleans round 6:30 p.m. Monday night and after checking into my hotel, the French Market, on the corner of Decatur and St. Louis(?). The incredibly accommodating and friendly staff of Andre and Megan got me unloaded and checked in but I passed on the valet parking and rode around to the parking lot on the back side of the block myself. The attendant, Johnny Camp, one of my favorite people this whole trip, had me park right next to his booth so he could keep a close eye on my ticket to ride back home. The walk back around the block took over two hours and did me in for the night.

New Orleans is like that. You set off to do something totally mundane like park your bike and you wind up meeting new friends, getting drunk and completely losing track of time. Every city should be more like New Orleans in this respect.

I soon discovered that my travel agent, Angelo, (sorry Mary, my MN travel agent who won't book pleasure trips) had made the mistake of putting me in a hotel two doors down from the Crescent City Brewery. Not a wise choice to put this connoisseur of suds in such close proximity to his nemesis. They have three fresh brewed flavors, Red Stallion, Black Forest and Pilsner. Being a lover of malt and hops and wanting the highest % of alcohol, I of course opt for the Black Forest. As the downstairs bar seating was completely full, I ventured upstairs and sat at the bar and promptly started a conversation with an airline worker turned Postman named Mark. I do not mean to label Mark or imply that he is all about his work, like us attorneys, because he definitely is not. Here was a man who has life figured out to the point of raising it to an art form. Upon further reflection, he should give seminars on how to live like you are alive and not just existing. Mark attends the Jazz Heritage Festival every year, spends his August in Seattle/Vancouver and used to live on a 2 acre mountain spread near San Jose.

Before I know it we are swapping music stories and turns out that Mark is a huge fan of my friend Jimmy Thackery. I tell him about Stutso no longer drumming for Jimmy and he seemed as dismayed as I was but I cautioned that one should not jump to conclusions as to the reasons for the change, besides its none of my business, "if I do", (sorry I turn everything into lyrical phrases from jazz standards down here). Mark mentions he goes to the Santa Cruz Blues festival most years and I ask if he saw the legendary performance Thackery put on with Bonnie Raitt. Mark's mouth went agape and eyes glazed over and he stammered: "I was there! It was one of the best performances I ever seen" or something to that effect. Hell I was getting a little tipsy and beat from my ride.

We thankfully compared notes on the evenings live music fare and it was a good thing. Turns out I was two days late for the Funky Meters show at the HOB. Mark tells me he is going to the Snooks Eaglin tribute Tab Benoit was throwing at the Mid City Lanes (former site of some previous years of the Ponderosa Stomp). I tell him I will meet him there but I have to take a shower and compose myself before venturing out. Sorry to say, but after my shower I sat down in my towel on the bed and that's how I woke up the next morning.

My first full day in the Crescent City began at 7 a.m. when I left the hotel in search of computer access so I could post to my blog. Two hours and several miles of shoe tread later I finally found a business center on the third floor of the Sheraton. I highly recommend this over the access at the public library next to City Hall, which although free, does not open until 10 a.m. and you have to step over the less fortunate who make their beds outside the front door. Besides at the Sheraton there is a Starbucks on the first floor for grande caramel macchiatos and the only stench of urine is my own.

After memorializing the previous day's events it's off to Mothers for a locals New Orleans breakfast. I highly recommend this establishment for breakfast (served all day) or lunch but but some fellow travelers I spoke with had dinner there and turned their noses up at it.  However, my experience there was delightful, if you understand their version of hospitality and sense of humor, which seems to be giving tourists a tongue in cheek hard time to the delight of the locals.  Unfortunately,  I experienced the tourist treatment first hand.  

There is usually a line to get into Mothers but it moves along quickly under the watchful eye of the greeter/barker/comedian who holds court over a small group of local diners seated just inside the door. 

That morning my hotel coffee and long walk had given my bowels the two minute warning just as I got in line.  By the time the line advanced to inside the door I was in distress and interrupted the greeter’s banter with a somewhat urgent question:  “Is there a bathroom?”  Quickly sizing up my precarious condition he wryly replied: "Yes, but I am not going to tell you where it is“ getting a roar of laughter from his local audience.   As the time where I could engage in witty repartee had long vanished, I responded with a simple statement of fact: "Okay, but things are gonna get real messy then." Sensing from the look on my face that I was not joking, he conceded they were in the back pointing the direction and I immediately take off and then he shouted after me "and wash your hands when you're done!" as I trotted past the long line of laughing customers thoroughly humiliated.

After taking care of business (or TCB as Elvis would say) I joined the rear of the line which was next to the kitchen door and the tables where the staff took their breaks at. I asked an older African American woman what's good for breakfast and she recommended the crawfish etouffee omelet, which comes with grits and biscuits.

As this was my first time at Mothers I did not know the routine after you placed your order so I sauntered back to the nearest empty table,  which unbeknownst to me was reserved for staff, and sat down.  Before the greeter could pounce on me again, one of the senior members of the wait staff,  a matronly, no-nonsense black woman who must have felt sorry for me because instead of shooing me away she acted like I was seated at one of her tables, causing the greeter to back off and let me be.  My guardian angel of a waitress took me under her wing, making me feel like I was not eating alone and chiding the kitchen "why doesn't my boy have his biscuits yet, don't make me come in there and kick some butt" which is a paraphrase of her actual, more salty language. She really appreciated the fact that I did not linger and opened up my one top in restaurant vernacular for a three top (i.e. a larger party and bigger tip). Karma is everything and is not just for guys named Earl (now dated reference to tv sitcom of the circa).

Following my memorable breakfast at Mothers, I still had a couple of hours to kill before the start of  Day 2 of the Music conference so I decided to take another walk around the French Quarter. 

While exploring the side streets in the French Quarter I noticed a group of chefs taking a smoke break on the other side of the street. I immediately thought of a good friend back in Minneapolis who was an incredibly talented Chef. He started out as a client and we soon became best friends. Big, gregarious and always out for a good time, my friend “Jonesy” was an unstoppable force of nature.  

About 10 years earlier the two of us had gone on our version of a Fear and Loathing trip to New Orleans and Austin except in our version HST was the attorney and his  companion was a chef.  That trip is still the talk of legends and would be a great subject for a whole story on its own. 

Unfortunately, like a lot of chefs I have known over the years, either through my practice or from a short stint as an assistant food and beverage controller at a large hotel in downtown Minneapolis, he suffered from one of the profession’s major occupational hazards, alcoholism.  We both had gone through rough divorces but loved our children.  We also thought the best cure for a wounded heart was to drown it in good times.  Alas when you burn the candle on both ends, friendships tend to fray and suffer and we had had a falling out over things that today seem trivial.

Seeing the group of chefs taking a smoke break en mass,  I thought how cool it would be if  I could talk them into taking a picture with me.  Perhaps by sending it to my friend as sort of a humorous olive branch it might help revive our friendship.  Hats off (or on) to the generous chefs for going along with what at first they thought was a prank show set-up.

Sadly my stupid pride caused me to procrastinate sending the picture to my friend and he passed away without ever seeing it.

One of my favorite “discoveries” while exploring New Orleans that day was this iconic hat store, Meyer the Hatter.  Being a bald man and always in search of that perfect chapeau, the store front immediately caught my eye.

 As if torn from the pages of a circa 1940’s Life magazine advertisement, Meyer the Hatter takes you back to a time when fashion was king and hats were where it was at.  Since I was on a motorcycle that trip and did not want to crush a hat by squeezing it into a saddle bag, I made a mental note of the place.

When I returned two years later to attend the Ponderosa Stomp No. 10, I was traveling by air and made returning to the best and one of the oldest hat stores in America a priority.  The day I visited on my return trip I was privileged to have assist me in my purchase none other then the owner emeritus Sam Meyer.  Anyone who has ever been to the shop will remember the pictures displayed throughout the store of Sam posing with celebrity customers. 

Patrons of the store will also remember the signage, and there must literally be at least a dozen signs, warning you not to commit the cardinal sin of hatters, picking up a hat with one hand by pinching the crown.

  As I shopped for the perfect hat, Sam must have warned me 3 or 4 times not to pick up a hat that way and with each subsequent warning I could tell he was getting more upset.  Before I totally had him pissed off I made my purchase and then as he was ringing up my purchase I said to him, “I know I’m not a celebrity, but I would really be honored if I could get a picture with you?”  Despite my many  faux pas, Sam was such a gentleman he agreed, if for nothing else, probably to get me the hell out of his store.

 As I handed my camera to one of the sales clerks, Sam disappeared into the back room only to reappear with the famous beaver fur top hat he poses with all the celebrities with.  I was just elated and after the clerk snapped the above photos of Sam alone, I commit the deadly sin of touching his beaver fur top hat with my hand.  That was the straw that broke the camel’s back and despite having sold me a hat for nearly $100 he yelled at me to “…get out of my store!!”.  

I have since learned that Sam has passed away.  I hope my stupidity and ignorance had nothing to do with it.  My condolences to the Meyer family and if you ever need a hat this is the only place to buy one.

Before I knew it, it was almost noon and I had to hustle back to the hotel and then off to the Music Conference.