In New Orleans, Watch the Locals
I caught up with a friend of mine last night at the New Orleans Seafood Festival on Fulton Street. He was visiting from Illinois. I don’t know how long this little to-do has been going on and I don’t care to look it up; it was modest but featured the three essential elements that make a proper fest in this city – food, music and a theme.
This free event was a winner. It featured a few art booths, a dozen or so well-selected food vendors and a big music stage.
I had a remarkable shrimp and pasta plate from Mr. B’s – six bucks. It was a cold dish, and even on this warm evening it tasted as if it had just been lifted from a tray of ice. The sauce was light yet complex. Next were chargrilled oysters from Drago’s. Smoke bellowed from fiery grills behind the booth. Smoke rose from the plate as they handed it to me; eight dollars for a half-dozen. Even after walking all the way back to where friend was holding court, I made the mistake of lifting one the oyster shells. It was too hot to touch. The freshness and saltiness. The Parmesan and Tabasco. Perfect.
I appreciated that this affair was not overly crowded. Elbow space for eating and drinking while standing before the music stage felt rare and luxurious. I met some tourists there but it was a very local crowd, which made for good people-watching.
Young locals being themselves deserve a post – no, a book – all their own. New Orleans people, especially the artists, musicians and service workers, are like no other; I’m surprised they can breed with outsiders. They have their own ways. They seem most comfortable in liminal spaces like sidewalks in front of bars, porches and courtyards where they can come and go at will. They hug roughly, laugh loudly, flirt, cuss and complain, eat and drink, all too casually, all too much and all out in the open. They seem to know when worthwhile events are happening and they often show up in old clothes and worn-out shoes. You can see a group of them coming down the sidewalk and know they are not tourists. They blend with brick wall, pavement and streetlight, soft and blurry, a little pastel and full of motion. They are moving works by Degas.
I watched them watching this festival’s stage, singing along with the Zydeco of Rockin Dopsie, Jr., and saw in them the homegrown qualities of the oyster shall – rough and silky at the same time, salty, loved my many, avoided by some.
These people had something, or they knew something, or something. I don’t know what it was, but more people out there, as Ignatius Reilly put it, “Outside of the city limits the heart of darkness, the true wasteland,” could use it. New Orleans locals do not enjoy their city; they are the city.
Guy D. Johnson is a writer and marketing communications professional. Previously an animation studio owner, daily newspaper editor, reporter and photographer, volunteer fireman, railroad bridge gang helper, FM radio station underling and cave guide. He has lived on farmland trusted to the sun and rain; atop a wooded hill; beside great rivers; upon an arid, high plateau; and at the subtropical coast of the Gulf of Mexico. For 20 years, he worked and wrote in New Orleans.