December 27, 2007: I guess it started right after Christmas. Knowing I would be travelling to New Orleans in March, one of my post-holiday purchases was a Frommer’s New Orleans 2008 Guide. It turned out to be helpful in many ways, but I used it most as an aid for picking out the restaurants I wanted to visit. Sure, there are a number of great sites and attractions to see in New Orleans, but, for me, this was to be a food pilgrimage.
    The most important food decision I needed to make was: Where to eat my birthday dinner. My birthday fell a few days before we started off for the Big Easy, and I was able to easily persuade David into putting off my celebratory dinner until we arrived. I perused my Guide, I dog-earred, I obsessed a little, and I was finally able to narrow my choices to two: Bayona and Galatoire's. Both restaurants have national renown, Bayona for the repute of its chef, Susan Spicer, and Galatoire’s because it is one of the legendary symbols of old-time, old-school New Orleans dining. I ended up choosing Bayona as my birthday destination, mostly because of Galatoire’s requirement for a jacket at dinner. (I discovered when we arrived in the city that Galatoire’s will provide a loaner jacket.) I do own a jacket, but it is old and ugly; not one I would want to be seen in public wearing. I wanted to look my best for Galatoire’s - Galatoire’s deserved the respect that I looked good, not cheap.
    The choice of Bayona for dinner was sublime; the room was quietly elegant, the service was friendly and informative, and the food was spot-on perfect, a foodie’s dream. The Crispy Quail Salad was the most singularly amazing dish I have eaten in my entire life. Nevertheless, despite the tasteful perfection of Bayona, my choice to eat lunch the next day, Good Friday, at Galatoire’s was dead-on faultless as well.

March 21, 2008, 10:15am: The hostess had warned me a day earlier that people often lined up at 10am for Friday lunch at Galatoire’s. Even on busy Fridays, reservations are not taken for lunch – it’s a weekly ritual of egalitarian access. (Egalitarian if you can afford to hand out $40 for lunch, that is.) I arrive at 10:15am and the line is already fairly long. The maitre d’ , who seems to know most everyone’s name, works his way down the line soon afterwards and (yes!) I make it on to the list for the 11:30am seating. As a party of one, apparently it will be easy to get me seated. David is not joining me for this meal; he is in his technology conference for the better part of the day, thus missing out on this authentic experience.
    Galatoire’s is on Bourbon Street – yes, that Bourbon Street. At night it is a decadent carnival offering up a smorgasboard of sins for your choosing. At mid-morning, however, the pleasures of the night give way to hoses washing down everything and delivery trucks replenishing beer, food, condoms, and who knows what else. The location of a restaurant like Galatoire’s on Bourbon Street initially strikes me as odd, until I remember that it has operated there for more than 100 years, much longer than the current atmosphere of excess.
    We are a motley group here, waiting in line for the doors to the lobby and upstairs bar to open at 11am. Certainly, I am hardly the only tourist, and some are decidedly under-dressed for the occasion. In fact, the maitre d’ turns away the ones who are in shorts. Mostly, however, I am aware that I stand in line with New Orleans gentility, men and women whose families have come to Galatoire’s for Good Friday lunch for decades. There is the gentleman in the light blue and white striped linen suit. There are the women, many of them, wearing hats and dresses in bright Easter pastels. There are a few teenagers, awkward in their braces and ill-fitting suits. I’m glad that there’s no favoritism here; despite the fact that these men and women are regulars, frequenting the place for years and years, they still have to stand on their feet in the sun for over an hour, just as I do.

11am: The doors open and everyone heads up the stairs for the upstairs bar, eager for the day’s first Sazerac or Gin-and-Tonic. I go up as well, but quickly descend to the lobby – too crowded. I hate crowds. Waiting for a half hour for my table, boredom should set in, but a silent and overpowering sense of awe and tradition sets my mind racing. I think about the scene in the lobby fifty years earlier; I think what Katrina had wrought upon the place; I think about how the drama of the lunchtime scene might unfold. Funny, but I don’t think that much about the food. The menu had rarely changed in all the previous decades, so I have a good idea of how my food will taste, regardless of what I order.

11:30am: Seating begins. I am one of the first parties seated, having waited in the lobby. I am seated in the very first table by the entrance to the dinning room. I’m not sure how I feel about this; on the one hand, everyone is going to walk by my table, but on then other hand, everyone is going to walk by my table. At least I get to easily witness the parade of humanity on their way to the start of this venerable tradition.


11:45am: My waiter, who somehow doesn’t know my name initially, brings my first course quickly. Turtle Soup. Before it even hits the table, I am struck by an olfactory recognition of sherry. Not a problem – I love sherry. As I sit covertly enjoying my soup, a table of eight Southern belles is seated next to me. They quickly proceed to shatter all my naïve notions of what a Southern belle might be. They are not petite, reserved and refined. No, it becomes apparent that they are raucous, possibly a little drunk, and have been joyously celebrating the pleasure of each others’ company for many years. They carry with them bagfuls of Easter regalia. Their hats are decked out, not just with flowers, but also with plastic eggs and birds. They exchange boxes of Peeps and other candies. Their table centerpiece is a memorable Easter bunny, replete with a battery-charged cigar that lights up.
    Watching the belles, in what can only be termed their ‘home turf’, I am suddenly conscious of the white elephants in the room: Katrina, New Orleans’ extreme poverty, class division. What a difference a day makes. 24 hours earlier, I had ventured off to find Willie Mae’s Scotch House, a renowned down-home fried chicken parlor in one of the poorest neighborhoods in the city. I think it might have been the poorest neighborhood I have ever seen, and I used to walk all around the city when I lived in Oakland. Willie Mae’s turned out to be closed, yet I’m glad I made the trek – it was a healthy and needed reminder of the many destitute that still live just minutes from a quickly-recovering downtown. Having witnessed this so recently, the scene in Galatoire’s has the potential to make me angry and frustrated: how could such poverty exist in the same city as my belles next door? I am not angry though – I do not know the personal history of these women, or of any of my fellow diners today. Everyone suffered in Katrina, rich or poor, Garden District or Lower 9th Ward. It could very well be that these women are heading relief efforts in the city. I think it’s right to be angry about poverty, to keep it near the front of your everyday consciousness. Still, until you know someone’s personal story, the whole story if you will, it’s also not right to play the blame game.


12:00pm: My entrée arrives. Chicken Clemenceau. This is an old-school dish, a pan-fried chicken breast smothered in peas, mushrooms, and potatoes. To paraphrase a local reviewer, the peas are unabashedly and proudly overcooked. Normally I am not a big fan of peas, but as the saying goes, butter makes everything better.
    Before I dig in, I ask the nearest of the belles to snap my picture. She graciously obliges, not without first forcing a pair of bunny ears on to me, though. Who can resist a Southern belle? Her charm oozes like the butter in my Clemenceau. And that accent……I think I am a little bit in love.
    As I slowly eat my chicken, I frequently gaze around the room. I am acutely conscious of the fact that I am an observer here, not a participant. I am here to absorb, and, eating alone and a somewhat obvious tourist, that is probably apparent to everyone else in the room, staff or client. Still, I don’t feel awkward; the gentle communal roar of the tables in the room warms me. I am happy, and that is even before I indulge in the sugar rush of my dessert.


12:30 pm: My dessert arrives. Sweet Potato Cheesecake. I am not a cheesecake aficionado, and I think about ordering the more obvious slice of Chocolate-Pecan Pie, but this somehow appeals to me. I am not disappointed. It is rich and decadent, probably the highlight of the meal, at least food-wise. I devour it quickly. I want to linger, to bathe in the light of the room indefinitely. This is, after all, a scene quite unlike one I had ever experienced before. I know I should really give up my table so someone else can start their Good Friday tradition. Rather than allow any guilt to shipwreck this dream of a voyage, I pay the check and leave my table for another. Turning back at the entrance, I wistfully survey the room, with one last glance and a willing smile for the belles.
    After the one belle had taken my picture, I thanked her and gave her my wishes for a happy lunch. She grinned and said, “Honey, we alwaaays do.” Leaving the room, it is easy to believe that this cheerful communal gathering ground of New Orleans’ gentle privileged had alwaaays existed and alwaaays would. Long live New Orleans!