We all knew that someday this day would arrive. The news would come that our own beloved culinary matriarch Leah Chase would leave us. Today is that day.
This morning I received an email from a reader who expected me to write an "epic" piece to mark her passing. All of the news reports have chronicled her background, her achievements, and her active contributions to American history, both culinarily and culturally. I spent the day reflecting on Leah Chase the person.
I don't claim to have known her well. Our paths crossed frequently at events, awards presentations, and fundraisers. She wore her grace and dignity like a comfortable coat big enough to envelop everyone she came into contact with. That didn't mean she didn't call it like she saw it. She once brought the house down at a function by calling out a colleague for his serial romancing. And because it was Miss Leah, as everyone called her, he took no offense.
The day we first met is fresh in my mind. I was the editor of the now-defunct arts newspaper, Figaro. It was back in the Seventies, and only people from the neighborhood knew about Dooky Chase. And media types. I started going there with people from Figaro, then often to grab lunch by myself. She came to introduce herself one of these times, by first talking about my second cousin Jimmy Fitzmorris, who was Lieutenant Governor of Louisiana back in the day. And then the subject turned to food, and we developed mutual respect over a conversation about Creole cooking. It was obvious that she knew her stuff, but also that I had learned something about it. She recognized a kindred spirit.
Miss Leah's fame, something I don't think she ever thought about, grew as the years passed, because of her relentless hard work, her unfailing optimism, and her genuine concern for absolutely everyone. This tiny woman knew the name of everyone she ever met. Dooky Chase was a neighborhood hangout, first and foremost, and a place to get hooked up with tickets to hear music. Stay a little extra time to have some incredible fried chicken or terrific gumbo. Leah Chase taught us about Gumbo Z'herbes before it became hip. She was hip and didn't even know it. She was too busy to care about such stuff.
When Katrina destroyed the neighborhood and the now-famous restaurant she had built, Miss Leah was 82. She told me something I heard later from Tony Angello and one or two others, "Tom, if I don't rebuild, this neighborhood won't come back." People wondered for a lot of years when she would retire. The torch was to be passed to her daughter, who tragically preceded her in death. To pass a torch, though, the one holding it has to slow down. She never did. It has since been passed on to her grandson, Dook.
While reminiscing today I looked through hundreds of pictures for a special one of her. Incredibly, I didn't see one. That's particularly surprising because she was everywhere. Always doing. For her family, her customers, and mostly, for the community.
One day I arrived at the station to see an award at the console where I sit. And then Miss Leah appeared in person to give me this award. For promoting the restaurant business. But what I remember most about that was her humility. Miss Leah Chase, giving me an award. And seeing no irony in that. That was just how she was.
When I read that email this morning I chuckled at the much-overused word epic. It won't apply to this piece, but it certainly does to her life. 96 years worth of epic. Godspeed Miss Leah. You will be missed.
Tastefully Yours,
Tom Fitzmorris
