Tuesday, February 16, 2010. Mardi Gras. Goodbye To Steak At The Crescent City. Next Mardi Gras, I think I will wear a costume. For the past ten years or so, I've appeared on the steps of Gallier Hall wearing a tuxedo. I explain that this qualifies doubly as a costume. First, I am not a member of any Carnival organization that would have a black-tie ball. Second, one is not supposed to wear a tuxedo before six p.m., and there I am, breaking the rules in the fine tradition of Carnival, at ten in the morning.
I arrived downtown at about quarter to eleven, and had the usual problem crossing the street. The guy in charge of the gate will not let me through, regardless of my protestation that I am due to anchor the broadcast on the most powerful radio station in town in a few minutes. After twenty minutes, after our producer came down to appeal to the authorities, he finally relented. We had to push my way through a nearly unmoving crowd to get to the back door and onto the stands, ten minutes late. Bob DelGiorno was still calling the floats. I figured he'd be upset. But the schedule had changed, and I wasn't due to go on until noon. I'm always the last person to find out these things.
The parades were running late. Zulu's long history of breakdowns usually is blamed for that, but I don't know whether that was it or not. Really, it's amazing that these complex processions are ever on time. By the time I got on the microphone, we were still in the single-digit floats of Zulu, and nothing was moving. So "Pal Al" Nassar and I had a lot of Mardi Gras stories and histories to bat back and forth. Fortunately, we're both two old lifelong Orleanians, with a deep well of such stuff.
I got bad news concerning Rex last night. In a break with tradition, the identity of Rex was revealed for the first time to the populace not on the front page of the Times-Picayune, but at Rex's meeting with King Zulu on his Royal Barge yesterday afternoon. Rex is Hunter Pierson, an investment manager. He seems substantial and likeable enough, but his selection as Rex establishes a dark trend as far as I'm concerned. Last year, I was deeply disturbed to learn that, for the first time, I was older than Rex. It's happened again. Pierson is fifty-eight, and I am fifty-nine. I was only a little consoled by the knowledge that King Zulu--Jimmie Felder--is four months older than me.
Learning all this last evening allowed me to get over it by airtime. The Zulu parade was as entertaining as ever, with the usual disconnects between the titles of the floats and what they actually depicted. Rex doesn't go in for the showiness of the super-krewes, but its classical theme (fire gods through history) was elegant and beautiful. As always, the marching units in Rex can't be beat.
Rex arrived around one, an hour or so late. The parade took a bit over an hour to pass--it still moved in fits and starts--but we managed to keep the banter going. We saw an amazing couple dressed as DatMan and DatWoman on the stand with Mayor Ray Nagin, and called them up to our broadcast stand. DatMan would not tell me who they were, but they clearly were well connected. Their batlike costumes could not have been better.
The truck floats started with about forty-five minutes to go before we wrapped up the radio coverage. (The television crews packed it in at two.) The trucks ranged from the excellent to the abysmal. Talking about them always makes me wonder who in the world could be listening.
"Well, here comes another truck float, Al."
"Yes, Tom, and it looks like the whole family was in on this one, including the little kids."
"And something is emblazoned on the side. I can't quite make it out, but as it passes in front of us, we'll see. . . it says. . . "
"It says, 'Who Dat!'"
"Great! That's really original. I think it's only the thirtieth Who Dat float we've see today!"
Al and I packed out promptly at three, and less promptly headed for the Crescent City Steak House. The traffic leaving the CBD was so dense that we found it quicker to go across the river, turn around, and come back to the East Bank to get around the gridlock. I was concerned that with my later on-air hours today, we might not find a table at the Crescent City. But there it was. Anthony and his mother Krasna Vojkovich were holding it for us. I've had lunch at the Crescent City almost every Mardi Gras for over twenty-five years--the idea being that this will be my final steak before Lent begins. Which is, of course, a major theme of Carnival itself.
The Crescent City was otherwise full. The small rear dining room was packed. And they now have more dining rooms on the second floor--something new. They were filled, too. Nevertheless, we quickly had glasses of wine and salads before us. Krasna brought us her Mardi Gras tripe stew, as delicious as ever. Almost too soon after, the steaks showed up. An adjacent table of people who knew me had a couple of T-bones among the filets and strips. They looked so good that I deviated from my standard order (the strip) and went with the bigger slab o' beef. Lyonnaise potatoes on the side.
In the middle of all this, I saw the face of John Barrois across the room. John managed advertising for the National, Canal Villere, and Real Superstore grocery chain for decades, and for about half that time I did freelance work for him on a wide range of projects. He was there with his nephew, the son of sno-ball magnate Jack Casey, who is a fellow Class of '68 Jesuit Blue Jay. (Once again proving that there are only five hundred people living in New Orleans.) I haven't seen John in a while, as we have so many mutual friends and interests that I'm glad he joined us at our table. If for no other reason than the advice he gave me about buying a new camera.
Home at around seven. The Marys were watching the Olympics. I watched them for a little while, too. Then I went into my cave and started in on the pile of work that accumulated while all this merrymaking went on.
Crescent City Steak House. Mid-City: 1001 N. Broad 504-821-3271. Steak.
