I do not like it when Mrs. King is out of town. Mrs. King is the better half of this operation. Without her steady hand on the tiller, Chez King devolves closer to chaos. Set loose, my inherent eccentricities blossom into ever more exotic and elaborate patterns.
These letters started as a way to tell someone what it is like to live in New Orleans. These daily installments still do that, but, have become more baroque and even more mannered as I have been doing whatever it is that I do. We should get back to our roots for Chapter 614.
[Ed. Note: There are really about 850 chapters, give or take. Substack does not save these into perpetuity. I need an archivist. Somebody should be copying and pasting all of this for posterity. I am looking at you.]
I need to post a job application. I need an assistant. I pay with experience. Being a flaneur is a cash-poor profession that is experience-rich.
I am at Smoke and Honey talking to a Greek Lady.
I went to Mass this morning with a new friend. It is nice to talk with someone who is not a denizen of the demimonde. She has a real life. Imagine that! And—she lives in New Orleans. She was born here.
We went to Mass at St. Patrick’s, her home parish. St. Patrick’s is the Mother Church of Uptown.
If there is something on one side of Canal Street (Downtown) there is usually something equivalent on the other side of Canal Street (Uptown). Think about City Park and Audubon Park, or the Carondolet Canal and the New Basin Canal.
I am showing my age.
The Carondolet Canal is now the Lafitte Greenway. The New Basin Canal is Interstate 10.
They dug up a hallowed graveyard to build the Superdome. That is why the Saints were cursed until the arrival of Drew Brees.
The service at Smoke and Honey is very odd. Since I usually avoid places like this, it may be just because I am not used to it. There seems to be a lot of pointless movement for no reason.
Smoke and Honey has been open for three and a half weeks. I just asked.
The French Quarter has St. Louis Cathedral. The Warehouse District has St. Patrick’s Church. St. Louis Cathedral is also a basilica. St. Stephen’s Church on Napoleon Avenue is Uptown’s basilica.
Places like Smoke and Honey are scattered all over Uptown. Places like Smoke and Honey are de rigueur in the Bywater and the Marigny. I cannot think of another place like Smoke and Honey in Mid-City. Maybe Up and Adam.
The owner of Up and Adam has the shop’s logo tattooed on his neck. It is not discrete. It is over his Adam’s apple. I did not realize this until I typed it. I am not making it up. Now that I realize it, that tattoo is as subtle as Up and Adam’s prices.
We make our bed and then we lie in it.
I drove to Smoke and Honey after Mass. I took Bienville Street, since Smoke and Honey is on Bienville Street, where Piece of Meat used to be. I took Bienville Street from North Claiborne Avenue on, headed lakeside. Bienville is not a street to take a passenger on a Vespa. Bienville street is so bumpy with pothole patches that my Vespa rattles like a rattle box.
It is best to avoid the stretch of Bienville between North Claiborne and Galvez
It is time to walk Mrs. King’s dog. She comes home tomorrow. I cannot wait.
While walking Mrs. King’s dog, I saw a lady meditating in the sun on her front porch. She was not in the lotus position. She was sitting in a chair with her arms resting on the chair’s arms. Her palms faced up, to hold the warmth the sun was raining down. Her legs were the color of toffee. I know she was meditating because her eyes were closed and her mouth was bowed in a beatific smile.
We all live rich interior lives. Some are more clear than others.
On the last leg of our walk back to Chez King, the dog and I were startled by someone honking their pickup truck horn. It was my neighbor. He is older than I am. He wanted to wave. His grandson was in the truck next to him. My neighbor waved. The grandson did not. I waved back. Mrs. King’s dog dig not.
My neighbor used to have a little, lame, blind dog that he would walk with no leash. The dog could barely get about. It was one of those white puffy dogs. Not only were the dog’s eyes blind, they leaked red tears. The fur under this little white dog’s eyes was always streaked with red.
I know it sounds like I am making this up. I am not.
The little dog died. It was finally time. That dog just up and died. My neighbor is sad but he is not going to get a new dog. His grandson is visiting and that helps fill the void left by the dog’s absence.
Time will tell.
I usually go to Ralph’s-on-the-Park on Sundays. My least favorite bartender is working. I left. Life is too short to waste time.
I thought about going back to Smoke and Honey but I do not really know what to do there. The clientele does not interest me and I do not like walking to the cash register to order a drink. And, they do not have club soda. I am at Katie’s. I might pop into Smoke and Honey later, on the way home.
Now for the paywall. More to follow…