I have a bone to pick with Crescent City Steaks. I prefer to not talk about it at the moment. Let my blood stop boiling.
Amalgam is pronounced like macadam. I only bring this up because I just heard someone mispronounce it. Macadam is not pronounced like macadamia—those two words are unrelated.
Macadamia is not a country. The country is North Macedonia. North Macedonia cannot call itself plain, old, regular Macedonia because Greece objects. It is a long story. You can learn a lot from reading the Wall Street Journal every day.
Vincent is a poet and he does not know it. He just texted me about coming to visit. “I have to wait and see how this dago’s day goes,” Vincent texted me. He thinks he is a wit.
The reason I do not go to Wit’s Inn is because it is not open for lunch, despite the assurances of Sweet Boy a few months ago. Check the archives. Everything is there.
Every day in New Orleans is like riding a horse that goes nowhere. Where else is there to go? Metairie? Slidell? Da Parish? The West Bank is far enough to satisfy any sane person’s wanderlust. Me? I went to Carrollton today, so, still in Orleans Parish.
For those who have forgotten, both Orleans Parish and the City of New Orleans are co-extensive. Technically, the sheriff works for the parish, not directly for the city. The prison is Orleans Parish Prison, one of the tightest lockups in the country.
I was admiring the old prison this morning. The old prison is behind the parish courthouse, itself an imposing structure. I was stopped at the traffic light at the intersection of South Broad Street and Tulane Avenue. The impartial administration of justice is the foundation liberty.
There is something to be said about the mottoes carved above the doors of the courthouse. More people should ponder them more often. Rather than bore you by waxing philosophical, I will talk about something else.
Let me tell you about Crescent City Steaks.