If I Were King of Westwego.
Did I tell you about the thirteen pounds of donuts that arrived on our doorstep the other day? The donuts are from some kind of great donut shop in Los Angeles that now has a shop in Chicago. I doubt I will. Though I buy pastry every day, I never eat any.
These donuts are a sweetener from a third party that wants to conduct some business with me. I do not think I can help them but they are calling on Monday. I am getting paid so I am taking the call. Why not? If anything is probable, it will probably happen in New Orleans. I have an hour to kill. I live in New Orleans time.
I think this other outfit is mistaking me for someone else. Nothing good ever happens to me, a man of constant sorrows, just another face in the crowd.
A certain type of idler inhabits the dead hours of New Orleans afternoons. They tend to get by with a mix of guile and luck, working just enough to enjoy their lives and the city in which they live. They are characters, every of them, and, because they keep odd hours and have lazy habits, they often see things that other people do not. I am not talking about myself, so much as making a general observation. I am well aware that I am Exhibit A.
What I am saying is that over the course of my days, I run across a lot of people like me.
Across from me are two young people from Lafayette. They are not like me. He once was in a Greek restaurant in Lafayette and he had something that was really good but he doesn’t know what it is called. He is trying to describe it to Chutney, who has worked here two weeks and grew up in Algiers, and, she still lives there.
I am not talking about the Algiers where there may be actual Mediterranean food. I am talking about the Algiers on the West Bank. I am sure there is a gyro shop in Algiers. There must be one on General de Gaulle Drive, probably near where Chuck E. Cheese is located.
The West Bank is the best bank. It is a nice place to raise a family.
The young couple from Lafayette had some kind of sampler plate. He had another long conversation with Chutney, this time about this strange dip in a bowl. “Do you call this a dip? What is it called? Baba ganoush, you say? How do you spell that?”
The couple from Lafayette just left. I am going to miss them. The only one left is Chutney, which I never mind. I enjoy talking about Algiers. It is like a foreign country to me. Chutney’s accent is sometimes difficult for me to understand and vice versa. People think I am from Gentilly. Chutney came by her Algerian accent honestly. It is in her DNA.
Ah, two ladies who seem to be some kind of building-wide VIPs have just entered. Lots of disturbance in the atmosphere. My conversation with Chutney is cut short.
I was complimenting Chutney on the colorful jacket she is wearing today. Winter has arrived in New Orleans. Everyone is bundled up like Nanook of the North. Chutney’s jacket is very colorful, like Joseph’s technicolor dreamcoat, only waist length. She told me that she bought it at the flea market in Algiers.
Get ready, I am going to talk about the flea market in Algiers the way that I talk about where II Tony’s is located. Prepare to be bored.
Neither Chutney nor I know the name of the street where the flea market is located. It is kind of off General de Gaulle Drive, and kind of off Terry Parkway, there is an exit ramp from the Crescent City Connector involved somehow. We both agreed it is in an improbable place but it is close to everything and we can take you there without knowing exactly how to describe how to get there. The flea market is impossible to miss is impossible to miss.
Chutney said, “They should just call it Flea Market Street.” She is right. The street where II Tony’s should just be called Restaurant Street.
Anyhow, I have changed venues and it is time to start afresh. I am going to talk about a foreign country.