Bourne's BIG Trip: Katrina Exhibit, Louisiana State Museum, Jazz Concert at Mint, Emril's Part 2

(See “Katrina Exhibit, Louisiana State Museum, Jazz Concert at Mint, Emeril’s Part 1” for the first part.)

Mom and I walked around in circles, walking on these little cobblestone or concrete sidewalks, alongside stores and bars alike, Mom trying to get the address. We asked an official looking lady with jacket and walkie-talkie, and she had to ask another person on her device, and said it was straight and then I believe right. So we thanked her, taking in all the odors and smells of NO, like smoke and gas. I thought it was pretty adventurous actually, and talked to Mom, hoping we wouldn’t get lost but wishing for something cool to happen. Then Mom saw it. The red building with black fence around, and brick material. It turned 3:10. We jogged, huffing and puffing the oxygen out of our lungs, holding my French Dictionary, and Mom having her small camera. Through a side entrance where there was a courtyard, and windows coming out, with a side in front of us and one of our left (no part of a building on our left) we went through the open gate, and then went past a dumpster. I speculated this would make a great mafia scene in a movie, the Tommy guns through the windows, and an impossible fight for the hero, that he would have to overcome. No time for thinking though, we had to get in! Through a hallway on our left was a counter, and elevators on our left. They said the Jazz Concert was on the 3^rd floor, and a man who also was late also joined us in the elevator. Tapping our legs against the carpeted floor, pressing the button as the door slid to a close, watching the dial on the top over the door blinking and doing the ring, saying a few funny things to the man who was by us, a tall guy with beard, maybe thirty or forty. Camera and hat, vest. Well, we got out as it opened, now over on a balcony overlooking stairs that came down on one side and then the other, with a marble floor and chandelier. There were TV’s, which had dark and blue images on it. Was this the concert? As a man opened the black door and told us to go in, I expected maybe a huge room, a lot of music and people doing great performances, and a lot of people. We walked in. And that is NOT, what I saw.

Like I said, it was a dark room, to our left being a black table with computer and sound stuff, and lights over that you would see on a stage. There were columns in this medium sized room that was wide and had pretty dark walls. There were many chairs, and a good many people, with blank spots around. It wasn’t exactly a full house. Up on a very small stage, was a man at a piano, African American, who had the National Park Ranger uniform on, the green pants, collared up shirt, buttoned too, with their cowboy-like hats on the sides. Another guy, who was white and had brown hair, was sitting down at a guitar, jamming out. It was kind of down tune, and they were in the middle of a song. I went left, almost down one aisle, looking for Dad and Rebecca, suspecting Mom was right behind me. Something was wrong. I spun around. Mom was sitting in the right back corner, with Dad and Rebecca, about to get down. I went back to them, chuckling over my blunder. I sat with Mom, Dad and Rebecca behind me, but there wasn’t much of a welcome, as it would be disrespectful to talk during the performance. (# Number one audience rule.)

They were doing some song about a girl named Candace, and they stopped maybe five minutes after. It was a pretty low tone song, but the white guy had a banjo and so spiced it up. At first I thought, this is Jazz? They explained that it was a Mississippi Blues song, from the countryside around New Orleans. They would be sung around campfires and even in crop fields as slaves, and Jazz was derived from it. They said it was more spiritual songs, and about freedom, and stuff. Not up beat but not sad at all. They talked over doing another Blues song, and the African American guy agreed. The white guy called him by Bruce. They talked softly when answering a few people’s questions, and I asked them what was the oldest jazz song. They said that so many slaves sang, they couldn’t determine. They told me about the first people, and made me stand up when answering. They talked about the 1920’s as the starting time. I don’t like undefined answers, but what are you going to do? It was a little boring, them talking, and Mom and Dad looked at their phones a little, reading articles and facebook, and Rebecca also played some games. Since I liked Jazz and wanted to listen I didn’t check anything, but then again I don’t have many games on my phone either. I have to admit it was a LITTLE boring.

They started up another song, which was country side too, and the Bruce guy was on the harmonica. He was really good at it. I liked that song pretty well. Then, in intervals between performances, they would talk about the period and singers, and also the styles. I squinted in the dark light, contemplating if this would be a fun awesome time. They stopped a lot and were two guys who were kind of middle aged, and even though I enjoyed the songs I wished for more. Would I get more? Read on.

Then they changed to more of the Jazz stuff. Bruce only sang, while the other guy was on his guitar, and did a nice steady tune. Mom showed me a picture she found online of those two guys, with a lot more, in the olden days of 1980. They have been doing this a long time. They did a love song, and Bruce was a really good singer. They continued on, talking of years way gone buy, and different parts of Jazz. We got a performance and some cool info. One guy asked the origin of the name of Jazz, and a kid in the front left corner asked if they knew how to play “The Saints come Marching In.” They said yes, that they might play it later and that it was usually an upbeat song played at the end of a funeral. They went on to say that the Jazz band with all the Brass instruments would do sad and dreary songs the way there, and then returning would do songs of laughter and praise, for thanking God for the long life and also celebrating that person’s time on Earth. It is a very popular practice in New Orleans, well it was a while ago. Not nowadays. But anyway, to the man who asked for the origin, the guys looked out into the crowd, saying they couldn’t say the popular belief because, “we have some children in the house tonight” and said no one really knows, that there is a lot of beliefs. Well, I already knew because Jason, our tour guide, had told us about it, even though there were kids in the vehicle. Oh well. He said some other things that weren’t censored that I won’t repeat. But anyway, we said that it was the youth’s music, and that the parents called it Jack---, and I think you know what bad word I’m saying. Well they were looking for a name for it and thought that it was a good name, but shortened it to Jass. Some thugs and low life’s who wanted a joke would take off the J and make the bad word. To reduce this on their signs and make them not do that, they changed it to Jazz. And now you know (you might have already known).

But they did not tell us this.

It became 3:30, and with it came more songs and talks, and more looking downs of electronic devices, and more questions. I was mesmerized by the quiet and the songs and the soft questions, them being the only things I heard. I came to a sleepy pace in my mind, to just relax, and not worry about catching up on blogs or go sightseeing or making sure I saw everything in the museum, or make sure I finished the book from the days end, to just relax. Sigh. But of a good sort.

Then the funeral songs they’d been singing that started at the beginning of a march to the cemetery, and it was sad, dreary and downbeat. Perfect for sleeping. Then it gradually changed, to my disappointment. I never thought I would love sad music so much. The strumming of the guitar, echo of the harmonica, and the slapping of the hands on the piano, slowly and softly. It changed because they asked the name of Matthew, and Bruce said, “ha ha cool Matthew. Alright brother we’re gonna give you a little The Saints Come Marching in.” He was bald, kind of big, but muscular, and had a deep voice. They started the upbeat great song, and although my eeriness was completely destroyed, I enjoyed it. It became 3:50, and then 3:52, and then after that 3:55. Then it ended as they said they would be back up there for more questions, comments, and info. It ended.

Mom and Dad got their stuff together as we went up to Bruce, and I saw on the other guy’s name tag it said Steve. Steve and Bruce. National Park Service Ranger Rock Stars. We went up and said they did really good, and I asked a few questions as some other Belgium people did also. I informed them I had a friend who was born there. Then we went out with Mom and Dad, and needing to go to the restroom. We went down those stairs that went vertically and then turned right. Into a lobby with a big counter in front of us with lady, and behind us a big hallway and exit. Mom and Dad both wanted to look in the gift shop that was in the short big hallway, but it had the black fence thing over it, that came from the ceiling, and was totally locked up.

A lady at the counter was looking at her pencil,writing, as we approached her, to ask her about why this was so. I remember her ever so clearly; her frightening image still terrifies the outermost regions of my mind. Glasses tilting down over her eyes, black curls and black skin, old like sixty with white patches on her hair. A black oversheet, like a judge. Those eyes, oh the eyes! Dagger eyes, staring you down, as if saying, “WHAT IS IT, ANDREW?” with a dragon like voice. We asked her why wasn’t the gift shop open, kind of gulping, well the kids were, not the adults. She answered in an imposing voice: “Well, they can’t be up there doing performance and be HERE too, can they?(and this she said with a sarcastic and “you’re so dumb you don’t know that” kind of impression) and this is a STATE mint. The only part of National Park is the THIRD floor.” We thanked her, and she went back to writing, without a comment. Those kind of people are the Scrooge’s, the Grinch’s, the Dr. Von Handson’s of the world.

We waited, with a lot of other people, for their return. Something wasn’t right. There should be other people in the National Park, not just two guys, to come and do the performance and then the other part. We talked to a lady who went outside, and she said that a lot of National Park people were being cut, because of the economy, and that this was the, “tip of the iceberg” as she put it. I hoped not, the cutting of the National Park people could be a disaster. She went outside, with some others. Mom told me to go ask the guys Bruce and Steve when someone would come down, if someone could come down, and if they were coming. We might get a present for Dad, as his birthday was only a day away. Rebecca came after me, skipping some stairs and running up. I had done a good amount of running that day. Across streets, to go to the restroom, to go to a restaurant, to go to the restroom again, to get to a concert in time, and now just because I wanted to beat Rebecca at racing. We went up the nice marble steps, as she almost gained on me. Through the opening, the door on the left, and down into the room where they had been. They were putting the guitars and other things into the cases and such, and a few people were helping them up. I came first but Rebecca asked some of the question, and I elaborated. Bruce said, “Oh, yeah, I’ll come with you two, I wasn’t in a hurry because we thought we had another guy down there.” Taking some keys, he went up the aisle with him. He seemed like a nice guy. We got out of the room, as Rebecca said he was really good, and we shot some questions at him while waiting for the elevator to come.

“How long have you been here?”

“At the mint, in this job, or in New Orleans?” We got in the elevator and he punched a number. “All.” We both said together. “Well, at the mint for at least seven years (wow, we thought, as many people we thought never came over that number) and the job since maybe 20 years, as we go around at different places. We’re going to Ohio soon (they must be a traveling group. I already knew they were going there, the Matthew kid said he was from Ohio when they asked about him and they told him that, at some Finely Center or something) and New Orleans, well I was from Chicago so I come back here sometimes, off and on with jobs.”

DING! The doors came open, and he said that it was fun to talk to you, as he said hello to everyone and unlocked the gate thing, chucking it upward. Then he turned on the lights ads the mass of people flooded into the very small giftshop. There was a brown haired kid, about Rebecca’s age, that was that kid Matthew. Pay attention to that name, okay. He told us about how he was actually in The Café Dumont while they were filming the movie, and said it was really cool, that the guy came to their table and everything. He had a bignet, something we would try later. As I looked around he talked rapidly, and said many things, about his schooling and him being homeschooled, and that his grandparents were taking him, and that he had been on a carriage tour, and that he loved NO and wanted to come back, and that he was at the French Quarter R.V. Resort. He said all that just like that, with all the “and that’s” included. I had nodded and said, “Yeah, we want to do that too” and said “cool’s” and “awesome” up until that point, a small bit a little annoying with the younger kid, but I enjoyed talking to him. Not exactly listening, also looking at books and stuff, my ears suddenly came to my attention. I am staying at French Quarter R.V. Resort, he had said. I said, “Oh yeah I’m there too! Small world!” He said that he was in an Encounter, right by the gate on the right side, and that maybe we could play, and that I could knock on the door at any time. He looked at some small trumpets in cases, as Dad purchased a CD of those guys’ music, and Mom talked with the lady, about homeschooling and things like that, as the grandma told Matthew not to put his lips up to the tiny instrument.We said goodbye to them after paying and putting the stuff in the bag, and came outside.

This wasn’t the way that we had entered, the side entrance. This was the front entrance. On either side were concrete little secret areas, with some supplies. Well, we came up from under the roof of the front, and then walked out of the gate, taking pictures in front of it, and having Rebecca and I fighting about who get’s the single picture on the blog or FaceBook, with crying erupting. I am just as guilty as Rebecca in this matter; nothing will be blamed soley on her. But Rebecca went up with Dad as I tried to kick her, but only faking, to scare her. We crossed a street, and then came up where there was a gate and stick in front of it, in our parking lot. This was the parking, by the Mississippi. We had to go shrink up against the wall of the little box the gatekeeper is in, and not try to hit the stick. We got through all right. Rebecca was mad at me, and Dad too, Mom disappointed at us both, but solely me. What do you do in those times of trouble? Hang your head and don’t speak for a while. Well, you can’t really do that in a parking lot full of cars.

We walked on, to the left, as Mom saw two people on their car. I didn’t get a good look at it, as Dad told me to move on with him as Mom was talking to them? What was going on? Only time would tell, or in other words in time Mom would tell me. I heard the words, “need help, “ and “we” “cable”, before Dad told us to get in the car, and we did. What was this? Dad drove into the empty lot to the left of the little sedan, as I looked at two young adults, one who was tan, with acne, and had black hair, and the other one who was tan, and had black hair, who was a little large.

We needed to go home, walk the dogs and get ready before going to Emril’s, but it looked as Dad got two red and black large lines, cables, with triangular things on the end that looked like pliers, it seemed that Mom was playing Good Samartian. She is such a helpful and considerate person. Taking pictures for people, trying to tell them where they need to go if they need help, doing things like this. She is respectful of people’s belief and ideas, and doesn’t argue or anything. Such a great person. I love you, Mom. I know I don’t say that enough.

She made the hood of our car come up, with Dad’s help, and the hood of theirs was up. Dad hooked up the plier things to one of the little nuts of the car, and then I remembered I knew what was going on; I had seen this done in a movie. I got out, and was determined to get the full report, as I am writing a blog and I want it to be cool and tell all about what happened, for it is truly breaking news (for me at least, I had never seen this done in real life before). Mom told the big girl to start the engine up, and it occurred to me that was the reason they were in a pickle, they must have left something on and had needed to jump start their engine, and that was the way they did that, as Mom connected the other end of the pliers to the other one. “Positive to Negative, Negative to Positive”, I said to Dad. They were going to put the electric particles from one good source of engine to bad, and therefore jump start it. Those girls repeatedly thanked us and said they had stupidly their lights on.The engine came up, cranking noisily as it did so, and made the all familiar sound. They clapped and thanked us again, as they wished us a good time at Emril’s and Mom said to, in their hotel, leave the engine running for at least 30 minutes after that to make it charged up. Then we left, in kind of a hurry, to do everything before we had to go dinner.

I read a little of my Mockinjay book. I liked seeing the concert at the Mint. It was a little boring, but entertaining and informational at many points. I liked the blend of upbeat, jazz, blues, and the other things. Cool indeed. The whole day had been great so far. Seeing a movie being made, learning of Katrina and seeing many images, going to lunch and then to the Louisiana State Museum, where I learned all about the first explorers and the LA Purchase, and then the Concert at the Mint. I hoped Emril’s would be the cherry on the top.

Back at the R.V. resort we came to the R.V., and went inside and Mom and I took the dogs out. When they went to the restroom, everyone came back in as we picked clothing, and Mom did her makeup and Rebecca her hair, with a spray thing, and Dad took his shirts from the closet and buttoned them up, as I put on the long khakies I had. In the closet I searched for a long collar shirt, not my red Brookfield Country Club one I had worn a lot, that was short. I wanted a change. It was hard for me to look though, I couldn’t find any except for a blue long sleeve collar, but that was after Mom helped me out. Then, I put on a white t shirt, and that under it, and then buttoned it up. I got on dress shoes, as Dad turned off the T.V., we got the dogs in the crate, final touches being made on our clothing, told to look mature and well-manured, I mean well mannered, no manured. Why would we be well manured, because we wanted to look good for the meal.

On top of going to this fancy restaurant, the Lee guy had kindly made us have a valet and also the only table in the kitchen, and we could actually see them making all of the things. I was not so excited about the meal, but about the location we would be in, for none of us had ever before been in a restaurant’s kitchen and had seen them prepare the food, you know. We got on the bridge and got off in the city part, with all of the skycrapers and the Neutral Ground. I read a little of Mockingjay as we looked for the address of this most notorious restaurant. We eventually found it, on the side of the street, with a nice sign, and open windows, and a young man of 30’s or 20’s who had his hands together by his stomach, and had a tie and everything. As we got out of the car, he opened the doors and let us out, as I left my book: the meal would be entertaining enough, and I wanted to be full attentive to Dad on his birthday dinner, a day before his actual birthday. I can never understand why birthday parties are never the day of their birthday, have never understood it and can’t today. But anyway, we got out and he got the keys from Dad, got in the car, and went over to park it. To have that kind of job you must be able to drive any car in the world, I suppose.

Inside, was beautiful tables with those white napkins in positions with plants, and a lady was on our right in the threshold, and asked us very politely if we had a reservation, and welcome to Emeril’s. We told her and she said, “Oh, should be exciting” as she led us through the restaurant, and through people with plates and patrons in small tables, in good clothing, and she opened those doors you see always but never actually go through before, the ones with the circular window that push at a small touch of a hand or other body part, the doors to the kitchen, that unauthorized part of the restaurant a kid always wants to go in! This was going to be one of the best dinner’s of the entire trip.

Then it happened. The white tables with metal surfaces and columns supporting the little roofs over them, all the men and woman in the white shirts and pants, with those hats, oh those treasured and long wanting to see hats! Who are only seen in maybe movies or at a little peek through the doors, occasionally, oh those hats up close. The fire coming up, the flipping of food, the putting onto the plates, then on the strong hands of a waiter or waitress, or the mass cart that is rolled to the patrons! To my front, a table with some ladies and a guy making dough, and then putting it into a microwave behind them, a little dirty with flour on them, and putting all the little sugars and chocolate on, and baking it and stirring it, then slowly pouring it into the bowl or plate. People to my right serving beer and people getting salad at a little buffet, and the men fast at work to please the customers. To my left, a table totally filled with napkins, plates, and silver ware, plus a flower and a large window behind us, that was white though. I was puzzled about this, but not brooding over it as I sat down with my back against it, and Rebecca against the wall, with the door to the other kitchen, the one people can’t see (alas!) to her left, and Mom with her back to all of the kitchen, looking at us, and Dad on my right and her left. Kind of confusing, but life is very confusing, so deal with it (sorry I sound so harsh).

Two guys, one who was a large African American guy and the other who was tan and had up hair, and kind of short, took our napkins, in the most polite matter, welcoming us and being very patient with us moving and handing them our stuff. The silver ware remained. I thought it a little weird they put the plates out and then take them later, but I guess they bring out our’s with food and Mom said they have them out to make them look cool and for decoration. The black guy said his name was Jermel or something fancy like that, and the other guy was Tony. These two would continue to serve us.

They left us for a while, and we talked as I took in my surroundings, and we were all pretty giggly. The Jermel guy came out from the left door by Rebecca and asked if he should bring out the menu or if we were going to go from the Chef’s Plate. We asked what the latter was. He said that he would bring out four or five courses of food, and we wouldn’t know what those things was. I was all for fun, adventure, and everything, so I voted for this. Rebecca got mac’n’cheese, and my parents and I all ordered the mystery meal. This was going to be an exciting time. I looked as we expressed our love of being here, and also I talked to Dad about some of his past birthdays, and which one was his favorite. He said his 40^th, where his mom saw him 40 before she… um, passed away.

I also looked at a guy who had one of those chef hats, and had tattoos, who was doing a lot of stuff with the steaming and putting it on plates. I loved looking at all the preparing, making, frying, baking, the toss of the spacula, the moving of the fingers as the spices our flung, the towels going under the plates as they are put on carts, all the movement, the little pieces of paper on the roofs as the cook reads it, man it is truly really cool. I loved looking at it, my hand under my watching eyes, deep in thought and observing skills. I loved being inside of the kitchen while eating, to watch them do everything. Then, Tony and Jermel (calling him J from now on) came out with some kind of little plate, and put it around. Even to Rebecca, even though she didn’t want hers. This was the salad portion, so to speak, as I looked at this little dish of a green thing as big as my hand with some fruits and raw tuna, and the one Rebecca got was crab. J told us the ingredients and all about it, and he could explain it a lot better than I could, but I can not remember what he said; he said it so fast. I wish I knew though, don’t I.

“The Chef recommends trying to eat it with your hands, says it is better whole and in a sack then with a fork or spoon.” Well, if he was the chef, he was the chef, so we tried to do his bidding as they went away and we took up our things and stuffed them in our mouths. Oh, so fruity, so fishy, all the wetness and flavor making it just right, but not too sweet. It was SOOOO good. The blending of flavor and the mass of fruit blending with good lettuce and seafood; you could tell the creator of this food had an eye… I mean a taste, for cooking. We all liked it, except for Rebecca, who didn’t give it a try. I wish I could try it just once more, to renew the love of it and to remember it more clearly, or for every time it fades away to have it again. But no one but that Chef can make it like that, I think, and so maybe I’ll have it again if I just so happen to go back to New Orleans and just so happen to go to Emeril’s. Perhaps.

We talked of how cool Dad was, and some other things, and Dad told me some stories of his childhood. I told him that I felt he hadn’t done stories in a long time, he did it a little before the trip, and a lot WAY before. I longed for those stories again. We talked about cooking. We talked of a few things, funny and cool things, before the second course came to us. And this, my friends, would be the most interesting. There were little bits of meat, and in a soup kind of thing with spices and other stuff. It was very deep in some kind of topping, liquid. I looked at this thing, as Tony then described what was in front of us, with all of the fancy words. I heard the word “frog legs” as I then looked up from the meal, then back at it, then back to Tony. FROG LEGS?!? EWWW! DID HE REALLY EXPECT ME TO EAT IT?

After eating Caviar, which was the worst part of seafood I’ve ever had, I couldn’t even begin to think about what this was like. Rebecca chuckled and looked down on it, as we thought about this. I wanted to try new things on the trip, and if it was in a high quality movie like Emril’s, it had to be clean and okay, right? Especially if it was from the Chef’s table, right? I tried to convince myself of all that, but it was hard. I kept saying to myself, “It’s not frog. It’s chicken. It’s not frog. It’s chicken” as I closed my eyes and images of jumping frogs, toads, how in a movie a kid got warts, The Wind in the Willows, and also Amy Penny catching them, their feet the most part of my flashbacks. Will I die? Is this the end of me? I took up the food, holding one side and the other, and looking at the little leg like form, that was white and felt meaty. I gulped, closed my eyes, and bit into it. My life flashed before my eyes, my young childhood, being bullied, all my family and friends, all of my short life, was this the end?

But it tasted fine. Not much flavor, kind of like chicken, but not really. Fine.

I got to the bone after a while, and it wasn’t too bad. I then put it down, and fished around in my bowl, but didn’t really have another one. It wasn’t too good, the whole plate. Mom had a little, but got the taste out of her mouth when she saw me pick it up and it made her get reminded of what it was. Dad had none, said he didn’t have the guts. Tony took them up, and he went away. He would come back to refill water and drinks, and also he showed us a switch by Rebecca and the door to the other kitchen, saying it was magnetic and that it made the light make it see through (and he switched it down) and that you could see other people and they could see you. It was really cool, and we looked at all the patrons sitting out in the restaurant. We did not do funny faces, because you were to be fancy here, but we kept switching it off and on, amazed at it, it going up and down, up and down. Dad told us to sit down and stop. So we did.

I talked a little to Mom about some of the people in Rebecca’s class who looked like me, although it wasn’t really anybody except a kid named Riley, who we had seen while being at home in December, and I didn’t think I did. We talked a little bit about a kid named Chet and some other people at school, before changing the subject to something else. They took out duck, that was grilled and very good, and also had spices and liquid. A lot of veggies too, and then we talked a little to Jermel, and I said he looked like Shaquil O’Neal. I had been doing that a lot lately, telling people who they looked like. What I had also been doing was daydreaming about movies and ideas for them, like The Bronc Chronicles and when I was driving to a Waffle House with Dad, telling Julie an idea, about a mystery in the workplace, and in the beginning it’s really boring but it gradually get’s more exciting. But I am getting away from subject. We also talked to Tony, who was from New York and liked down here how everything was very easy going. A lot of people had that opinion. We talked to him a little. Then the fourth dish, the entrée, as they call it, came out. It was a kind of meat, that had a nice side dish. We ate it, very rich and good. Dad told me a story, as I had wanted him to earlier, about how he went with a guy and his son, and they were both giants, and they fell in the water at points and did a lot of farting. To not embarrass this person, he will be called Harold Wholesome, because he was a wholesome man. That’s not his real name. Very close though. I laughed and loved the time where he would tell me funny stories, and ate as I laughed. He would be interrupted but always would start back up again. I really love my dad, and listening to his stories. He is a great person. But I’ll tell you more about him on the blog about his birthday.

Tony asked if we might want dessert, and brought out the dessert, which had a thick level chocolate cake, some banana cream pie, and a red tart and white tart, basically ice cream. It was so good! The tart, I mean! There was also peanut butter pie, which I didn’t think looked good. The banana was flavorful and not too sweet, as was everything there. After filling ourselves up, I went to the restroom.

A lady in the restaurant with a plate told me it was in a corner a little ways in the middle of the room. An Asian dude with tie and sports coat spoke to me. I said it was a really good restaurant. “I’m very proud of it. We try to do our best.” So he worked there, or was the owner. “Oh. Are you the owner?” “General Manager.”

“Ah, I see, “ “I had a really good time,” I continued. “The meal was great. We did a mystery meal.”

“Good. Yeah, it’s a good restaurant,” he said as he opened the door for me and we departed. I saw the guy again come to our table, and I later saw him around before leaving.

Well, back in the place, Dad paid the bill, which was pretty reasonable. Mom had asked for a list of all the things they served us, and the chef, that guy I mentioned earlier with the tattoos, said he would. He never did though. Mom didn’t want to ask him again, saying it was disrespectful. Lee, Dad said, had told us to ask for a kitchen tour, but throughout the whole meal Dad had told me not to say anything, that was disrespectful too. So many disrespectful things. But, at the end after paying and all, Dad said, “My children want to know about your kitchen tour. Is that doable?”

Jermel, the one talking, said yes. He took us up, but for some reason neither of my parents went, just took pics. Jermel led us through the baking part, saying that was where they made all the pastries, naming some bread and stuff, and then he took us down one aisle, and on our left, as we were up against the left wall, was some spices and toppings. Down that aisle he said was for the fry cooks, and some of the fried stuff, and then we saw one aisle, not going down any of these but him naming what they did. It was so interesting to lean about this and see how they made everything and where they made it all. One aisle was the side dishes, and the veggies and fruits. Then, we came to big cylinder containers, and they were for the fish in there. I made a joke, as we came around, to the right wall, and he showed the salad bar and actual bar. We made a perimeter of the rectangle. It was so cool to be inside of a kitchen and have a tour! I’ve never had the opportunity before! Have you? I thought not.

We left, with people holding our doors the whole way. Outside, a blonde haired lady was smoking, and asked us how we had managed to get a seat in there, and Dad told her about the mysterious Lee, that it had all been arranged 3 days ago. “THREE DAYS AGO! I’VE BEEN TRYING TO GET THAT SEAT FOR TWO YEARS AND HAVE NEVER BEEN THERE. It beat’s me. You must have some friends in high places.”

The valet came up, and opened all the doors and closed them, like a true gentleman. We drove off, and talked of the experience, our favorite parts, in the dead of the black night, around the city. I am so glad we went to Emril’s. We had such great service, and so polite people who either really cared or really wanted a tip. It was so cool to see them cook, and to have a tour, and the food was cool because I had never had any of those things before; It was completely new to me. I liked it a lot.

Well, we drove home, as I finished that terrible, dark, and wretched book. I do not recommend it for any loving, caring, nice and optimistic people. It just makes you sad, and kind of pessimistic, thinking their’s no meaning to life. Well there is. To spread the word of God. Only read it if you want to feel bad. But anyway, we peed the dogs as I looked up at the billboard, and Dad explained to me how they get up, by getting a ladder and climbing up, taking the sign in little pieces and stuff. Very interesting. Well, we went to bed.

I loved that day, because I had learned of the sadness and devastation of Katrina, and it made me sad, and also I had gotten a good lunch and had tried a po-boy. I had seen a movie being made, and that was really cool, and the state museum had a lot of interesting info. I relaxed with the Mint, and had a fun time at Emril’s. I think it was the coolest day on the stay at New Orleans, perhaps.

Although on that day we had seen reptile-like ladies and had eaten a reptile (actually an amphibian), the next day would bring reptiles of a different sort.

Goodbye for now.

I ate frog legs,

Andrew.