Karin and I are rather creatures of habit. Having found a place we liked for breakfast we continued to patronize it; to avoid the intellectual stigma of unoriginality, we went to their alternate location; on Canal Street, about 4 blocks from the one we had been to before, and within sight of the hotel. OK, OK, we did not try very hard to avoid the whole unoriginality thing, but it was early in the morning and there had not been coffee yet. Yeah, and I suspect it was not that early in the morning either. We were on vacation, after all.
We had decided before we went to New Orleans that some time would be devoted to antiquing; not that we are either particular fans of antiques, but because, some years ago, we found some light fixtures in a store on Royal Street that we both actually liked. Finding objects (be they d’art or completely mundane) that my wife and I both like is needle-in-the-haystack (or genuine unicorn poop, if you prefer) country, so it seems like a good idea to try and repeat the experience, even if only for novelty’s sake.
So off into the bowels of the French Quarter, walking from store to store, antique gallery to art gallery, and back again, as they sit in a neat little row along the street. And very illuminating (with reference to the light fixtures, of course) it was.
There was one place literally full of french chandeliers. When none of the ones on the ground floor overly enticed us, and hearing that we lived in an older farmhouse, the gentleman took us up in a freight elevator to see one on the third floor (yes, folks, thats at least 3 floors of rather horrid chandeliers, most of them with those terrible little pretend candle lights on them. Some even had the little white tubes with the fake melted wax on it). The one he wanted to show us was a early 20th century one, in wrought iron, complete with a surface patina of rust, (sufficient that on seeing it my first thought was of the date of my last tetanus booster) with downward facing bulbs (an indication of a display of affluence, he said) and little curly pig tails decorating it. Seriously, wrought iron little curly pig tails all over it.
I have no idea what I said to this chap to indicate that I had a complete amputation of my sense of taste, but I vowed to be more careful about what I said in future.
An art gallery we went into classified a rather gaudy splurgy creation with a 5 figure price tag as “affordable”; admittedly this was subsequent to being presented a rather ugly sketch by some lady friend of Picasso’s with a mid 5 digit price tag as some sort of bargain. We fled precipitously, wondering what we had said or done to indicate that we were in that sort of income bracket.
There were much more reasonable places though; had a nice chat and look around in the place we had found the light fixture that caused the search in the first place, though much of the conversation was about food; and in another place a nice young lady demonstrated (once more by means of a freight elevator) the differences between English antiques (plain, which I like, my wife derides, and the nice young lady tactfully described as an “acquired taste”) and the French ones (which I find gaudy, but of courts appeal to my wife). This place also had a complete set of paneling from a dining room in a small chateau somewhere in the south of France, set up so one could see it. One would have to build a house around it to actually use it, but very interesting all the same.
Fatigued by our efforts, we popped into the Carousel Bar for a reviving snifter (not sure my liver is going to forgive me for the New Orleans trip). In this place the circular bar actually revolves slowly around, giving the ultimate version of the “see and be seen” thing. We did not essay it, sticking to more mundane seats.
Having been pointed to Magazine Street as another shopping locale, we decided to take the bus up there to see what the story was. And a story it was too.
The shops along Magazine are eclectic in the extreme, even ignoring the odd boutiques and so on and so forth. They vary from places selling forms of imports from India (think Pier 1 with more taste) to places with antiques as such, to art galleries to places with shelf after shelf of mid century stuff we remembered from our childhoods (and were, of course, mildly interested to see that someone would consider buying it). All sorts of things, though, from clothes through jewelry and odd shoes to walking sticks. Honestly, I do not recall such a bizarre collection of “stuff” anywhere, ever.
Back down to the hotel to change for the evening’s meal, at Ivy (same executive chef as the night before, but small plates instead). Though our reservation had been lost somehow, we got a table (its the slow season in New Orleans in the summer) and enjoyed a wonderful meal, with a gray variety of flavors, very much to both our likings.
The meal was accompanied by a great deal of noise; there were two groups of ladies, both of whom who had looked upon wine when it was red, and were quite ummm raucous. All the same a wonderful meal, unspoiled by the untrammeled hilarity that surrounded us.
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