Money Can't Buy It

Restaurants are to people in the 80s what theatre was to people in the 60s.  This iconic statement wrung true in 1989 Manhattan, wherein When Harry Met Sally was written.  The statement wrings true today in New Orleans, a city which continuously equates the virtue of consumption to the Ten Commandments, the Seven Sacraments, and two types of Saints.  From eating and drinking to listening and seeing, the Crescent City holds that consumption of any kind be an art form.  The spices of a roux and the instant groove reaction to a corner trumpet comprise a synchronized feeling throughout the city’s residents and passersby.  Such synchronism only synthesizes the feeling, the mindset, the place that is The Big Easy.

The tastes of New Orleans operate around the river, the lake, and the parade routes.  Growing up and becoming acclimated to such a place means knowing how to peel crawfish, it means staying loyal to “the best” snowball stand, it means being able to recite your order at Schaeffer’s without hesitation.  In a domain where food is a staple, residents find solace in the hours spent at a restaurant with family, who may or may not be blood-related.  The idea of transferring the drawn-out table talk of home to the atmosphere of a restaurant leaves no element with the sitter, for memorable meals ending after ten is frequent.  It is no surprise that natives flock to restaurants in the event of a birthday, an anniversary, a promotion, a Thursday, just as generations prior flocked to the theatre.  But beyond the boot-shaped borders lies a disappointing reality for patrons of great restaurants and food aficionados alike: what was once the theatrical restaurant is now a convenient inconvenience.

Beyond the comforts of Louisiana, the restaurant is a catalyst for complaints, for write-offs; for the ugliest moments in humanity, only equivalent to the episodic hell of a DMV or a freshly landed plane.  Gone are the days of celebratory glass clinks and enthusiastic “of course” responses to the fateful dessert menu.  The get-in, get-the-hell-out mantra of foreign dining results in New Orleanians vowing to never eat out again.  And by out, they mean outside of those boot-shaped borders.

So common are the gripes of a drawn-out meal, so typical the rants to managers about being in a hurry that the restaurant now stands as the last resort.  Naturally, the hours-long dinner is not assumed every night; New Orleans contains members and teammates and deadlines as well.  However, the magic of such an occasion as dining out is diminished among Americans.  No longer do they flock to fine dine in their best clothes and in their best spirits. 

And to their greatest demise, people outside Louisiana are devoid of a generational theatre.  Quite ironic is this predicament, as most visitors to the Crescent City brag about the hospitality, the attention, and the affection of their servers.  While the rest of the country scrambles for decent food in most of its landlocked territory, New Orleans continues to genuflect before its theatre of cuisine as it follows the Ten Commandments, respects the Seven Sacraments, and prays to Saint Louis and Drew Brees.  Salud!