Seeking Refuge At The Palm Court

An Evening in New Orleans, June 24, 2006

I parked my rental car a block off Decatur Street, feeling proud of myself for finding free street parking on a Saturday night in the French Quarter. I was in town for the American Library Association annual meeting and, being a native of the area, decided to see for myself how things were going in the city. It was my third visit to New Orleans since the hurricane: I was here last October, again in April, and now June. I felt a need to do my own personal assessment of the city's recovery.

It was still early, and hot, even though heavy gray clouds had gathered over the city. Rain was coming. A strong wind blew off the river and whipped up dust from the streets. Tourists with cigarettes and tattoos swarmed the sidewalks and crowded the entrances of bad restaurants with lots of neon and numerous television sets and good air conditioning. I was reminded of a question my son had once asked me when he was about six years old. It was right after nine-eleven and he was discovering the word terrorist, but he was confusing it with tourist, and he said "What's the difference, Dad?" I sighed and said "I don't know."

I walked up Decatur to St. Louis Street and turned left. My destination was the Napoleon House, a personal favorite of mine and one of the world's great watering holes by any standard of measure. For most of the afternoon at the library convention I had been dreaming of their signature tomato-and-vodka drink, spicy, with a string bean in it, perhaps accompanied by a muffaletta, an Italian sandwich prized by the locals. But it was not to be: the Napoleon House was closed for the evening. Not a good sign. I didn't remember it keeping such early hours. I had already noticed, during this visit to New Orleans, that the St. Charles streetcar was still not running; and now this. The city is definitely on life support.

I continued down Chartres to Jackson Square. A wedding party was trying to have pictures taken in front of the cathedral while buskers set up battered equipment for a night of performing. Very dirty people lounging on benches bummed cigarettes off each other. Sparkling well-scrubbed people stood in little clutches deciding where to eat and saying things like "So which one is the Pontalba House?"

I passed through the square and returned to Decatur Street, since it contained many of my own reference points for judging how the city had changed since my youth. The Central Grocery was closed, as expected, since it was a daytime food store, noteworthy for being the place where the muffaletta was invented. My mouth watered. I was not going to be denied my dinner of choice. Tujague's was open and seemed to have a good crowd. I was pleased, but didn't want to spend a lot of money dining alone; there was something depressing about that.

When I reached Decatur and St. Philip I found the Market Cafe. This establishment sits on the odd wedge-shaped property where Decatur splits into N. Peters. I believe it was the site of the Morning Call, a coffee stand that competed for years with the now-more-famous Cafe du Monde.

I entered the patio of the Market Cafe, thinking I would at least investigate the menu. A four-piece jazz band entertained diners beneath a broad awning that stretched from one side of the wedge to the other. I selected a table with a good view of both the band and the river, which was visible through an open space between buildings on the other side of the street. That same stiff breeze that I had felt earlier blew through the patio and sent napkins and bits of trash rolling past the guitar player's constantly-tapping foot. I again smelled rain.

I had only one question for the waitress after browsing the menu. "How are your muffalettas?"

"Excellent," she said. Of course.

"Okay I'll take one."

"Half or whole?"

"Half."

"And to drink?"

"How are your Bloody Marys?" I cringed when I said it; I had never liked that name. An old friend named Mary used to call them Jolly Marys, but I didn't think the waitress would know what I was talking about.

"It's our best selling drink," she said. Of course. She knew just what to say to me.

"I'll take one."

"House or market?" she asked.

When I didn't answer right away she said, "Market is the good stuff."

I took it as a challenge: am I the sort who takes mere house liquor in his drink? "Market," I stated. I could not interpret the amused expression that crossed her face as she wrote the order in her little pad.

The other patrons seemed to be visitors, like myself. There were two women, each dining alone, each with tote bags from the library convention. I wondered why they didn't introduce themselves and enjoy some shop talk about libraries. Maybe they had been doing that all day and were sick of it. A family of six wore gaudy Bourbon Street t-shirts. A white-haired couple chain-smoked cigarettes at the edge of the patio, downwind from my table.

The band seemed kind of bored. They mostly played the well-worn New Orleans standards that all the bands played. A beat-up wooden sign announced that they worked for tips only. The drummer stared over the crowd toward the river as he played, lost in thought but never losing his place in the tune. The bass player checked his cell phone for messages after each song, perhaps hoping to be summoned for a paying gig. The guitar player wore dark glasses and a dark hat and sat hunched over his instrument with a lit cigarette sticking out of the side of his mouth. The sax player sat next to him, the only black member of the group, providing the big sound that echoed throughout the patio and drew people off the sidewalk.

The manager of the restaurant came out to the patio every few minutes to visit patrons. He wore a big smile and a small mustache, and his graying hair had been dyed some kind of brownish-reddish color. When he passed the band he would hum whatever tune they were playing and snap his fingers in rhythm. Every once in a while he carried menus out to the sidewalk and called out his specials to passers-by. I heard him shout something across the street to the dishwasher who had stepped outside in his damp apron to smoke a cigarette.

Beyond the patio of the Market Cafe, in the very tip of the wedge between Decatur and N. Peters, stood a cluster of crepe myrtle trees in bloom. Suddenly a gust of wind caught the trees just right and, Pop!, pink blossoms burst like confetti and swirled through the patio and landed in drinks and came to rest on crawfish bisque and some fell to the floor and mingled with cigarette butts and discarded napkins. By this time my drink had been served to me--strong and very spicy--and I sat back to enjoy the show. Even the musicians reacted to Nature's accompaniment by tightening up their loose, laid back, heat-induced, rhythmic style. I saw the drummer now looking beyond the edges of the patio with something like excitement, or merely interest, in his eyes.

My muffaletta came and it was perfect: layers of imported ham and salami, topped with a salad of crushed olives and roasted peppers, and encased in warm bread. I was content and happy that I had found something a local might enjoy: a bite of tasty food and a strong drink and some jazz tunes, all at a modest price and without waiting. This was how the locals liked their city: cheap and good and fast.

The band played a short, Dixieland version of C Jam Blues and then took a break. I was pleasantly surprised to note that no juke box music came on to fill the dreaded dead air that existed while a band was on break. It was pleasantly quiet on the patio. The drummer ate an ice cream sandwich while the bass player talked on his cell phone. The guitarist stepped into the bar across the street and I didn't see where the sax player went. I ate my meal and felt my mind and body slow down. No one was in a hurry here. It was too hot to be in a hurry.

Soon the librarians left and the family left and the chain-smoking couple left, all to be replaced by other diners. New faces. More of them. Most tables were filled now. I was the lone holdover from the previous wave. I became the old timer on the patio, the tenured diner who knew a good muffaletta when he saw one. It was a darker, too. I could see the famous Tujague's sign lighting up against a heavy gray cloud. I was aware that time had passed without checking the time. The band returned for the next set and launched into more standards.

I didn't actually see the first few drops of rain; instead I saw pedestrians holding out their palms and looking skyward. Then I saw a few others duck beneath the awnings that covered most of the sidewalks. Then the drops were plainly visible, just a few at first, then more, then the skies opened up. Fat raindrops crashed to the pavement and awnings and parked cars. Each drop caused a sharp splat and millions of drops created a roar. The gutters filled with rushing water. The air became a swirling bath of rainwater and steam. A powerful and familiar smell hit me. It was the rain and the river, and the streets of the neighborhood where I grew up and the pecan trees and St Augustine grass in my front yard. Every rainstorm, I remembered, carried all of those smells in a little memory capsule. It was then I noticed, with almost a laugh, the grains of uncooked rice in the salt shakers. How could that old trick possibly work in such humid weather?

The band, positioned on the downwind side of the patio, didn't miss a beat as the rain fell. On my side of the patio, the wind-driven rain slanted onto the tables near the edge. I picked up my meal and darted to an empty table near the band. The waitress pulled tables in while patrons picked up their food and drinks and purses and shopping bags and hurried across the patio.

My new seat provided me with a side view of the band, and, beyond, a view down Decatur Street to the old Jax Brewery. My drink by this time was nothing but a cup of mostly melted ice cubes. The waitress sensed my dilemma and appeared at my side as if by magic. I shrugged. "I guess I'm having another," I said.

"Well, it is raining," she said.

What a treat, I thought, to wait out a New Orleans rainstorm in a patio bar with good booze and a live band. This was living!

The rain continued for fifteen or twenty minutes and then slowed to a drizzle and then stopped altogether. I could hear water gurgling in the gutters, and could see a sheen of flowing water on the streets reflecting the Tujague's sign and the traffic lights.

People once again filled the sidewalks. The manager went out with his menus as the band started playing When The Saints Go Marching In. As the sound of the big sax filtered out of the patio, a group of college kids started dancing on the sidewalk. I suspected they might be cheerleaders when I saw their routine become very acrobatic. Two women leapt into the air in rhythm with the music and were caught and twirled by tall men with muscled bodies and short hair. Then the sax player handed the solo to the guitarist, who created a danceable yet soulful jig out of that tired tune. Even the bass player reached deep and possibly for the first time that evening pleased himself by finding a riff that satisfied. I gave the band a good tip.

A thought occurred to me about New Orleans at that moment. It was my own little riff. It was the idea that the best way to visit the city was to let it visit you. To sit in one spot and let weather and humanity and music and trash flow around you like a lazy river. I think that was what I had always done here without realizing it. I had to go away in order to see it.

My second drink was now empty and I decided it was time to move on. Out of curiosity, I asked the waitress where she was from. Pittsburg was the answer. I wondered if there were any locals still left in the French Quarter.

I continued up Decatur Street, noticing a striking increase in light and noise coming from some of the bars compared to what I could recall from my last visit to the Quarter, perhaps four or five years ago. Some establishments had become caverns of light: floors, ceilings and walls bathed in painful hues of fluorescent color. Television screens, mirrors, and shiny bar stools completed the visual spectacle while my ears were assaulted by booming electronic bass notes coming from enormous loudspeakers. I was certain the sounds could be heard by tugboat operators clear out in the middle of the Mississippi River.

But I walked for a few more blocks instead of turning back because there was a place I had in mind, a reliable oasis of civilized good cheer, a local hangout, a barometer to measure either the decline or rebirth of New Orleans, depending on your point of view. It was the Palm Court.

The Palm Court is an anomaly in the French Quarter. It's only open a few days each week, and only until about eleven o'clock. And every year it closes for the summer. The owner and founder, an Englishwoman named Nina Buck, is a great lover of New Orleans music and wanted to create an establishment for showcasing the best in local jazz talent, especially the older musicians who play a rapidly disappearing style. In that respect the Palm Court is somewhat like Preservation Hall, except that it has a full menu and a bar, and doesn't get the crush of tourists.

The Palm Court is charming and understated: a simple tiled floor, exposed brick walls, ceiling fans, a few plants, soft lighting. Paintings and photographs of jazz musicians hang from the walls, along with a collection of record album covers, many of them produced and released by Nina's husband. The building itself had been a food warehouse for decades before the Bucks bought and renovated the place and opened the Palm Court in 1989. By New Orleans standards, that's young. But it quickly became an institution.

Within moments after walking in and finding an empty stool at the mahogany bar, I knew I had happened into the Palm Court on a special night: it was the last night of the season before Miss Nina, as she is called by everyone, closes the bar for the summer. I learned this from a gentleman sitting on my right who, with his wife, had come into town from the West Bank (of the Mississippi River, that is). I didn't catch their names, but I'll call him Ed. Ed was a true local, and a regular at the Palm Court. He told me right off that he and his wife were "Katrina survivors." Ed knew the names of all the band members, and he knew many of the patrons sitting around the bar.

Miss Nina was all over the place. She wore a blue-and-white print dress and flitted among the tables, greeting people and occasionally doing a dance step or two in front of the band. She served drinks from behind the bar, answered the phone, delivered things from the kitchen to the dining room, all with a natural elegance and charm. She was an Englishwoman who had become a classic New Orleans hostess.

Between songs, Nina mounted the stage to introduce the musicians: four old men and one young clarinet player. She gave an especially warm introduction for Lionel Ferbos, one of the living legends of the New Orleans music scene. Lionel was born in 1911 and today, at age 95, is still a working musician, playing trumpet in bands on a weekly basis. Nina explained that Lionel had lost his house and was displaced by Katrina but was back in town thanks to a lot of support from friends and fans and family. The crowd applauded warmly, and the band started their next tune. Lionel sat with his thin legs crossed one over the other, dressed in a white shirt and blue tie. The white fringes of hair on his temples contrasted with his black-rimmed spectacles. He blew big, warm tones in a calm, unhurried way. This was Dixieland playing in that relaxed, lazy style that, paradoxically, was both loose and precise.

Later in the evening, new people started pouring into the bar. Ed named several of them for me: they were all musicians just getting off work at Preservation Hall, and were stopping in for closing night at the Palm Court. It felt suddenly like a place of refuge. These people, who had only recently sought shelter from Katrina, now, I fancied, sought shelter from a different kind of threat: the disappearance of a distinct New Orleans subculture. I imagined these musicians to be the last holdouts against a tide of noise and bad taste, the last Dixieland players in the last bastion of Dixieland playing. Ed introduced me to a large man with a white hat and sunglasses who had been playing bass for sixty-eight years. This was his life.

Nina greeted all of them by name and made sure they had seats and drinks and food. The conversations surrounding me were all about local things: music, jobs, houses, recovery, FEMA, the mayor and his bad jokes. One woman who worked for a local medical school explained that the city had lost half its doctors. Another talked about how long she had to look before she found an affordable apartment. One man told me he had just interviewed for a job at the University of Washington and wanted to know about the jazz scene in Seattle. I told him about my favorite clubs and the diversity of jazz styles you can hear and the Earshot Jazz Festival. I asked him why he was moving, and he said "It's time."

Finally, the band played their last song of the evening and took a bow that was more like a farewell, and then packed up the instruments and emptied the tip jar. It was closing time, for the summer, at the Palm Court. Miss Nina hugged old friends and kissed them on their cheeks. I said goodbye to Ed and his wife and, with some reluctance, left the bar. For a moment, I wanted to be a local again. I wanted to be in that bar, with the regulars, hashing over old times and ruminating about the future. But, alas, it wasn't my station in life at the moment.

I retraced my steps back down Decatur. I couldn't resist stopping in the Cafe du Monde for coffee and doughnuts. That's what they were called in my youth, as opposed to the cafe au lait and beignets you hear today. The patio crowd was of the tired, rumpled, sweaty, late-night variety. To them this was a foreign country: exotic, hot, humid, noisy, dirty, rainy, layered with grime and powdered sugar and cooking fat. The glasses of ice water sweated and slid around the table top. The coffee-and-chicory with scalded milk was perfectly prepared, the doughnuts were very fresh and warm. With each bite, I tasted home. Home was still here, in spite of everything.