FRENCH QUARTER +1

The French Quarter is a great place to hang out. Hot & steamy or with a damp chill, the place is a reality show with characters ranging from Mormon missionaries to pierced and tattooed rebels; from tourists flaunting their hometown sports team logo to local street musicians; each one looking to the other for something they can take home. There’s a break in the early morning when last night’s derelicts run out of fuel and melt away, and the working class reclaims the new day. It’s a brief lull in the dance, like an intermission between acts. Shakespeare said that all the world is a stage and that we are the actors; and no place is that more apparent than the French Quarter. 

So I walk and look for anything that stirs my imagination. I studied storefront doors with their heavy chains and monster pad locks. In this world of tweets and cyber security, the Quarter it’s still the middle ages with old world chains and pad locks. It’s as much about a message as it is about security. “We are closed. The street may belong to you but what’s behind this door does not. Mind your own business.” By midmorning, an ordinary person has turned the key and taken the chain inside. The door opens and they turn on the music. We are welcome to come inside and trade dollar-bills for a t-shirt or some hot sauce. In front of St. Louis Cathedral, the mystics have set up their Tarot card tables, waiting for the first tourist to have their fortune told. They sit together and enjoy a chat, a cigarette and finish their coffee. One lady noticed my “Michigan” baseball cap and asked if I was a Michigander. I said I was and she confessed she was too: from Auburn Hills. It would have been rude not to let her know where I called home: “Grand Haven,” I said, before she had time to ask. “Have a good one.” She smiled a genuine smile, not normal for panhandlers and such and came back, “You too.”

Restaurants that serve breakfast were starting to open and I wanted to try one that was new to me. Walking on Charters Street, I noticed a simple, hand painted sign over the door of a hole-in-the-wall place: Fleur de Lis Restaurant. My server, Ophelia, had a great smile and her eyes were smiling too. I noticed as I was waiting that she moved quickly yet gave her customers an undivided attention. Thru the window, in the kitchen, the cook Chris was busy. A tall guy with big arms, he could have been playing drums in a band the way he was moving food. My french toast was sliced thick and a little crunchy, I was happy. Everybody working in the Quarter has to smile and be what you want them to be: it’s just the way it is. It’s a hard place, often the smiles are shallow and mask something darker than you want to know about. I got the feeling that Fleur de Lis was a good place and it’s people were the real deal. Next time you’re on Charters Street, stop in, try the french toast and leave a good tip. Tell ‘em Frank says “Hey.”