A tribute to The New Orleans Underground Gourmet. Richard Collin, a history professor at Louisiana State University at New Orleans (now the University of New Orleans) was the first real restaurant critic in the Crescent City, writing the column "The New Orleans Underground Gourmet." When I was growing up, his word was almost gospel around our house, and my dad was particularly fond of his columns and his book that came out in 1973. He was erudite, witty and had the proper amount of pomp and condescension for a food critic, but generally only applied where it was deserved. I remember poring over the book when I was a kid. I was always reading well above my grade level as a kid, and Collin's reviews were challenging yet entertaining, my first glimpse of what it was like to truly appreciate fine food in New Orleans. Unfortunately I never got to try many of the great restaurants of the past -- my palate was rather unrefined and uneducated back then, and for the longest time I wouldn't even eat seafood (which appalls me today). My folks would come home talking about the restaurants they loved when they went out (the late, lamented LeRuth's for one, which was their favorite), but sadly, those places would have been wasted on me when I was young. What I can do is read Collin's old book, which is a fascinating look at the New Orleans restaurant scene of 30 years ago. Some of those places are still around, of course, but many have been lost to history, bad times, changing tastes and the wrecking ball. I wasn't able to find our old copy of The New Orleans Underground Gourmet at my folks' house, but copies in good condition are usually available via ABEbooks.com, which is where I got mine. One other thing I can do is to use one of Collin's terms for describing a truly great dish, a term I remember my dad using a lot as well. Collin explains it thusly in his book:
PLATONIC DISH - This is my own personal accolade. The term is derived from Plato's Republic. It simply means the best imaginable realization of a particular dish. 'Perfect' would be a good translation.For old times' sake, and as a tribute to Prof. Collin, I'm going to start using that old term again. I hope he doesn't mind.
Mmm, cabbage rolls and coffee ... can't be beat! Well, actually, I'm not talking Leutonian cuisine today, I'm talking Polish cuisine (although undoubtedly the homeland of Mrs. Vilviacki and the Shmenge brothers isn't far from Poland). Polish cuisine is hearty, simple, tasty and filling fare, and although it can be nicely fancied up (such as at the fabulous Warszawa Restaurant in Santa Monica), our favorite is the inexpensive Polish restaurant Polka, right in the neighborhood, "where Eagle Rock fades into Glendale." Family-owned and -run, it's a tiny place and you'll often wait for a table (even if you get there at 5:30, like we did). Service is friendly if a bit leisurely at times (it's a two- or three-person operation at most at any one time, and they're usually busy), but always with a smile and proper Polish accents. If you pronounce one of the names of the dishes properly, count on lavish compliments on your linguistic talents as well. The dish I'm finishing off as leftovers as I write always makes me think of Mrs. Vilviacki, Leutonian though she may be. I love good stuffed cabbage (we do it in New Orleans too), and the Polish version may well be the best. There it's called gołąbki (or golabki if your browser can't interpret the Polish characters), pronounced something like "go-WUMP-kee" and thoroughly delicious.
 Everything we've ever had at Polka has been terrific, and we couldn't recommend them more highly. They're closed on Monday and Tuesday, but any other night (or lunchtime) you're in for tons of great Polish food for a low price. That's my favorite price, next to free.
Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it. Via Kos, "in case you haven't been keeping up with developments in Vietnam" 38 years ago...
U.S. Encouraged by Vietnam Vote:We all remember how that one turned out. Those in the press, administration and "wingnut blogosphere", as Kos put it, would be advised to think and to truly assess the realities of the situation in Iraq before dancing any victory jigs.
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Butter-poached lobster. My eyeballs roll up in my head in ecstasy at the very idea, the mere mention of such a thing. Chef Thomas Keller, whose Napa Valley restaurant The French Laundry is probably the best in the country, cooks lobster this way, and it's perhaps the most perfect method ever devised. I love the sweet flavor of lobster, but it's really hard to cook well. Even in nice restaurants, I've ended up with lobster that's the consistency of chewing gum. Keller's signature technique of slowly, gently poaching lobster in butter is decadent genius and lets both the flavor and texture of the lobster shine.
The technique is included in Keller's gorgeous coffee-table volume
Sad news has come to town. As an Irish traditional flute player (of extremely minimal ability), I note with sadness the passing of one of the greats, which I read about in today's edition of Ireland's Hot Press magazine, in Sarah McQuaid's "Folk Centre" column:
Sad news has come in that the great Clare flute player PJ Crotty passed away at Ennis Hospital on January 7. PJ was diagnosed with cancer of the blood platelets about six years ago, but it was during this time that he recorded his wonderful Happy To Meet. Following his removal the following day in Lahinch, all in attendance went back to The Atlantic House Hotel and a session started that lasted all night. At the funeral mass on the Sunday, the church was filled with musicians. The Cor Cúil Aodha sang the mass in Irish under the direction of Peadar Ó Ríada, and solos were played during the service by Liam O'Flynn, Seán Keane, Matt Molloy and Kevin Crawford. Before the casket left the church, PJ's wife Angela played a tune on the whistle, and when she finished all the flute players present came forward and played sets of tunes in unison. I'm told it was a beautiful sight and sound. You can hear a lovely tribute to PJ on www.rte.ie/radio1/ceilihouse. Also featured is piper Joe Shannon, who passed away on St. Stephen's Day.Jaysis, they sure know how to send off their musicians on that tiny, wonderful island, don't they? If my own musical skills were in the tiniest way noteworthy, I'd love to go out like that (followed by a jazz funeral, of course). Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam.
Editorial cartoon of the day. by Nick Anderson.
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Photo of the day. This sign was outside Johnson's Grocery in Eunice, Louisiana ... one of my very favorite places to get boudin.
Speaking of boudin ... I should perhaps explain what boudin is. It's both a delicacy, and the fast food of Cajun and Creole country. It's a product born of poverty, in which rice was added to the sausage to stretch it out (which we now realize, of course, is an integral part of its innate fabulosity). Or, as they say on The Boudin Link, "As everyone in South Louisiana knows, boudin is a delicious blend of rice, pork, and spices injected into a natural casing and served everywhere from the fanciest restaurants to gas stations. While most locals feel that they know where the 'best' boudin is made, no one has yet attempted a comprehensive taste guide to all the boudin in South Louisiana. The Boudin Link is THE GUIDE to boudin." Some of the Fat Pack and I have been wanting to do something like this for a while, but Coach "T" and Dr. C, Lafayette residents both, beat us to it. Makes sense, really -- they're there year-round, and we just visit a few times a year. They've got plenty of places listed with more being added all the time -- I'll consult the boudin connoisseurs in the Pack to see what their favorite places are, and I'll annotate here. (Thanks for the link, Brian!) They give a "B" to Sunset Specialty Meats in Sunset, Louisiana, where I sampled a link of boudin just over a week ago. It was quite good, although I agree about the rubberiness of the casing (which I rarely eat anyway). It seems that I missed my real opportunity when I was there, though; they noted that Sunset Specialty Meats "had THE BEST CRACKLINS we've ever tasted. They were meaty (more meat than fat/skin), perfectly seasoned, and warm." Oh my. Next time. Ehh, it's not too far from my sister's house ... Coach and Doctor, y'all gotta make it up to Eunice!
Zydeco Breakfast at Café des Amis. Oh, speaking of boudin (what, again?) ... One thing my sister Melissa plopped onto the head of the agenda when I was visiting her and her hubby in Lafayette Parish last week was to have breakfast at one of our favorite Acadiana eateries, Café des Amis. They're back and going strong after a devastating fire closed them down for months, and given the look of the crowd early on a Saturday morning, they're more popular than ever. When we called the day before, they told us "Better get here early; it fills up fast. We start seating at 7:30, and the band goes on at 7:45." Seven-thirty? A.M.?! Surely one can't even digest food that early! We decided for a more civilized 9:45. When we got there the place was indeed jam-packed, and the first thing we saw was a line of older Creole men leaning on the bar, eyeing women while nursing rocks glasses full of whiskey on the rocks. For breakfast. "I love this place," I said. Folks were eating at their tables, drinking and/or resting by the bar, and dancing to the high-powered zydeco of Terry and the Zydeco Bad Boys, who had apparently been playing for two hours without a break, and would continue until 11 without a break (zydeco bands tend to be rather hard-working).
 One look at the breakfast menu made my eyes widen. They started off with some traditdional Cajun favorites such as couche couche, a skillet-fried cornmeal mush with milk and syrup, oreilles de cochon, which is sweet dough rolled thin, fried crisp and shaped like a pig's ear (hence the name). I took a closer look, though ... "Regular, $4.95. Stuffed with boudin, $6.50." Oreilles de cochon, stuffed with boudin?!? Um ... we have to get this. Diet be damned. Rationalization kicked in almost immediately. "Well, I suppose we don't have to eat it all," I said. "Unless it's really fuckin' good," replied my sister.
 It was more like oreille-shaped beignets, really; they had beignets on the menu too, and I'm pretty sure they used the same dough. They weren't thin and crisp, but thick and chewy, but still amazingly good. I love juxtapositions of flavors like this -- doughy and sweet and meaty and spicy and oniony but covered with powdered sugar. "This is weird," Melissa said. "It's just wrong," she added, as she mostly finished her serving. "So wrong it's right," I agreed. I didn't actually finish all the dough, but dissected everything on the plate and ate every speck that was boudin-stuffed. They have a lot of good specialty egg dishes too, and we opted for those. Melis got Eggs Begnaud, which is a grilled biscuit topped with either crawfish étouffée or crawfish au gratin, and then topped with two eggs, any style. She opted for au gratin and poached, which looked lovely. Mine was called the "Don't Mess with My Ta--so..." Omelet, which is an omelet stuffed with smothered onions and tasso (a highly seasoned, smoked Cajun ham), with either Swiss or Cheddar cheese and toast or a biscuit. When the waitress asked which cheese I wanted, I said I wanted to try to save a few points, so "only a little tiny bit of cheese on top, please." Then she asked a key question. "What kinda grits you want on the side? Plain, cheese or andouille-cheese?" Without missing a beat ... "Um, andouille-cheese," I said sheepishly. Melissa just laughed at me. So much for shaving points.
 It was only just beginning to wind down by the time we finished, and really the only difference is that the band stopped at 11, tables eventualy returned to the dance floor and otherwise it was a seamless switchover to the lunch menu. Café des Amis is one of the best places to eat in the Lafayette area; Lafayette, oddly enough, is suffering for good places to eat these days. It's become dominated by awful chain restaurants like so much of blandified, homogenized America, and almost all of the good restaurants are outside Lafayette proper. Café des Amis, in Breaux Bridge, is one of them. Another is Catahoula's in Grand Coteau, where after necessarily skipping lunch we had dinner that night. More on that mo' later.
 Food, glorious food. Kick-ass edition of the Los Angeles Times' Food Section today, including the great news that chef Nancy Silverton, who sold her interest in the fabulous Campanile, is now embarking on a project to open an Italian restaurant in Los Angeles with Mario Batali. Whoooo!!
* The local dim sum scene was already terrific, but nowadays has been soaring to glorious new heights.There's more. Eat it up.
Quote of the day. One of the thirteen who had the courage to vote "no" on Condoleeza Rice for Secretary of State:
I don't like to impugn anyone's integrity, but I really don't like being lied to, repeatedly, flagrantly, intentionally. It's wrong. It's undemocratic, it's un-American and it's dangerous.I'm disappointed in one of my senators (Feinstein, unsurprisingly) and quite disappointed in Barack Obama, both of whom voted "yes." It was more or less a done deal, though, and I can let this one slip ... although a "yes" vote for Gonzales I will not let slip. I resolved that if Feinstein voted for him, she will not get my vote for re-election in 2006. Fortunately, she voted "no" in committee, as did every Democrat, so I think her vote on the Senate floor is pretty safe.
No on Gonzales. This weblog joins DailyKos and many others in opposing the confirmation of Alberto Gonzales as Attorney General, and urges the Senate to vote "no." To wit:
Unprecedented times call for unprecedented actions. In this case, we, the undersigned bloggers, have decided to speak as one and collectively author a document of opposition. We oppose the nomination of Alberto Gonzales to the position of Attorney General of the United States, and we urge every United States Senator to vote against him.The confirmation of Gonzales as the chief law enforcement officer of the United States of America will signal nothing but contempt for the law and for the idea of America as a nation and a people that condemn the use of torture. How long, one wonders, will it be before we start torturing our own citizens under a broad definition of "homeland security"?
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Oscars shmoscars. When we go to our friends' annual Oscar party this year, I'm going to concentrate on the party, the food and the drink. I'm beginning to think I couldn't be less interested in the Oscars this year, considering that the best film of the year (at least that I'd seen) wasn't nominated. I must confess it's been a bad year for me; we've gotten way, way behind. We've only seen one of the five nominated features, so we've got a bit of catching up to do. I've really been looking forward to most of them, especially "The Aviator", but I'm seriously doubtful that I'll like any of them more than "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind". One thing I was thrilled to see was a best actress nomination for Catalina Sandino Moreno, who was the lead in the terrific (and powerful) little indie "Maria Full of Grace". In fact, I hope she gets it. Yeah, I know, I haven't seen three of the other performances, but Hilary already has one anyway, and I love to see underdogs win. (Then again, Kate Winslet was great in "Eternal Sunshine", and I'd love to see that one get something.) Best Picture, more feckin' biopics. Biopic, biopic, biopic, biopic, "Sideways". Admittedly, I'm excited about "The Aviator" (because I'm excited about Scorsese in general, and I'm prepared to forgive him for "Gangs of New York"), and I'm already beginning to think that he needs to get the Oscar this year not necessarily for "The Aviator", but for "Taxi Driver", which should have won in 1976 instead of fucking"Rocky"forchristssake. Okay, maybe I will watch the show. Maybe.
Tiki Drink of the day. First off, I just found a nifty site called Critiki, which is "a worldwide guide to Tiki Bars, Polynesian Restaurants and other sites of interest to the midcentury Polynesian Pop enthusiast" and is curated by Los Angeles resident Humuhumu (a.k.a. Michelle Whiting). Extremely nifty! It of course includes L.A.'s own beloved Tiki-Ti, a global treasure for lovers of tropical drinks. It's been ages since I've been there (and now that I'm an Eagle Rocker, it's actually fairly close to the house, so I have no excuse not to revisit). I still remember my first visit (when my friend Chris kept calling it, and probably still calls it "Tiki Tie", when it's actually pronounced "Tiki Tee"), where I was served their signature drink, Ray's Mistake, by the founding owner, the late Ray Buhen himself. I also remember embarking on a feeble attempt to drink my way through their entire menu, but gave up after a dozen or so (for which my liver thanks me to this day). Now, on to today's cocktail. This is probably the granddaddy/mother/Big Kahuna/Grand Poobah of all tropical drinks, a gift to humanity by the legendary Don the Beachcomber (whom I didn't know until recently was a native of New Orleans). If you've had something called this, you probably haven't had it done properly. Here's how to do it properly, from Don himself via Dr. Cocktail:
The ZombieCaveat imbibor: this'll knock you right on your ass, but you'll enjoy every second of it.
Mando-rrific bass-tacular. Last night was my first visit to Walt Disney Concert Hall (excluding dinner at Patina, which is in the complex) to actually see a concert. There were a number of shows I wanted to see but missed, so it was long-overdue. It's a stunning space, which manages to feel intimate even though it seats about 2,200 people. I'm not sure what it's like in their nosebleed seats, but I can sure tell you what it's like from fifth row center -- fantastic. My friend Matthew had amazing season tickets for their world music series, and last night we saw bassist Edgar Meyer with mandolinist extraordinaire Chris Thile of Nickel Creek. Their performance was nothing less than extraordinary. Meyer has a reputation as being perhaps the best double bassist alive, and for many years has bridged the gaps between genres -- classical to bluegrass and beyond, collaborating with the likes of Joshua Bell, Sam Bush and Béla Fleck. Thile's done similar explorations with Nickel Creek and in his own solo and outside collaborative work, so the pairing seemed to be a natural. There were a few tunes from Thile's repertoire ("Smoothie Song" from the last Nickel Creek album, and "Jessamyn's Reel" from his last solo album Deceiver), plus some classical pieces, all by J. S. Bach, but the vast majority of the performance was new, original material unique to Meyer and Thile. Astoundingly, these intricate, complex compositions were written in the last couple of weeks before the tour began, by these two musicians who had never composed or played together before. The pieces were soaring, driving, quiet, contemplative, whimsical, sometimes outright funny, the latter quality helped by their onstage chemistry. Meyer seemed as if he were playing the role of the dad sometimes, with the energeteic, irrepressible and literally bouncing Thile. Quoting his friend Sam Bush, Meyer said, "They're so cute when they're that age." (Edgar, you're more right than you know.) The whimsy continued into the titles of the pieces (of those which had titles, at least, other than "F sharp, Fast, Slow, 5") -- "I Wasn't Talking To You", "The Farmer and the Duck", and one for which Chris was only willing to admit half of the title: "You Deserve ..." (Matthew thought it would end up as the McDonald's slogan, but I must confess I was thinking in a different direction.) All in all a great show, and a great way to experience Disney Hall for the first time. Now I want to see the L.A. Phil there, and I really want to hear a concert on that magnificent pipe organ.
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So long, Johnny. When I was in junior high (staying up with the TV on later than I was allowed) and high school, he was a must-watch. We laughed at the monologue jokes the next day, we imitated Carnac and Aunt Blabby, Art Fern and Floyd R. Turbo, we learned the theme music in band practice, and almost never missed an episode. No offense to his successor, but after Johnny Carson retired from the "Tonight Show", I really never had much interest in watching it anymore, and pretty much quit watching late night chat shows altogether. Sure, Letterman was great, and Leno ... well, he's a nice guy, but nobody did it like Johnny. It just wasn't the same, and never could be.
He sits behind his microphoneThanks for all the laughs.
Cocktail of the day. This one's from a recent addition to my collection of cocktail books: The Saloon in the Home, or A Garden of Rumblossoms, compiled by Ridgely Hunt and George S. Chappell, with many lavish engravings by John Held, Jr. It was published in 1930, three years before the end of Prohibition (my copy is autographed by the authors and inscribed December 1930), and is a collection of temperance songs, poems, stories, sermons and rants ... interspersed with lots and lots of cocktail recipes. It's hilarious, and I love it. This cocktail falls right into the same category as the Manhattan, Rob Roy and Rory O'More/Tom Moore cocktails -- just substitute the base spirit and stick to the classic formula.
The Hunting HornWe rather liked it. You could try spiffing this up somewhat by using Calvados instead of applejack, and you could spiff it up even more by using Carpano Antica Formula or Punt e Mes instead of garden variety Martini & Rossi sweet vermouth. On the same page of the book were two little temperance anecdotes and another cocktail recipe (which we have yet to try); I'll share those with you too.
OH YEAH?Here's to Mr. Bryan and Dr. Monroe ... drink up!
Quotes of the day. From the Washington Post's interview with George W. Bush on Friday, January 14, 2005, less than a week before his re-inauguration. This is exactly the kind of brilliant mind and steel-trap thinking I want to hear from someone who's been elected not once but twice to head the most powerful country on Earth.
THE POST: Why do you think bin Laden has not been caught?Well ... olly olly oxen free! (Jesus H. particular Christ.)
From the day of our Founding, we have proclaimed that every man and woman on this earth has rights, and dignity, and matchless value, because they bear the image of the Maker of Heaven and Earth.Except of course, as August points out, the people we owned and the women that weren't allowed to vote.
What democracy means to me. Here's a memorable monologue delivered by Johnny Carson in 1991, as a tribute to the former Soviet republics who were then becoming new nations, seeking freedom and democracy.
To me, democracy means placing trust in the little guy, giving the fruits of nationhood to those who built the nation. Democracy means anyone can grow up to be president, and anyone who doesn't grow up can be vice president.How little has changed ... although that first paragraph could bear some rewriting for current times. Democracy now apparently means that any mediocre citizen whose family has enough money and power and who has enough personal mendacity can be president, and whichever of his buddies he appoints to find a vice-president can pick himself. God bless Murr'ca.
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Cocktails of the day. Taken from an exhibit at The Museum of the American Cocktail, New Orleans. (I'll have more on the Museum in a post next week.)
 What are we drinking? A selection of Cocktails, all new for 1901.The CommodoreNow you're all set to sip Cocktails with the cream of the crop from 104 years ago. A few notes: "Gum syrup" is basically simple syrup, with a little gum arabic added as an emulsifier, and regular simple syrup will do fine today; "Curacoa" was a popular misspelling for Curaçao, an orange liqueur that once came in several colors (but not mostly just orange and blue); "French" and "Italian" vermouth are dry and sweet respectively (our recommended brands are Noilly Prat for white/dry, and Martini & Rossi, Punt e Mes or Carpano Antica, in ascending order of complexity, for the red/sweet); "Carbonic water" is carbonated water or seltzer. So put on "Alexander's Ragtime Band", "Some of These Days", "Oh You Beautiful Doll" and some early ragtime, and drink up!
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The Bistro at Maison de Ville. Food porn returns, for your Friday pleasure. The Bistro at Maison de Ville has been one of my favorite places to eat in the city for a good while now, even though I've only been there four times (alas, I need to get home more often). I'd go back in a second. I must confess (with apologies to Ralph Brennan and Chef Haley Gabel) that we were on our way to Bacco, and my mom didn't want to go. They weren't impressed the last time they went (and I must disclose that my folks are difficult to please and self-described "unadventurous" diners), which is a bit of a shame because I had been wanting to try Bacco (especially their white truffle festival). Fortunately, when they balked at the idea of going there we just happened to be passing right in front of the Maison de Ville, and there was the Bistro ... and on went the lightbulb-over-the-head. Very, very good move on our part. We were greeted at the door by their legendary maitre d'hotel Patrick van Hoorebeek (who, to my astonishment, remembered that I had dined there before, even though it's been a couple of years now), who seated us up front near his station in one of the red leather banquettes along the side of the tiny, 12-table restaurant. Patrick's one of those great New Orleans maitre d's, providing excellent service, a vast knowledge of wines and wine pairings (as well as being King of the Mardi Gras reveling wine lovers, The Krewe of Cork, reigning as king of his dining room, a benevolent and beloved monarch.
 Next came the appetizer (Mom and Dad opted out, but heck, I'm on vacation), which was a Semolina-Crusted Louisiana Oyster Caesar Salad with Shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano. Yeah, it's been done before, and it's done in a number of place, but damn ... I love this. Chef Greg Picolo, never one to be too traditional and always looking for great new flavor combinations, didn't stick with the traditional Caesar dressing (seemed to be some balsamic vinegar in there, maybe even a tiny touch of Creole mustard). He makes what a local reviewer calls "grown-up comfort food", and this is exactly what that was. Lightly fried oysters, perfectly crisp -- I love that semolina crust.
 I'd never had Brabant potatoes made of yam before, which is a perfect idea (and even good for all y'all mad carb disease folks, which years ago in New Orleans was called "Sugar Busters", and saw a proliferation of fried sweet potatoes all over town). If you're not familiar with them, Brabant potatoes are a French-style fried potato (as opposed to "French fries", which as we all know are actually Belgian) cut into large or medium-sized cubes instead of strips. The haricots verts were lovely and crunchy-tender, and that sauce was rich in flavor without being heavy. Man, I can't wait to try to make a stock of rabbit stock and jus with brandy and Dijon. I know it was a double WeightWatchers sized portion at least, but I ate every speck. How could I not? Patrick recommended a 2002 Château Maison Nicolas Pinot Noir from Burgundy to go along with that, and he was right, of course. Turns out my dad got the rabbit too, and told tales (which strangely enough I had never heard before) of growing up during World War II when meat was severely rationed. Apparently my grandfather used to raise rabbits in the backyard, and my grandmother would make rabbit two or three times a week -- stewed, fried, fricasséed, in a sauce piquante, and in more ways than Elmer Fudd had ever concieved in his wildest wabbit dweams. That's not the only amazing family history I picked up when I was at home this year, but more on that later.
 Desseret was a Chocolate Crème Brûlée; the Bistro is renowned for their superb crèmes brûlées, and this dish was a perfect example of why that's so. Fortunately, mom and dad agreed to help out a little, 'cause I was very very full by the end of this spectacular meal. The problem is going to be trying to fit in another visit to the Bistro, which I very much want, when I come back home for Jazzfest in a few months. We've got a long list of places we want to go to -- Bayona, Marisol, Lilette to name but a few. Aah. I'll make it work.
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Just a closer walk with Thee ... Today is Inauguration Day. While George W. Bush spends $40 million dollars in an enormous self-congratulatory fête while we have American troops in grave danger abroad at war (something Franklin Delano Roosevelt declined to do in 1945), progressives in my hometown of New Orleans are holding a jazz funeral for democracy. They want to remind the nation that "though not a majority, 49 percent of the voters represents a large minority of Americans who oppose the various components of Bushism."
"While the rest of the country will be focused on the beginning of Bush's second term, our objective is to show the world that we are not in support of a continued war in Iraq, record inflation, flagrant disregard for the constitutional rights of all citizens and four more years of rule by a small group of wealthy elite," the coalition says on its Web site.Lolis Eric Elie provides more about the group in his Times-Picayune article, and comments:
There's a certain hyperbole in the group's decision to call the event a funeral for democracy. If democracy were truly dead, such marches might be banned.The Jazz Funeral for Democracy begins in New Orleans at Congo Square at 11am local time. As Bush takes office again, a horse-drawn hearse will carry a coffin containing copies of the Patriot Act and the Constitution from Congo Square to Jackson Square to the Faubourg Marigny, accompanied by the Tremé Brass Band. I'm back in L.A. as of last night, and I'm really sorry to miss this one.
What Bush's inauguration could have bought. (Via Kos: The American Progrss listed the following numbers to show Bush's disregard of people by spending $40 million for an oath. A look at this week's festivities by the numbers:
$40 million: Cost of Bush inaugural ball festivities, not counting security costs.You can include me in that last number.
Food porn shall resume shortly. 'Twas very busy Monday through Wednesday of this week, what with a flurry of visiting family and friends, and there were oh so many meals to eat. I got a little bit behind, but have no fear, faithful readers -- I shall continue to mercilessly torture you with food writing and photographs from the past week's repasts in New Orleans. In fact, I managed to photograph every single meal for you (since I do believe a food weblogger needs to have pictures) except for the hot sausage and cheese poor boy I had at Johnny's Po-Boys in the Quarter. Just so y'all'll hate me a little bit more, I am pleased to report that during the past week I only gained 2.5 pounds. I can get rid of those standin' on my head. (Um, and doing a little walking, too.)
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Mother's is a mutha. Slept waaaay too late today, then headed ova to the West Bank to visit my sister for a while, then back to New Orleans for a late lunch. It had actually been a few years since I'd been to Mother's on Poydras and Tchoupitoulas, home of many gustatory delights, not the least of which is roast beef debris (the little bits that fall off the roast beef and swim in the drippings while it's cooking) and the legendary poor boy called the Ferdi Special (baked ham, which at Mother's is just about the best in the city, sliced roast beef, debris and gravy, dressed with shredded cabbage, mayonnaise, pickles and both Creole and yellow mustards). It had been years since I'd had a Ferdi, and I figured it was about time. The menu listed both a whole or half for each poor boy selection, so I thought, "Ooh, a half a poor boy ... that's a Weight Watchers serving!" Hehehehehehhh ... yeah, right.
 I did make a valiant effort, I swear I did ...
 After lunch I met up with my friend Louise, and we spend the rest of the afternoon and evening on a cocktail cruise. First stop was Arnaud's French 75 Bar, where bartender Chris held sway and almost immediately asked us if we knew about the Museum, and yes in fact some friends of ours were involved in its creation, although we missed the opening. He was very enthusiastic about it, had a great time the night before with Doc and Robert Hess and other cocktailians, and they had spent the whole evening making drinks out of Doc's book and quaffing them merrily ... (damn, my timing was really bad). Chris made me a French 75 (although to my disappointment he served the brandy version, not bad, just not what it should be, which he immediately admitted: "We usually make them with brandy down here, but Dr. Cocktail gently corrected me as to its being properly made with gin."), an outstanding Sazerac, and one momentous concoction -- the first Corpse Reviver No. 2 I'd ever had in an actual bar (as opposed to our house or Doc's house). That was a true pleasure.
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