Down home in New Orleans

Author: By Barbara Pattison, Globe Staff

Date: SUNDAY, August 4, 1996

Page: M1

Section: Travel

That's New Orleans to some people. Not to me.

For me, New Orleans (that's New Orlins, darlin') is tandem bike rides in Audubon Park, too-sweet pralines on the promenade, luminescent trails of snails on early-morning sidewalks, trips to the corner store for a freshly baked baguette, and strong sunshine warming a winter-weary head. For though I am Ohio-born and raised, my father is from New Orleans, and every year at Easter, he and my mother would pile four kids into the station wagon and head south for his hometown. Why my parents didn't kill one or all us children during those 1,000-mile-long trips is still a puzzle to me. Each year, we crossed my own personal Mason-Dixon line when we hit the first gas station where I could buy a bottle of Dr Pepper. This was back in the days when it really did taste like fruity pepper.

We would often arrive at my grandmother's small apartment before dawn, and on our way to the back of the shotgun-style house, we would pick our way past snails chugging toward their earthen homes. No matter what the hour, Grandma Larmeu would be waiting to welcome her brood with bowls of chickoried cafe au lait (extra heavy on the milk for the young ones) and a hearty meal. Dad always exclaimed, ``Comment ca va, mama?'' -- his only French, as far as we could tell -- as he wrapped him arms around his tiny mother. Then the fun would begin. For the next week, we would revel in the sights and sounds and tastes of this grand city: Audubon Park, just a few blocks from grandma's house, where we rented tandem bikes and rode among the giant oaks; the Audubon Park zoo, where we'd elbow our way to the front of the crowd to see the seals; the honky-tonk and off-limits French Quarter, usually seen only by car; back-yard cookouts at our uncles' homes; and trips to Schwegmann's, a ``superstore'' before Wal-Mart was even a twinkle in Sam Walton's eye. In the parking lots at Easter time, vendors sold tiny chicks dyed bright yellow, mint green or cobalt blue, and we would invariably convince our parents to buy us one, and invariably it would die before our stay was over.

The trips tapered off and then ended for me when I left home for college. After my grandmother died, the urgency to return waned, and though I always meant to go back, I never seemed to find the time -- until this April. For me, spring is the only time to visit New Orleans; the high humidity and daily thunderstorms that make summer a test of one's temper and hairdo are rare in the brilliant weeks of spring. The days are warm and the nights mild. I was looking forward to revisiting scenes from my childhood and sharing with my husband some of the finest cuisine, music and scenery in America.

We arrived by taxi at the Ponchartrain Hotel at noon on Saturday, and soon were shown to our suite, one of more than 100 rooms and suites in the well-situated hotel. First opened in 1927 as a residential hotel, it was gradually transformed into a pleasant retreat for travelers. Fully restored in 1992, the Ponchartrain features a plush restaurant, the Caribbean Room, famous for its Creole Provencal food, the more-casual Cafe Ponchartrain and the darkly handsome Bayou Bar. Located on the edge of the Garden District, the hotel was the perfect mid-point location for our four-day romp in New Orleans.

Though the hotel is situated directly on the famous St. Charles Avenue streetcar line, which we were to use day and night to get both uptown and down, our first foray was on foot. After a quick bite on Saturday, we were wandering through streets lush with trees and flowers that were perfect backdrops for the wonderful old homes of the Garden District. Bordered by Jackson and Louisiana avenues, and St. Charles Avenue and Magazine Street, the district is a testament to the city's proud architectural heritage of French, Spanish, English and Greek Revival styles. Although most of these stately homes are private residences (writer Anne Rice lives in one), the owners must be used to gawking tourists with cameras, oohing and aahing over their homes. And judging by the number of For Sale signs, maybe a little tired of it. The district can be easily toured on one's own, but if you would like some expert direction, National Park rangers lead free walking tours of the Garden District and the French Quarter daily.

We left the district behind at Louisiana Avenue and Magazine Street and continued our sightseeing along Magazine Street. A fun and funky collection of antiques stores, art galleries and chic retail shops compete chockablock with well-worn neighborhood stores on this interesting street. If we had been on the lookout for a reconditioned mantelpiece or a hand-painted bedside table, we surely could have walked away with a winner (or at least with a shipping order).

We then hopped the trolley ($1 per ride) and, amid a crush of people, checked the map for our next stop -- the Riverbend area. The neighborhood gets its name from the jog that the nearby Mississippi River takes. We got off where the train takes a sharp turn from St. Charles Avenue onto South Carrollton Avenue. Many of the shops and restaurants are geared toward the students at nearby universities, and the eclectic mix provides something for everyone. I bought some tres chic sunglasses and yet another hat to add to my collection at home. Our wanderings finally led us to a small corner restaurant, Campagno's, where we rested our aching feet and imbibed mass quantities of fresh oysters. The after-lunch business was slow, which was lucky for us, because it gave the owner a chance to chat. After 40 years in business in the same spot, working six days a week, Sal and his wife, Maria, were throwing in the towel. They were going to spend time with their grandchildren at their retirement home across Lake Ponchartrain. Sal showed us the scars from the years of hot oil popping from the pan as he fried countless oysters -- his specialty -- and recounted changes in his hometown that he had seen over the decades. A fountain of friendly information, delivered in that wonderful New Orlins drawl, he embodied my New Orleans of old.

After collapsing for an hour at our hotel, we showered and changed into our finery for what would prove to be the best meal we had during out stay. Arriving a little early for our reservations at the French Quarter's famous Antoine's, we decided to stroll nearby Bourbon Street. I wasn't too impressed. Although it was only 8 p.m., the street was packed with people slurping from ``go-cups,'' and the odor was distinctly sour. After a brief two blocks, we returned to the restaurant, my mood a little sour. But the big, bright front dining room, one of more than a dozen at Antoine's, quickly put me right again.

Founded in 1840, Antoine's is the city's oldest restaurant and famed for its French Creole cuisine. After introducing himself and taking our order, our waiter turned us over to the ``busboy,'' Billy, one of at least three people who would make sure that our every wish was met that evening.

Billy, who later gave us a tour of this grand old restaurant, explained that the waitstaff tradition involves long apprenticeships. Our first waiter, we were told, was a 20-year veteran who had gained the privilege of overseeing our service. Most of the legwork was done by Billy, who saw to it that our food was delivered hot and our glasses always full and that our table always had a loaf of delicious warm bread. (When I protested that we had barely dented the first, second or third loaf before it was whisked away and replaced with yet another heated loaf, I was told not to worry, that the help got to eat the remainders.)

We dined on sturgeon caviar and crawfish consomme, softshell crabs in white wine sauce and local fish, perfectly prepared, as well as Antoine's famous potato puffs, twice-fried potatoes that swell to tasty treats. Served in a ``basket'' woven from bread and potatoes, the puffs come with instructions to pop them in your mouth while they're still piping hot. Fantastic.

Sated, and with a glass of wine to mellow us a little, we headed out again into the night -- and this time, it was great. It wasn't that anything had changed: The crowds were still intense and the smells less than pleasing, but we were in more of a mood to overlook the bad and concentrate on the good. And there's plenty of good, if you like music.

Often for just the price of a drink, you can hear extraordinary jazz, blues, cajun and rock 'n' roll in the Quarter's many clubs. And if you don't want to go inside, you can enjoy the music just as well from the street through the many windows thrown wide open to passersby. We stopped in one place and bopped to some really hot zydeco, then listened to some jazz outside another place, then danced to some bluesy rock 'n' roll at yet another spot. We were so enthralled that we returned a second night to eat and then to while the hours away listening and dancing to great music.

On Sunday morning, looking for a light breakfast to tide us over until our 1 p.m. reservation for the famed jazz brunch at Commander's Palace, a helpful official from our hotel directed us one block down to the Trolley Car Diner on St. Charles Avenue. Great advice. We found ourselves slipping back there several times during out trip for what I consider real Southern cooking: biscuits and gravy, eggs and grits with lots of butter. Oh, my aching cholesterol count. What was supposed to be a bagel and a cup of coffee became a feast, which we felt compelled to slough off with a long walk. As it was, we barely made it back in time for brunch.

But we forgot all our rushing once we were seated -- on the second floor, right next to the jazz trio and in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that looked down onto a sunny and greenery-filled patio. We were in heaven, and although the trio moved on within minutes, they did return by meal's end, a delightful accompaniment to our dessert. Our waitress explained that the group circulates among the various rooms, playing each one several times during the brunch. Once again, we dined in style -- for me, a gulf fish batter-fried in a pecan crust, with a side dish of green beans and carrots, and for my husband, the jazz brunch special: turtle soup, quail stuffed with crawfish and bread pudding souffle. He was in heaven.

No surprise, we decided to eat light that night and dance away the calories at Mulate's, a cavernous Cajun restaurant in the Warehouse District. These people are serious Cajun-dance fans, and we would have been wise to take a few lessons before venturing onto the wooden dance floor. We were a sorry sight, I'm sure. But we had fun.

On Monday, inspiration struck. Why not rent bicycles to get to grandma's old place? Olympic Bicycle Rental and Tours, located on Prytania Street just blocks from our hotel, had bikes to rent at reasonable rates, and the proprietor provided us with a map of an ambitious circuit of the city. We were off. Having walked a good part of the trip the day before, we chose different streets to travel, and once again were delighted with the succession of adorable houses and well-trimmed yards.

As I started recognizing street names, I started pedaling faster. There, finally, was the church where we attended Mass each Easter Sunday. And there, finally, the corner of State and Laurel streets, where the neigborhood store, the Sugar Bowl, had stood. In the old days, grandma would send us there for our daily baguettes. Today, the storefront houses an art gallery. Across the street, where we had played tag on a vacant lot, a well-tended plot of grass had replaced the carpet of crushed white shells.

All along Laurel Street, many of the modest houses that 30 years ago had been pleasant, if a mite tired, were now spruced up. And grandma's house? There it stood -- a single-story house with four apartments, two in front, two in back. It looked much the same, save for the canopy that now covered the front. I was tempted to make my way to the back, maybe ask the residents a few questions, but refrained. Since grandma is no longer there, I guess it really doesn't matter. I have my memories.

From there, we headed down the street for Audubon Park, one of our favorite haunts as children. We did a grand tour of the 400-acre grounds, still lush with old trees, dripping moss and wandering streams, and a perfect spot for cyclists, joggers and walkers. Next on our list was the zoo, just across the street. And while the zoo is great -- it features an award-winning swamp exhibit, a tropical-bird house, the sea-lion pool and a cafe -- what really excited us was the wonderful levee and public pavilion along the Mississippi, directly behind the zoo. Beautifully maintained, with green lawns beckoning, the levee is a perfect spot to rest weary bones and, if you've thought ahead, to feast on a picnic lunch. Next on our list was nearby Xavier and Tulane universities, where we rode our bikes through the busy campus streets and onto surrounding tree-lined avenues.

By then, seriously hungry, we headed back to Frankie and Johnny's, a wonderful little bar/cafe in my father's old neighborhood. Although we had pointed to this spot by a friend at work, a subsequent conversation with my mother revealed that she and dad had often dropped by the restaurant when they were in town. And it did seem like their kind of place -- cool, dark and friendly, with great, simple food.

On Tuesday, our last full day in town, we headed out for the French Quarter. It's a family-oriented crowd when the sun shines, and it's great fun to poke your nose into the shops that line the streets, from tony antique stores and art galleries to quaint yarn shops and handcrafted-jewelry stores to tacky T-shirt shops and Louisiana-memorabilia stores. And there are the restaurants, of course. We ate lunch with gusto at Paul Prudhomme's famous K-Paul's Louisiana Kitchen, arriving early to avoid the long lines. But there's plenty of other fare around, including sandwich shops and bakeries serving up heavenly pastries and pralines. And, of course, there's always the Cafe du Monde. Although you can no longer pull up in your car for curb service, they still serve a fantastic cup of chickoried coffee and melt-in-your-mouth beignets at this famous spot.

That night, our last in town, we were back on the trolley, headed uptown this time, to Zachary's Creole Cuisine. This wonderful Riverbend-neighborhood restaurant, with high ceilings, sparkling wood floors and friendly service, was an inspired choice. I had been longing for red beans and rice, and they were served up piping hot at Zachary's. In fact, my portion was so big that I had to enlist the aid of my husband, who valiantly offered to help clear my plate, even though his was just as full with crab cakes and crawfish pie. From there, we walked over to the Maple Leaf Bar, where the live music is legendary. Alas, we were told the place wasn't likley to hit first gear before 10:30 p.m. Because we had an early flight, we decided instead to head back to our hotel on the trolley. The night was soft, the train quiet as we rolled back past the universities, the park and the now-familiar churches, synagogues and imposing houses lining St. Charles Avenue. It was better than I remembered.