My friend and broker, David Malone, suggested I swing by a restaurant named Mandina’s for lunch. To be honest, I really wanted to eat at that great New Orleans cliche, Mother’s, but the line was (as usual) out the door. So Mrs. Murphy and I headed up Canal for lunch at Mandina’s.
I was skeptical as we parked the car. The place is hot pink. Pink is not an appetizing color. Pink is a color one wants to see after a big meal, not before. Still, David had promised a good Po-boy at Mandina’s, so we took the plunge and went in.
New Orleans sweltered today like a hot, wet washcloth on my face. The air conditioning of Mandina’s hit me with an icy blast and I ordered giant iced teas to sip while we plotted our route to Mobile.
Our waitress, Mary, came by and took our order. Mary’s hair, demeanor, and eye shadow are perfect for her profession. She’s a very kind person, sensitive to the customer, but one also gets the impression that she could whack you upside the head with a frying pan before you knew what hit you. Mental note: don’t cross Mary.
I’ll admit, I was not feeling chatty. It was probably the heat. Or maybe I was still nervous about the Brougham. To be honest, Priestess Miriam unnerved me a little. How did she know that Heavy Jones liked cigars? What was with that exploding car tire on the guy that had driven by right as Priestess Miriam had devoodoofied the car?
Mrs. Murphy, however, can always be counted upon to chat with vigor, so she engaged Mary. We ordered shrimp and oyster Po-Boys and more turtle soup (why not?).
Lunch arrived and the Po-boys were the best I’ve ever tasted. Really. The perfect bread was completely French (very flakey). The crispy fried batter on the shrimp and oysters gave way to tender seafood beneath. And the fully-dressed ‘boy was shredded for easy eating. A hearty douse of Crystal hot sauce made it the perfect moment of lunch.
The wonderful thing about New Orleans is no matter how much you eat at any given meal or drink at any given bar, there’s always someone nearby eating or drinking more. As I devoured my Po-boy, I noticed a table full of women eating what appeared to be the contents of the entire Mississippi Delta. Great heaps of fried food filled their table. Really. I could only see one of the women from the neck up. The rest was a mountain of shrimp. “I couldn’t possibly eat all this,” the woman said to Mary. Our waitress just nodded and refilled the lady’s ice tea. Thirty minutes later, there wasn’t a shrimp in sight.
Mary, as it turns out, isn’t just the most famous waitress in New Orleans. She’s also a Katrina survivor. So is her Pontiac. We talked cars for a while and you can tell Mary knows her Hurst shifters and exhaust systems. She drives her baby to work, too.
Maybe if you’ve lived through a disaster like Katrina, you know life is too short to drive some oversized toaster oven to work.