Astute readers may have noticed that Mrs. Murphy has not made an appearance in the blog since New York. And back there, she wisely only rode in the Brougham for about 30 miles.
Having known me for 11 years, Mrs. Murphy understands my passion for old cars. Granted, she is a former New Yorker, which means that when we were married, she could only identify cars by color. “That’s a red one!” “That’s a blue one!” But over the past few years, Mrs. Murphy has learned that the first 1,000 miles of a “new” vintage car aren’t ideal for trouble-free travel.
In the Brougham’s case, being a far more complicated machine, perhaps the first 10,000 miles aren’t the best. Truly, I’ve been running the bugs out of the old girl. I’m hoping for a trouble-free ride with Mrs. M.
I tease my wife that her first car was a Checker cab–but really, that’s not far from the truth. “Some people are meant to be driven,” Mrs. Murphy is fond of saying. This works out well in our marriage, since I like to drive. I’ve watched Mrs. Murphy drive a car exactly three times in 11 years.
After eight years of marriage, however, Mrs. Murphy is now something of a car buff. At a recent car show, I heard her seriously intone, “I prefer the 1962 Cadillac over the 1961, due to the integrated turn signals and the addition of the side cornering lights.”
You could have pushed me over with a sun visor.
We’ve owned 19 Cadillacs in our marriage together, which is probably a record for any opera singer.
Oh, did I mention Mrs. Murphy is a famous soprano? We met singing with Skitch Henderson and the New York Pops at Carnegie Hall. I love to brag that I was a principal and Mrs. Murphy was in the chorus. In truth, however, this fact merely illustrates her humility and the lack of men singing light opera in today’s world. I stink. Mrs. Murphy is a world-class singer.
World class? Really? Yes. In fact, her absence during this two-month period is due to the fact that she again returned to Carnegie Hall in May, then taught a two-week workshop for Red Mountain Theatre Company, then instructed 120 students ranging from eight to 80, was called by two Broadway producers to conduct emergency coaching sessions for out-of-whack stars, and finally jetted off to Vienna, Austria to sing a humongous solo for the 200th anniversary of Haydn’s death in the Konzerthaus (which is German for “opry shack”).
Having been on the road since May 6th, I was ready to see my bride. I jumped into the Brougham and made tracks back to the airport. Happily, all systems were “go” for launch, and I made quick time to Louis Armstrong International.
The Brougham is running so smoothly and so quietly that at stoplights I often wonder if the car is even on. When not confounded by the assorted leaking tire or polluted gas tank, I am very pleased with Cadillac’s most significant postwar car.
Mrs. Murphy’s flight came in right on time (thanks, Southwest) and we proceeded, posthaste, to Cafe du Monde. A tourist trap, you say? Perhaps. But I love the place. It’s the shop where I learned to love coffee and big, tasty beignets. Plus it has the best people-watching views in New Orleans.
From Cafe du Monde, we met our host, Jennifer, at Commander’s Palace. Commander’s is a fabulous restaurant. I started with the turtle soup, and to be honest, it was so delicious that I forgot nearly everything else I ate that afternoon. Our waitress, Mary, is everything a great waiter should be: engaging, knowledgeable, and eager to make sure your time at Commander’s is a good one. No wonder the Brennan sisters sit at Mary’s table every Saturday.
Plus, Mary knows cars. Her first? A 1985 Cadillac Sedan DeVille.
After a huge meal of grand dishes at Commander’s, we rolled out to the Cadillac and waddled back to the Garden District for a nap. Rested, we immediately thought upon awakening, what’s for dinner? This is New Orleans, after all. Food is everything. Well, almost everything.
We met Jennifer’s beau, Brian, for dinner at Mr. B.’s, which was also delicious. I had the shrimp and grits and Mrs. Murphy enjoyed Mr. B.’s famous barbecue shrimp dish.
New Orleans is one of those towns where I wished my appendix worked. I’d store a few meals for later. I drifted off to sleep with dreams of turtle soup and fantastic oysters.