Nanou, Nanou

Crepe Nanou sits just off Pyrtania a few blocks west of Napoleon. Wayne Gravois recommended it the night I arrived. Listening to him describe how he makes gumbo made me confident that he knows of what he speaks when it comes to food--with the possible exception of hogs head cheese. I'm sure tasting his gumbo would convince me otherwise. (#711: Hogs head cheese is the x factor differentiating sublime gumbo from gumbo that's merely exceptional.)

My work at the St. Bernard Community Center left me in need of sustenance, so I sought it out (Crepe Nanou, not hogs head cheese) after finding nothing of interest in the fridge at the condo. (#842: There is never anything of interest--in a good way--in a group fridge.) My day was spent in a damp and dusty warehouse sorting damp and dusty clothes that had been donated to the center. There was a radio to keep me company, but the news was dominated by the death of the 13 year old kid who had shot himself in the head yesterday at a
prominent local school and been in critical condition since. Otherwise, the local talk shows discussed a variety of depressingly intractable recovery-related issues, corruption among local officials, and one reported live from Emeril's restaurant, where a fund-raiser for cystic fibrosis was in progress.

The mindlessness of my task was not enhanced by my suspicion that no one ever would (nor should) wear these clothes. Iray himself confirmed this when he said that people would do more good by throwing away a lot of the crap they donate. Iray is the center's director and he looks like a Beatnik straight out of the '50s, beard, beret and all. He came to New Orleans right after the hurricane, and went back to New Hampshire only long enough to close up his house. He feels now though, as he told Sidney yesterday during our visit, that anyone coming to New Orleans to start a non-profit two years after the fact ought to go home, where they might do some good, since they'd consume so many resources just to understand the situation on the ground here. He may have a valid point. From what I've gathered in 72 hours, words cannot begin to describe the stratospheric heights of fucked-upness that surround almost every aspect of what goes on here. No wonder they have Drive-thru Daquiri.

So it was with enormous gratitude that I settled into a chair at a table by the door in the crowded and soon-to-be absolutely packed Crepe Nanou. The waiter recommended the crepe coq au vin--excellent--which I washed down with a glass of red wine.

Back at Napoleon, I've been expecting some communique from Sidney about tomorrow's assignment, but no word yet. Nola senses the cold front coming through tonight, and has planted herself squarely in the middle of my bed waiting to usurp my body heat, just like a brown dog I know.