Still Humming
The world and food turn in B-movie fashion at the colorful HUMMINGBIRD
BAR&GRILL.
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The staff of the HUMMINGBIRD -- manager Missy Donaho, owner Harry
Hillensbeck, waitress Jennie Towery and Jimmy Hillensbeck -- keep it simple and
colorful at this venerable New Orleans landmark.
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WHAT: Hummingbird Hotel & Grill
CUISINE: Diner
WHEN: 24/7
WHERE: 804 St. Charles Ave., 523-9165
CARDS: None
The neon sign flashes on, off, on. "Hotel." "Hotel." "Hotel." A guy with not
much baggage looks up and then wanders in off the street. The night clerk has a
cheroot clenched between his teeth. "With or without bath?" he growls.
"Without."
"Twenty-five forty, plus tax. In advance." He reaches for a key
dangling from a board. A signboard tells the visitor in no uncertain terms that
if he's caught sneaking anyone into the room he faces instant eviction and no
refund. But it's OK if he pays $5.60 up front and the companion has got ID.
This is outright B-movie stuff: hard-boiled and in downtown New
Orleans. And I've come here to eat?
The place is the Hummingbird Hotel & Grill on the corner of St.
Charles Avenue and Julia Street; the time, 9 p.m. The night clerk is
fiftysomething with long sideburns, swept back hair, an old sweatshirt and
cowboy boots. With one eye, he monitors a screen as the new guest moves up a
flight. With the other, he peruses a diner's check, calculating the tax.
The Hummingbird is open 24 hours, 365 days a year. During shift
hours, the clerk lives inside a strategically situated and messy cubicle that
looks as if it's been lifted from a wrecked tugboat. He checks hotel guests in
and cashes the diners out. Nobody escapes his eagle eye. A sign above his head
reads, "Every customer makes me smile. Some when they walk in, others when they
walk out." I get the feeling that when he goes home to sleep, he does it with
one eye open.
The grill is half full. Which is to say that five of the 10 tables
and three of the seven counter stools are occupied. A guy in jeans and baseball
cap stares intensely into a bottle of Budweiser (the only alcohol on sale here)
as if it might contain the meaning of life. Two stools up, a cool dude with
gold chains berates someone at the other end of his mobile phone. Next to him
is an old chap talking to himself, his arms waving this way and that. The
waitress stands at the end, paying him no mind, and occasionally reaching for a
lighted cigarette smoldering in the staff ashtray behind the counter.
You're getting the picture? Mitchum, Bogart, Dick Powell, they all
would have been right at home in a place so reminiscent of a 1950s truck stop.
In between cigarette puffs of his own, the chef rustles up your order right
where you can see him, and when it comes, it is a generous plateful. Ribeye
steak, $13.50; sirloin, only $6.50; fried oysters or a half-dozen shrimp,
$6.50; half a chicken, $6; all-day breakfasts from $2.50; burgers from as
little as $1.80. Coffee comes in a pot, enough for three big mugfuls. It is
traditional American food, pure and simple.
And all the time, there's banter going back and forth between the
chef, the waitress, the night clerk. It's like they never stop talking. If you
get caught in the crossfire of rough language, listen out for the occasional
gem. You'll walk away saying, "I've got to remember that one."
The building has been around for 160 years, more than 30 of them as
the Hummingbird. It has a culture all its own that's developed from its time as
a swish hotel for politicians, plantation owners, cotton traders (slave
quarters, complete with wall shackles, are still out back, though not open to
public scrutiny), through its time as one of the city's more active
whorehouses. The present owner, Bertha Hallenback, put a stop to all that --
though the reasoning probably had at least as much to do with pragmatism as
high morality.
"Thirty-three of the 72 rooms used to be rented by hookers," says
the night clerk, lighting up again. "On a busy night, these girls could do four
guys an hour, which meant that the clerk was checking hundreds of men in and
out every night. And all the time, he's tryna do the diners' checks, too. It
all got outta hand."
I return Sunday afternoon for a daylight peek at this B-movie
grill. The chef makes me a BLT, but his mind is on the NFL game coming over the
radio. The Saints are up 24-6 in the fourth quarter against the 49ers, and he
is in a state of controlled apoplexy. "I put $10 on those bastards to lose," he
shouts to anyone who'll listen. "They been losing all the time I backed 'em to
win. So now I back 'em to lose, they go an' win. No justice in the world, I'll
tell you that."
Dedicated family men with good credit ratings might feel the same
if they stopped off at the Hummingbird for a bite. Above the clerk's desk is a
big list of taboos: no kids, no pets, no credit, no cards, no refunds. The same
applies to those of a sensitive disposition -- particularly after a quick visit
to the men's restroom. Over the years, it has clearly seen some unpleasant
backsides and some much better days.
Which isn't to take anything away from the place. I like it, and
I've been back a third time since. But it might be advisable to avoid it on a
first date, unless you want to make it your last. What you see is what you get:
an affordable and totally unpretentious greasy spoon. Or, if you're a bit of a
romantic, a rolling B-movie showing 24 hours a day, absolutely no reservations
required.
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