Without a vow to pull all of their advertising as of September 30, I don't know what the signatories think they can accomplish.
Yay! I get to think about how old I am.
My first Warehouse concert was Blue Oyster Cult opening up for Rush, which must have been '78 or '79. After that, concerts I can remember going to were Squeeze and Elvis Costello, the B-52s on a Lundi Gras in '80 or '81 (except it wasn't Lundi Gras then, just the day before Mardi Gras) and the last I remember was the Talking Heads.
And yes, I always paid the project kids money to "watch" my car.
Thanks for the thorough coverage, Ian. I appreciate your taking the time to have talked to a full cross-section of people in the industry for your story.
While the West End seafood houses may have seemed an indelible fixture on the New Orleans culinary landscape to our parents’ generation, West End was already a shadow of the past when Georges, and then Katrina, wiped the surviving restaurants off the map. There’s enough reminiscing about restaurants, popular in last half of the 20th century which no longer exist, WYES can make a mini-industry out of productions like “Lost Restaurants of New Orleans,” “New Orleans Food Memories” and “New Orleans Restaurants with a Past.”
I LOVE that we have people like Robert Leblanc and Joel Dondis, their various partners and chefs, investing so much towards the New Orleans food scene, and I understand the need to separate, from a culinary standpoint, new venues from established venues.
But in the end, I’d hope they take to heart the observation Leah Chase made in this article: “If you're from New Orleans and you get really hungry, you better have New Orleans food.” I don’t think that means a New Orleans restaurant has to carry all the fried seafood or trout meunière almondine or tournedos marchand du vin; it would simply be comforting to know you could go into any place in the city and have a nice cup of gumbo. Nothing fancy—just the simple wonder that can be conjured up when chicken, sausage, onions, celery and bell pepper are prepared together with a lot of love and respect.
Despite our culinary diversions, our explorations, appreciation and adoption of new cuisines; our examinations and appreciations (and rejections) of the insights of newcomers to the city, I don’t think that it will come to pass that, rather than a pot of gumbo, fifty years from now, in 2061, it will be a tradition for a yat in the 9th Ward to be calling up his mom’n’dem, telling them to come pass by, we makin’ a pho—not that there would be anything wrong with that. But with the likes of Brigtsen, Rhodie, Wick, Chase—and, most importantly, their customers—keeping the flame, I don’t think it will happen.
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