New Orleans, Louisiana
I ordered the turtle soup with as much hesitancy as I used to approach my grandmother on a childhood afternoon after I broke another one of her trinkets. Despite the rational harmlessness of this old dining tradition, I felt ounces of fear for the unfamiliar cooked reptile, reminiscent of the well-conditioned fear of an equally harmless, equally rooted in tradition five-foot American woman named Yvonne Erskine. Her enemies, also known as her siblings, nicknamed her “Peaches” for her unlikely red hair. Her disciples, also known as her redheaded grandchildren, called her Nonie.
Like the turtle soup, my French-heritage grandmother flourished in a period of unfettered indulgence as was only possible when there were no immediate consequences for such behavior. Overexploitation of indigenous species? Impossible- not in newly-founded North America, when turtle and its many terrapin variations easily staked claim among the most sought-after dishes in all of American history, decorating more than a few Presidential inauguration dinner tables. Mildly racist or anti-gay remarks? No surprise there from the otherwise dear, sweet Yvonne- they were “mild”, and she was as old as the class wars themselves.
Clearly, though, as I’d walked in late to the classiest brunch in New Orleans in a purple and white polka-dot dress, the 8-year-old in me was acting up. In case you haven’t been, New Orleans is the best shithole you’ll ever make it to. It’s a city of no judgements, and no promises of making it out alive. Yet if you do, you may just leave enchanted. I’ve “accidentally” been there three times in the past year, which is as genuinely true as any ghost story in Louisiana.
Today we were at Commander’s Palace, a place I’d only been familiar with as my Nonie’s “favorite restaurant in the world” and somewhere I’d previously failed to get a reservation. Like Nonie, I’d expected and was treated to the type of fine hosting that requires precision, lest you overwhelm your guests with too many splendid technicalities that they begin to suspect you’ve worked hard. What I hadn’t expected was equally Nonie: whimsical balloons set on every white table, and a jazz quartet serenade that succeeded in a full-length impromptu conga line.
“In case you haven’t been, New Orleans is the best shithole you’ll ever make it to. It’s a city of no judgements, and no promises of making it out alive. Yet if you do, you may just leave enchanted...”
When the soup came out hot, I was surprised that I was surprised it was brown. I chide myself that it was probably “just like chicken” and instinctively take my elbows off the table, as if Nonie herself was there to scold me through the meal. Along with gardening and grandmothering, it was one of her many skills. After her husband died a few weeks before I was born, she lived on her own (save a few loyal beagles) for the entire 18 years I knew her, on the same street she herself was born on. She was strikingly similar to my Irish redheaded grandmother, both of whom grew up in eras where you did not leave the house without arms of jewelry, both real and/or costume. The primary difference being, of course, that the Irish politely drank Scotch, and my Jim Beam-drinking Nonie could surely kill a turtle for supper without a flinch. I’m told she once strapped my mother to her kitchen chair because she wouldn’t eat her peas. In a show of retaliation and pure stubbornness, the second-generation redhead stuffed the peas up her nose.
These days, when I get stubbornly fearful of becoming my mother, I remind myself that I’m objectively far more akin to Nonie. We both laugh at our own self-proclaimed witty jokes that we’ll tell to anyone we trap to a dining room table with us, and enjoy nothing more than sitting with friends and fine food on a (preferably New Orleans) porch watching wiley backyard squirrels. Then I thank God for Dads, and remember a stitched pillow Nonie had on her well-worn, well-lived couch: “If I had known grandchildren would be so much fun, I’d have had them first.” In similar sentiment, I’m glad I ordered the turtle soup first: it was as good as George Washington, and the much more regal Yvonne Erskine, ever claimed it to be.