New Orleans in August is a muggy and slow month. Walking down the French Quarter at noon left
us queasy, all 6 of us. Well, make it 6 ½
if one counts an 8 month little girl named Lily.
The heat was too much for us, so we ducked into a old, beaten-up restaurant
called “Rita’s”. It boasted air
conditioning, and we didn’t even look at the menu posted in the window.
As we walked into the boisterous dining room, full of
laughter and bad jokes, the atmosphere changed, abruptly; everything went
silent. We were the only white folk in
an all- black eating establishment. The
menus were slapped on the table and chipped glasses with tepid water were slid
across the table.
What
should we do? What will we do? What… were the words in our
combined minds. But one thing, one event only, broke the thick air in a hostile
room.
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| Daddy and Lily, who is about 18 months here |
Lily started laughing and waving at the ones whose eyes
looked at her. “’lo..hello..” she cast around
the restaurant like fairy dust.
Smiles, and “How old is she…what’s her name…?” Conversation opened up as if we were old
friends, laughter and stories.
Man, that food was unbelievable, pure New Orleans. Forget about the famed chefs who had their
own cookbooks. This was good food.
We paid and left, saying good-bye, and Lily waving at
all, “g’bye!”
Someday, if and when we return to New Orleans, we will
stop at Rita’s. Good food, good people.
 |
| A composite photo, a year after Rita's |
