Our seventh day here is our last full day here in New Orleans, as our next day we must return to reality.
Fortunately, it stopped raining, the wind died down a bit, and things generally started to warm up a bit. We began our day by making our way to Cochon Butcher. We had previously had a sinful dinner at the nearby Cochon, but the Butcher is exclusively a meat, sandwich, and wine shop, more casual than Cochon, but by no means lacking in the same zest for Southern cuisine. Both establishments belong to Chef Donald Link, who also opened Herbsaint, which we enjoyed earlier in the week on MLK.
Amy and I enjoyed their special sandwiches of the day, a chicken liver pate sandwich and a pork sandwich. At this point in our culinary adventures, it didn’t surprise us that these sandwiches were absolutely spectacular. The pork sandwich had a wonderful vinegary tartness about it that re-awakened the soul, while the liver pate enlivened the taste buds with a tangy sweetness. Our side of mac and cheese, meanwhile, was so savory and so seasoned to perfection that it was practically too beautiful to enjoy without shedding some tears of joy.
Bellies full and palettes satisfied, we moved on to the National World War II Museum, which is actually still incomplete, as the Pacific portion of the exhibits aren’t quite finished while the European portion is. You start by receiving a gimmicky dog tag that you register while you sit on a fake Union Pacific train that provides a not-too convincing illusion of departing, television screens in the windows showing landscapes moving by complete with seats that vibrate a bit to suggest motion. You register the dog tag to a real-life individual who served in the military during the war by touching the dog tag to a logo next to a television screen, and periodically you get to check in at certain kiosks to hear their story. It was quite touching listening to what they all did during the war, but the whole dog tag thing was sappy and more for the kids. I’d rather just hear their stories folded in with the rest of the main portion of the exhibit and skip the gimmicky dog tag all together.
One more annoyance about the museum is that it was very difficult to know exactly where you were supposed to start and where you were supposed to go. It just wasn’t very clear without asking for help from one of the museum volunteers who were very kind, nonetheless. The viewing order was important, too, because the dog tag you registered explicitly tells you to check in at 6 specific checkpoint kiosks.
Still, once we found our way to the European portion of the exhibit (you bizarrely have to walk outside from where you bought your tickets, cross the street, and re-enter another building entirely, thus adding to the confusion as to where to go), the whole affair was quite well done. It provides a thorough chronology of the war from the 1930s to its conclusion in 1945. There were the usual placards that described the main historical figures of the war (Churchill, Eisenhower, FDR, Hitler, Stalin, and so on), the usual stop-and-watch 5-minute films that detailed various events like the Battle of the Bulge and the liberation of the Jewish people, the usual collections of historical artifacts like the guns they used, the uniforms they wore, and the medical kits they carried around, etc.
But, it was all very business-as-usual. I’ve been to museums in Europe and the United States (yes, I know… look at me… aren’t I special?), and this one left me going, “Oh, yes. Thanks for jogging my memory,” or “That’s right, the Battle of the Bulge, I remember now.” Unless you don’t pay attention at all, most of the stuff (a part from the stories you heard with the dog tags) at the museum was stuff you should just know anyway, and it didn’t really add any new coloring of how to read the history and telling of the war. We were so underwhelmed with the experience that we skipped out on a 17-minute film in so-called “4-D” (whatever that means) that we paid an extra $5 for.
Still, let’s do take a moment to pause and reflect over the senseless killing that happened during this time, the women and men who worked and fought and died and risked their lives to put an end to so many horrible atrocities, and do let’s never forget such a dark chapter in this world’s history. It’s terribly horrible even just reading about this era, let alone living through it. I just wish that this museum was just a slightly better experience as befits the lives and memories of the women and men who lived this terrible time so that we could more properly honor their sacrifices.
Following the National World War II Museum, we continued our day of reflection by hopping on a streetcar to the Sydney and Walda Besthoff Sculpture Garden, which is located in the northern part of the city in City Park. And what a garden! I must say that I think this park might be a tad better than Minneapolis’s own sculpture garden if only because the pieces in the Besthoff were generally smaller than the ones in Minneapolis, and they offered a more intimate experience with the work, compared to the more giant cousins in Minneapolis. (Or maybe I’ve exhausted how much I can enjoy our sculpture garden here. That might actually be the case, now that I think about it.)
Anyway, there were so many marvelous pieces here, and there were remarkable similarities between the Besthoff Garden and the Minneapolis one. Instead of an Oldenburg Spoonbridge and Cherry there was an Oldenburg/van Bruggen Corridor Pin, Blue (a giant blue clothes pin), instead of a Butterfield Woodrow there was a Butterfield Restrained (she’s the artist who always does those wooden outline horse things, and both of these pieces are examples of those), instead of a Moore Reclining Mother and Child there was a Moore, er, Reclining Mother and Child (both pieces done in his characteristic, smooth, bulbous style that suggests the figures rather than duplicates them).
There were also some quite stark pieces in the collection as well. Rodin had a piece on display called Monumental Head of Jean d’Aire. Jean d’Aire, who was a 14th century burgher of Calais who was the second of six hostages who volunteered their lives in exchange for the town’s safety under a siege by English King Edward III, but who was ultimately spared when Queen Philippa interceded, frequently appears in Rodin’s work. The foot-and-a-half tall head was atop a kind of square, granite column, and d’Aire stared off into the distance, brow furled, frowning yet proud.
Another piece that I enjoyed was Flack’s Civitas, a bronze statue of a woman who could be a goddess. She stood about four feet tall, on tip-toes with arms raised above the head and hands lightly clasped together with palms facing up. Her tip-toes rested lightly on a perfect sphere that sat on an octagonal column, adding about two more feet to the height of the whole piece. The colors of the bronze in all its stages of oxidation and corrosion, from salmon to gold to green, suggested a bit the colors of Mardi Gras, purple and gold and green.
All in all, the Sydney and Walda Besthoff Sculpture Garden was a real treat to visit and I highly recommend you go. And I’m leaving so much out, but I could write a blog post in several parts just about the garden itself.
We decided to slowly make our way back to downtown via the #47 streetcar that brought us to the garden, stopping at bars along the way, including Handsome Willy’s and then Victory. Willy’s was one of those marvelous dive bars that I just love so much, complete with sticky tables and dim lighting, while Victory was a classier, brighter joint. From here we made our way to what I can only describe as the BEST CHINESE FOOD I HAVE EVER HAD! I’m talking about Red’s Chinese, where we enjoyed oriental sliders (pork belly, kimchi, pickled jalapenos, hoisin), General Lee’s chicken (fried half-chicken, bourbon soy, smoked peanuts, chili, cilantro), and King Tofu (smoked king, oyster, & trumpet mushrooms, silken tofu, basil, garlic, chilis).
It seems to be a recurring theme these past few nights that we couldn’t quite shake, but we again ate way too much, but what was so good and so special and so different about Red’s was that even the Chinese food had a Southern flare about it, particularly the General Lee’s chicken. It could only have come from New Orleans, this chicken, sweet and zesty and tangy and savory. So, so good.
Like I’ve said in an earlier post, I’m now fresh out of superlatives to describe the food here. And I shall miss all of it dearly.
However, if there’s one thing about New Orleans that desperately needs changing as I sat at Bud Rip’s (another classic New Orleans dive bar) drinking an Abita amber (the beer really has grown on me!) after enjoying Red’s, it’s the whole smoking indoors thing. It’s still allowed in many bars, and I’ve increasingly been having to clear my throat of phlegm more and more the longer and longer I stay here. It’s a little ridiculous, too, because on average there will maybe be 3 smokers in an entire bar like Bud Rip’s ruining the air for the rest of us 20 or so non-smokers. Fortunately, New Orleans did pass a sweeping smoking ban that will take effect in 90 days after Mayor Mitch Landrieu signs it into law, and this will make New Orleans all the more wonderful indeed!
Alas, only one more post to catch you up on my adventures… and it shan’t be without its sentimental musings as befits the final post about a fantastic adventure…