I hear the Acme Oyster House on Iberville Street in New Orleans survived Hurricane Katrina, at least compared to just about everywhere else, and I apologize in advance for being the kind of person who can think about oysters at a time like this. It’s not just that Denver oysters are iffy; it’s that New Orleans oysters, and so many other things about the city itself, are so unforgettable.
The first time we went to the Acme, we ordered a dozen on the half-shell. The guy behind the marble counter kept shucking and handing them over until we’d eaten at least 20. Never having experienced lagniappe, we wondered if this was a tourist scam, if we were racking up a huge bill.
The guy laughed at us. “You eat, I keep count,” he said, and we ate a lot of free oysters that day. Another time, he found a pearl inside an oyster and handed it to my friend Louise, saying “Here you are, my darling.”
Since Frontier Airlines started direct flights to the Big Easy, we’ve gone there every chance we got, and I’ve never left without the feeling that its people wanted, for no particular reason, to make us happy. In addition to getting wasted on Bourbon Street, we’ve done all the things tourists do, because a few places in the world are so enchanted you don’t mind a bit being part of the crowd. New Orleans is my favorite place on earth I would never want to live in.
But even before this horrific hurricane, you’d have to have been oblivious not to notice that New Orleans is deathly poor. The morning paper we read over beignets was disproportionately full of murdered young black men, of heart disease and diabetes and social service nightmares. And, obviously, all that has complicated matters beyond what we can imagine. It’s an unthinkable mess, but when I hear the experts say the city can never rebound, I refuse to believe it. Of course, I sent money and clothes, but I admit it – I also like to comb through my frivolous memories.
In my closet are two treasures from Trashy Diva, a New Orleans boutique founded by Candice Gwynn and Robyn Lewis, “before we were old enough to drink legally,” as their website says. Their original designs are blatantly intended for curvy women – they’ve never cared a whit for the bony model stereotype, which is so New Orleans of them. Their store on Chartres Street had something of the high-class historic brothel about it, with low lights, silky fabrics and mysteriously alluring scents. Even in my late 40s, having spent most of my life in holey jeans and sweatshirts, I succumbed. That’s why I now own a red sparkly corset, made to order, and a black nightclub dress that swirls and displays immodest cleavage. The place just made me feel beautiful, and I wanted to take home a piece of that.
Candice and Robyn are marooned in Memphis. A corpse lay outside their Magazine Street store for nearly a week; an employee broke through the plate glass to grab $400 from the till and get away from the lawlessness just a block away. Every day their blog says something different – sometimes it’s hopeful, sometimes not.
Meanwhile, my 15-year-old daughter, needing a homecoming outfit, tried on the Trashy Diva dress and was also transformed – into a coquette from the 1940s. Teenagers are known for their need to conform, to look alike, to have the same things. The Trashy Diva dress doesn’t fit that mold at all, and my daughter doesn’t care. I told her she could borrow the dress, but to please, please, please take care of it. It may recently have become irreplaceable.
A trivial concern, I guess. But is it, really?
The details
You can get updates and place mail orders at trashydiva.com.
