THE JOYS OF CREOLE,

In Ol Nawlins

Food?
Far far and away there is Creole. Take me to the crescent city and plop me
down at one of the Brennan restaurants, or serve up a bowl of Gumbo in most any
establishment there, or let Joe Simon play jazz clarinet over brunch at Commander's
Palace and I'll give up a month of most anything else near ‘n dear in the north country.
Creole is not just a cuisine it is a philosophy.
Not spicy like Cajun nor “bam, kick it up a notch” ala Emeril Lagasse. Creole
is the subtle blending of French, Spanish, African, Carib, Pirate and bayou. It is
unique. As Charles Kuralt once said of New Orleans, "Unique is a word that cannot be
qualified. It does not mean rare or uncommon; it means alone in the universe. By the
standards of grammar and by the grace of God," Creole is The unique American
cuisine. It begins with the trinity “onion, green pepper and celery” and then you add
"whatever you got," stir, in a rich brown sauce seasoned with secret family spices; and
not just a bunch o cayenne pepper and hot sauce, but a real masterful blend of the best
of cultures and traditions. Eat it with reverence and gaiety and toast to "all things
traditional and enduring without a care in the world in one of the last places on earth
that cares about such things." [Kuralt again.] OH YAH, DAT BE GOOD! An’ ol
Charles, he know good whun he sees it. An he done been ron’d a bit.
Now the Creole was an early multi-culturalist in the worst sense of the word,
though much ahead of the American bigots who followed. You will know what I
mean if you have sampled the rarified air of the Vieux Carré and the River Road in
Louisiana. If not then stroll with me a spell and ‘Enjoy Your Time, While You’re
Here.’
Creole, defined? Generally a person born in the West Indies or Spanish
America, but of European, usually Spanish, often French, ancestry especially in
Louisiana. A blending of African and European and the language native to a
community but born of a pidgin of French or Spanish and other languages. Bred or
growing in a country but of foreign origins. The cuisine born of such blending and
now a local established tradition. That’s dictionary talk for what really can not be
defined, only experienced.
Cajun is “Creole” by this definition, but Cajun cooking took up the Italian
tomato to make red sauce and the South American pepper for burning-in the unleashed
desires of life; whereas Creole cuisine is life itself and went the way of the brown
sauce and many spice blends, a more subtle but equally potent wooing of the palate.
Wishing to romp a bit more among the Creoles and their New Orleanian legacy,
let’s speak of the now and the then and the French Quarter, aka the Vieux Carré for the
Old Square. Wandering late night Bourbon street in the Vieux Carré, the casual tourist
will hear Proud Mary and worse bellowing from the Dionysian dives, see the flesh
peddlers polishing their seductive art to a craft, and witness Old Nick himself
celebrated to a pique of frenzy and delight. Perhaps one will fall under the spell of
Martha at the voodoo museum and purchase a gris gris bag adumbrated with the
gambler’s hope, “that the spirit world holds sway over the world of light, in some
meager but yearned for corner of the world where justice is not watching and that, in
the balance, the scales of fortune might tip, just this once, in favor of the sojourner.”
[author misplaced]
If not too thin skinned, one will sit on the floor of Preservation Hall in the non-
air-conditioned, sweltering, perspiration filled closeness of caste rubbing elbow with
caste and hear the music that can only rise from human suffering and desperation,
celebrating that in death one poor soul escaped this veil of tears.
This visitor might upon rising late the next day, and if it is Sunday, be inclined
to celebrate mass at St. Louis Cathedral before imbibing in the freedom of the street
performers, artists, three card monte prevaricators, and bohemians of Jackson Square.
The languages overheard will be of many nations, the smells will be putrid and
delicious, the simple rich will brush past the itinerate poet only steps from where
Faulkner wrote A Solder's Pay (Faulkner House Bookstore) or where P.G.T,
Beauregard, the great Creole himself, found respite after the defeat of the South (The
Beauregard Keyes House).
In the days of the plantation, Creole men were known far too often to die by
dueling, drinking and fighting, or catching diseases from the sharing of concubines.
Young men of fourteen, to the plantation born, were put out to live in a garconaire, a
small separate building adjacent to the plantation house where they could sew their
wild oats without disrupting the routines of the house. Some of the more refined and
lovely daughters of quadroons were sent to be raised and cultured (sometimes by nuns
I have read) and to participate in the system of placage. At quadroon balls the Creole
men would choose a mistress from among the femmes de couleur and, if accepted by
the girl and her mother, for a fee and a financial undertaking, they would enter the
system of placage. These mistresses of the Creole men, were provided a city dwelling,
they and their children were supported there, and the children of the coupling would
become free persons of couleur. If the arrangement were broken off, the financial
settlement was retained.
Often the Creole male maintained two families one white and one of color with
the tacit approval of society. Odd indeed! But with such being the traits of men, often
the president of the Creole plantation was a woman. Free people of color owned
property, ran businesses, and were accepted into the caste system with a strange but
improved status (lowly though it was) unknown to the "English" (Americans) of the
Greek revival plantation homes and society that followed after the Louisiana Purchase.
If you journey up the River Road to the surviving plantation houses, most will
be of the Gone With the Wind variety. But visit Laura Plantation;
one of the few surviving Creole Plantations. No Greek revival pillars here, and
originally no central front door, more about that later. This plantation was run by
Laura Locoul Gore. The slaves there told the stories from Africa that were written
down as the now well know tales of Br’er Rabbit and Uncle Remus - Compair Lapin
and Compair Bouki.
After the “English” (Americans) took over Louisiana the more liberal lines of
demarcation between the races, or actually, the mixture of races in Creole culture and
les gens de couleur libre were erased and for complicate reasons animosity towards
the Creoles arose. Gun ships were run up the Mississippi River and bombarded the
Creole Plantations which were clearly identifiable by the rich use of color, as
contrasted with the white, pillared mansions of the non-Creole. Some Creole
plantation owners painted their houses white and added front central doors. Though to
a proper Creole only dogs and sailors entered through such vulgar contrivances. A
visitor known to the man of the house would enter through the his parlor or bedroom.
Likewise a visitor of the woman of the house would enter through her parlor on the
other side of the gallery. These rooms at Laura open onto the main porch to the left
and right of the after added central doorway.
Return to the Quarter and take a tour offered by Le Monde Creole on Royal
Street – it is lead in English or in French, and you will hear of the city life of Laura
and her family, the system of Placage, How Mark Twain only wrote Huckleberry Finn
after revisiting New Orleans in later years, and step inside a world that is still reflected
in the culture, food, language, and traditions of the area.
I almost pity those for whom the French Quarter is merely a tourist destination.
This place, once understood, is not an escape from, it is a lifetime’s journey to. With
every spoon of Gumbo Ya Ya these are some of the things I reflect upon: The music
of Louis Armstrong then and the Marsalis family now, the juxtaposition of ‘Elegance
and Decadence,’ the ‘Ghosts of the Mississippi,’ central alluring courtyards, Jean and
Pierre Lafitte, Spanish moss hanging from Live Oaks, the echoing sound of a
saxophonist playing ‘Mona Lisa,’ or ‘the Old Soldier’s Waltz’ from the strings of a
violin beckoning you to dance in the street, - all ‘real good and for free.” Joni Mitchell
were you here munching Muffulettas amid the haunts of Lafcadio Hearn and William
Falkner, and the street car that, now at least, is named Desire?
 This city does not have balconies and sidewalks, it has galleries and banquetts.
Even the streets have names that enchant, Rue Carondelet, Calliope, Tchoupitoulas,
Pontchartrain, Poydras, and Esplanade are but a few.
One leaves here with an entirely new vocabulary. Is lagniappe in yours? It will
be if you come here. And be forewarned, you will leave with regret, and have to
return again and again. For the city that care forgot will seduce you and take you as a
final fatal lover, wounded, as in a duel fought by a Creole over some long ago
forgotten point of honor. From such a wound you can heal only momentarily while
wandering amidst the flickering gas lamps and sultry nights spent below the levies
with the happy saints of the Vieux Carré.

Dedicated to Al Broussard
Player of Stride and the real New Orleans Jazz
-Douglas Worrell 2004

Al age 94.