You know if you’re going to New Orleans
You ought to go see the Mardi Gras
You know if you go to New Orleans
You ought to go see the Mardi Gras
You know when you see the Mardi Gras
Somebody’ll tell you what’s Carnival for
Get your ticket in your hand
If you wanna go to New Orleans
Get your ticket in your hand
If you wanna go to New Orleans
You know when you get to New Orleans
Somebody’ll show you the Zulu King
You will see the Zulu King
Down on St. Claude and Dumaine
You will see the Zulu King
Down on St. Claude and Dumaine
Down by the old auditorium
Is where you’ll wait to see the Queen.
- Professor Longhair
Mardi Gras - Fat Tuesday - does not really register on the radar screens of us Red Sea Pedestrians, but years of living in Texas have given us more exposure than we otherwise would have had. We’ve even eaten King Cake, at the risk of breaking our teeth on the little plastic Jesus-Baby buried somewhere within.
We have not gone to see the big Mardi Gras celebrations in New Orleans and Galveston. If ever we want to be surrounded by a sea of drunken, vomiting strangers, Savannah is only four hours away... and Saint Patrick’s Day is just a few weeks from now. But last weekend we were in Foat Wuth, Texas, and we managed to find ourselves in the eye of the local Mardi Gras cyclone.
SWMBO’s mom and stepdad David, who were both celebrating Major Birthdays, took us and a handful of their friends out to dinner Saturday night. They had made reservations at Pappadeaux, a popular Cajun-style seafood restaurant - one that had been a favorite of theirs back when they had been living in Houston.
In Fort Worth, Pappadeaux is located adjacent to Pappasito’s (a Tex-Mex place) and Pappas Burgers, in what we like to call the Pappas Compound. And when we got there, it was a mob scene fresh out of War of the Worlds. Cars cruised hither and thither, all searching for increasingly elusive parking spots. After about twenty minutes of fraying tempers and agita, SWMBO finally scored a parking place and we went inside.
It was a maelstrom, a madhouse of sweating, gyrating bodies, scurrying waiters bearing huge platters of food, and hungry patrons. And that’s when we realized that we were there in the midst of a Mardi Gras celebration. Oy.
Any given Pappas restaurant will be packed on a Saturday night, and Pappadeaux is no exception. But this was extra doubleplusjampacked, thanks to the impending arrival of Fat Tuesday, when the happy Catholics of the Louisiana bayou bid a temporary pre-Lenten farewell to happy times and rich foods. And the non-Catholic population of the neighboring states is only too eager to assist in the celebration, especially as said celebration involves the Holy Trinity: Food, Alcohol, and Excess.
I tried to imagine us - a party of twelve - seated amongst that chaotic crowd, trying to hear ourselves think... and trying to keep little William and Madison from wandering off. But, as it happens, David had an ace up his sleeve.
He had reserved us a table in the restaurant’s Wine Room, a comfy little cubbyhole just the right size for our Dirty (Rice) Dozen. A little oasis of quiet amidst the chaos. It was perfect... as was the meal.
Laissez les bons temps rouler!
You ought to go see the Mardi Gras
You know if you go to New Orleans
You ought to go see the Mardi Gras
You know when you see the Mardi Gras
Somebody’ll tell you what’s Carnival for
Get your ticket in your hand
If you wanna go to New Orleans
Get your ticket in your hand
If you wanna go to New Orleans
You know when you get to New Orleans
Somebody’ll show you the Zulu King
You will see the Zulu King
Down on St. Claude and Dumaine
You will see the Zulu King
Down on St. Claude and Dumaine
Down by the old auditorium
Is where you’ll wait to see the Queen.
- Professor Longhair
Mardi Gras - Fat Tuesday - does not really register on the radar screens of us Red Sea Pedestrians, but years of living in Texas have given us more exposure than we otherwise would have had. We’ve even eaten King Cake, at the risk of breaking our teeth on the little plastic Jesus-Baby buried somewhere within.
We have not gone to see the big Mardi Gras celebrations in New Orleans and Galveston. If ever we want to be surrounded by a sea of drunken, vomiting strangers, Savannah is only four hours away... and Saint Patrick’s Day is just a few weeks from now. But last weekend we were in Foat Wuth, Texas, and we managed to find ourselves in the eye of the local Mardi Gras cyclone.
SWMBO’s mom and stepdad David, who were both celebrating Major Birthdays, took us and a handful of their friends out to dinner Saturday night. They had made reservations at Pappadeaux, a popular Cajun-style seafood restaurant - one that had been a favorite of theirs back when they had been living in Houston.
In Fort Worth, Pappadeaux is located adjacent to Pappasito’s (a Tex-Mex place) and Pappas Burgers, in what we like to call the Pappas Compound. And when we got there, it was a mob scene fresh out of War of the Worlds. Cars cruised hither and thither, all searching for increasingly elusive parking spots. After about twenty minutes of fraying tempers and agita, SWMBO finally scored a parking place and we went inside.
It was a maelstrom, a madhouse of sweating, gyrating bodies, scurrying waiters bearing huge platters of food, and hungry patrons. And that’s when we realized that we were there in the midst of a Mardi Gras celebration. Oy.
Any given Pappas restaurant will be packed on a Saturday night, and Pappadeaux is no exception. But this was extra doubleplusjampacked, thanks to the impending arrival of Fat Tuesday, when the happy Catholics of the Louisiana bayou bid a temporary pre-Lenten farewell to happy times and rich foods. And the non-Catholic population of the neighboring states is only too eager to assist in the celebration, especially as said celebration involves the Holy Trinity: Food, Alcohol, and Excess.
I tried to imagine us - a party of twelve - seated amongst that chaotic crowd, trying to hear ourselves think... and trying to keep little William and Madison from wandering off. But, as it happens, David had an ace up his sleeve.
He had reserved us a table in the restaurant’s Wine Room, a comfy little cubbyhole just the right size for our Dirty (Rice) Dozen. A little oasis of quiet amidst the chaos. It was perfect... as was the meal.
Laissez les bons temps rouler!
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