In my dream its always Friday afternoon. Early summer, Decoration Day has gone, and Independence Day is near. New Orleans' humidity is just bearable.
After a cold beer and appetizers at Felix's, I cross the street and head towards my waiting table in the deepest Siberia of the second floor at Galatoires. I'm ready to spend a long afternoon tackling the worlds problems, solidified by its best cuisine.
Luncheon is long and slow, the waitstaff attentive, the companions convivial. A most excellent afternoon. Too soon, it's time to walk home, have a short cigar and a nap. Cocktails will be along before you know it. A rather louche life, I'd say.
The part I like best comes at the end of luncheon. You pay your respects to the management, and walk out. None of that foolishness about settling the bill. It appears at your office at the end of the month. When you let the clerk deal with it, its eating free.
I haven't had that dream since about this time last year.
Summer, Friday afternoon, at Galatoires, is the natural home of white linen suits. In most American communities they are an acquired taste, little sampled. In New Orleans they are virtually required.
The moxie required of the average adult male to pull off GTH pants with aplomb, withers in the face of a new white suit.
Few can pull it off. I find garments like this more enjoyable the older I become. Think Hal Holbrook as Mark Twain or Sydney Greenstreet in Casablanca, rather than Tom Wolfe. Perhaps, it's easier to forgive older eccentrics.
I need to have my white suit altered, in case I find myself in gastronomic heaven anytime soon. The best accompaniment is years of wear, along with the battle stains of too many a good meal. To that end I need to find a quick way to make a new linen suit look 10 years older. Preferably without the stains. I'll take care of that myself soon 'nuf.
Photos from The Sartorialist, and Theselby(Tom Wolfe)