(Happy Birthday Dad!)
And speaking of New Orleans, right now I am sitting in the Cafe Envie at the intersection of Barracks and Decatur in the French Quarter. The weather is magnificent, a breezy 71 degrees, and all of the restaurants and cafes and bars have thrown their massive doors that flank every side open to the cobblestone streets. I am sitting in the frame of one such massive door as we speak eating a piece of tiramisu, drinking dolce vita latte with frangelica, and watching a debonair man in the corner, fanning himself with a deep purple fan that matches perfectly the color of his bowtie (not to mention his hair). His shirt is black and his suspenders are a deep burgundy. With his free hand, he is smoking a long white cigarette through a slim black holder. New Orleans doesn’t bat an eyelash at the flagrantly gothic.
