BIG EASY: Oysters with a Side of Funk

So, my family and I went to the Oyster Festival last weekend (my husband and son are pictured, left, digging the "Bag of Donuts" show), and I would’ve blogged about it sooner, but my husband’s been battling a nasty case of the plague ever since -- and I’ve been on Florence Nightingale patrol. After 24 hours of non-stop, um, regurgitation and fever, we hit the ER Monday night. Blood work, urine analysis, x-ray and a basic symptom check ruled out pneumonia, infection and food poisoning. They juiced him up with an IV and sent us home with anti-puke pills, but three days later, the fever is still lurking. They call it a nasty virus, I call it French Quarter Funk.

Now, before you call me out, I’m not suggesting that every case of the upchucks after hanging out in the Quarter is germ/virus-related. Certainly, we’ve all gotten caught up in festivities and perhaps, er, overhydrated ourselves with spirited beverages once or twice, but this is different.

It’s no secret that the French Quarter isn’t the most sterile of environments, but throw in festival food that’s been baking in 100-degree weather, hoards of people emitting all kinds of bodily fluids, and close proximity to said-hoards, and there’s just no guarantee you’re coming out unscathed. A few months ago, my five-year-old son caught a similar bug after spending an afternoon in the Vieux Carre and consuming a Lucky Dog on the street. Who knows where he picked up that bug, but if mama’s incessant hand-sanitizing couldn’t ward it off, it was obviously just meant to be.

One would think that one would avoid regions that one has identified as major germ distribution centers, wouldn’t one? But then, one would miss out on all the fun -- it’s the Quarter and we love it!

Okay, stick with me on this one -- I see this whole incident as a metaphor for the city of New Orleans itself. And I’ve got one more example before I make my actual point.

On Saturday night, after we got home from the festival and the neighbors’ shrimp boil, I tweeted, “Living in Nola has taught me to not obsess over the fact that I may or may not have watched a server drip sweat into my order at the Oyster Fest.” To which, New Orleans tweeple replied with something to the effect of, “Dawlin’, he was just adding a little seasoning!” My native neighbors reacted the exact same way. Not a single one was disgusted. And I felt just a little more like a local for having blown off the whole, unsanitary event in order to enjoy myself.

Now do you get it? Many people from the outside world see New Orleans as a tainted entity. Like an oyster poboy topped with someone else’s bodily fluids… like a drive-thru daiquiri that’s served up with a side of stomach flu. What they don't understand is, the beauty of New Orleans lies not in its amazing cuisine, its classic architecture, or even its soulful jazz. No, the true beauty lies in the dirt and the decay and the bodily by-products that go along with it. They give the city its depth of character, and they weed out the riff-raff. If you can’t accept the good with the bad, the yin with the yang, the sweet with the stank – well, then maybe you don’t belong here. Scurry on back to your sterile suburbs and Purell yourselves head to toe. We’ve got some livin’ to do!