BIG EASY: Hotel Monteleone... for Kids?

Given that the hubster is STILL in recovery mode after contracting French Quarter Funk at the Oyster Festival last week (perhaps I overplayed the bravado a bit in that post), I decided to skip all the festival festivities this weekend, and opted for a less crowded French Quarter activity: a birthday party for Monte the Lion, the Hotel Monteleone’s mascot.

Like me, I’m sure many of you have been to a kiddie party or two in a swank locale that tried to cater to both the kids and the parents, only to fall short in both categories. Oh, cool -- mommy gets to go the fancy hotel in a nice dress, but she has to spend the whole time catering to her bored, cranky kid because the hosts just threw out some stupid crafts, a lame DJ, and some snacks in silver serving dishes. Certainly the kids will be satisfied simply hanging out in the Ooh-La-La Hotel. Serious miscalculation. Wasted afternoon.

That’s why when I committed to this party, I didn’t have very high expectations. Sure, it was at the fabulous, historic Hotel Monteleone, which I’ve passed in the French Quarter a million times, but never actually visited. I always hear about the cool Carousel Bar and its amazing cocktails, but this ain’t that kind of affair. So, in we trudged, up to the ballroom, past all the chandeliers and grandeur, and I wondered how long we’d have to stay without seeming rude.

I have to admit, it was a pretty nice spread. Kid-friendly hot dogs, hamburgers, and french fries galore were all displayed in the aforementioned silver chafing dishes, along with fine silverware, embossed napkins, and a friendly, accommodating staff in crisp white uniforms. And they upped the ante quite a bit with a made-to-order, cold-stone ice cream station and a DIY cupcake decorating table. Nicely played, but come on, even if we hit the crafts table, we could burn through this in 45 minutes flat.

What I didn’t account for was the formidable hosting committee. Monte the birthday lion was joined by Gumbo the Saints’ St. Bernard, Boudreaux the Zephyrs’ nutria, Hugo the Hornet, and B97’s bee (they're pictured, above, playing a comical game of musical chairs). Yeah, I know it’s their jobs to entertain and all, but you’d sort of understand if they phoned it in for a little kids’ party. But for two hours, these guys (and a girl) were as committed to silly party games as they are to entertaining thousands of screaming sports fans, and they lavished each kid with tons of attention. Seriously, after being hugged on and spun around and tickled the whole time, I had to pry my son off poor Gumbo more than once.

Even their choice of DJ was spot on. This dude managed to keep things rolling with just enough banter to goad the mascots and keep both kids and parents amused – not an easy task. The grand finale was a second line around the room, complete with napkins a-wavin’ all over the place. God bless New Orleans!

I’m not kidding when I tell you I was grinning like an idiot the whole time, and my kid was sopping wet with dance-induced sweat. Oh, and our final departure time was 15 minutes after the event was scheduled to end. THIS is how it’s done, folks!

We skipped Monte’s annual children’s holiday tea last year, as it sounded like a disciplinary nightmare for my active five-year-old, but I’ve seen the light. These people know what they’re doing, so we’ll be first in line for this year’s festivities!

For more info on the Hotel Monteleone or to check out their calendar of events, visit http://www.hotelmonteleone.com/

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!