Together William and I took a three-hour jaunt through the French Quarter, then up the Esplanade and into Mid-City, where we landed at Liuzza's by the Track, near the New Orleans Fair Grounds and racetrack. More diner than restaurant, it was purported to have some of the best po' boys in the city, and we arrived hungry. William ordered the shrimp po' boy, a French loaf stuffed with three dozen of the tender babies dripping in a spicy butter sauce. I bit into my oyster (erster) po' boy. Juicy, fat oysters had been deep-fried to a golden crunch and wrapped in lettuce, tomatoes and a fluffy French loaf. At the end of our long walk, it was back to the hotel for showers and the delicious sensation of slipping into cool, white sheets under snowy duvets for an afternoon nap in keeping with a Southern tradition. We slumbered satisfied after the tasty meal and pleased to be in a new world where his per diem took care of such lunches and our hotel room.
Later we shared dinner at Muriel's in the Jackson Square area of the Quarter. Housed in a former mansion, the restaurant is apparently haunted. In a secret corner, under a staircase, we discovered a table set for two with goblets of red wine and bread; for the ghosts, they said. Another pirate parade traipsed past our window as William sipped a Sidecar and we dined on crawfish crepes, soft-shelled crab, Louisiana shrimp, and oysters. The pirates threw beads to the crowd and shouted ho ho ho and stuff about rum.
William and I glanced over our shoulders as the Muriel's maitre d' seated a couple and their toddler at a table directly behind us. I could feel my face tighten into a sour, pursed mask. Why on earth do people think it is a-okay to bring young children anywhere, anytime? Why?
A waiter delivered water to the parents and to the child a bundle of crayons. Oh for God's sake, our elegant evening looked like Sesame Street. I sucked in air and then gulped my wine, fortunately not at the same time. We turned our frosty attention to the appetizers before us and the pirates outside our window.
Near the end of our meal, in the ladies' room, I ran into the mother and her tot. I politely looked down and the child held her clasped hands up to me. She wound her pink fingers around and around, proudly showing how she'd washed them. I slipped to my knees and stared into her bright blue eyes, wide under a frothy halo of gossamer hair.
Did you wash your hands all by yourself? I asked, and she giggled.
She stuck her foot out to show me a white sandal with a large flower on top. Her tiny toes barely peeked out the end of the shoe.
Are these your new shoes?
Like a miniature dancer, she switched feet and pointed the other toward me. We both took a moment to study her sandal.
You have two new shoes? That's fantastic.
She swept her hands down the front of her cotton dress and I thought: Southern belles are surely born.
Oh, I hope she didn't disturb your dinner. This is her first time in a grown-up restaurant. The mother's voice came from far away. It had a tinny distance.
How old is she? I whispered. And what's her name? Caught in the spell of the little girl's eyes, I couldn't look up at the mother.
This is Annabelle. She's nineteen months. The child and I were in a private bubble.
Annabelle, I softly repeated, and again she giggled. Your shoes are perfect and your dress is lovely, Annabelle.
With that she wrapped her small hand tight around my index finger and tugged. Annabelle led me out of the bathroom, down the dark hallway and back into the dining room. With my knees bent and my body tipped halfway over, I looked like Quasimodo and yet was fine with that. It’s the kind of sacrifice one makes when one has so instantly fallen in love.
William laughed out loud when he saw us walking toward him and in a flash, he too was enchanted by Annabelle, whose name could as easily have been Scarlett, or Blanche, or Maggie, or Daisy.
The sun set over Jackson Square and sleepy Annabelle lifted tiny fingers in farewell over her daddy's shoulder as her baby blues closed.
The restaurant window reflected a couple rosy in candlelight. We stirred frothy cappuccinos and shared sweet crème brulee. We'd been sprinkled with magic by one of Louisiana's best. At a mere 30 inches high Annabelle was the real deal.
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