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Message
TulaneLSU's Top 10 memories of Central Grocery
Posted on 2/7/21 at 9:01 pm
Posted on 2/7/21 at 9:01 pm
Dear Friends,
We need community to live. People were not created to live in isolation, but in joy with one another, to share in the summits and sorrows and ordinariness of life. Isolation stunts, perverts, and eventually kills. New Orleans knows these truths more than any American city. It is why a church today, as in its founding as a city, stands central to its geographic and civic life.
The first members of the Church, as in 2000 years ago, devoted themselves to the teachings of the apostles and the fellowship of breaking bread and praying. The word St. Paul uses for fellowship is koinonia. It is often translated as communion.
Communion is life. In this act of eating, we taste that the Lord is good. In the early Church, the Communion meal was what brought its members together. There were no sermons or fancy liturgical shows or beautiful buildings. It was simply an act of sharing bread that formed this fellowship which would grow and grow to become the most powerful social movement in human history.
The Roman Church over the centuries replaced this community based communion with a juridical one. The Roman Church federalized the sacraments teaching that the sacraments were uniquely holy and needed guarding from the world. Eventually, though, the people saw that many within the Church were mired in sin, just as it says in the Bible. The system the Church created had some problems the Protestants sought to smoothe in less than smooth ways. It was the Calvinist-Puritanical branch of the Reformation that focused so intently on the reformation of Communion, seeing Communion as a symbolic act of spiritual fellowship with the divine rather than a literal physical act.
The Protestants were not without fault. Motivated by hatred for the Vatican more than theology, most Protestant churches not Anglican or Lutheran moved to sanctify Communion by scarcity. Thus they fulfilled the axiom whereby the farther to one side one moves, the closer one moves to his enemy’s position without realizing it. Calvin did all he could to ensure that Communion would be celebrated at least weekly in Geneva. Both in practice and in theology, Calvin taught, “we ought always to provide that no meeting of the church is held without the Word, prayer, the dispensation of the Supper and alms.” Ultimately, Zwingli won and it became a monthly occurrence. For later Puritans, celebrating Communion became a seasonal or even an event celebrated once each year.
My Puritan ancestors have given much to this great nation: laws, order, prudence, virtue, self-control, temperance. But they failed in giving us a sense of deep community. I blame this flaw on their stance on Communion, which gave birth to a brand of privatized life. This individual first worldview festered for generations only to find exponential growth and decay in the internet age. Some American cultures, though, highly prize community and Communion, perhaps none more so than Italian American culture.
Imagine, if you will, finding yourself in the French Quarter of the 1870s. Now nearly a hundred years old, its decrepit, faded buildings have none of the fashion of Uptown, Bywater, or up Esplanade. The muddy streets are filled with garbage and rats. Looking toward the river you see nothing but steam and warehouses. You cannot keep your eyes off the ground too long, as threat of mule excrement ruining your shoes is ever present. The hooves of those animals click and clack against ballast stones, which make for a bumpy ride if you are a cake eater like Great, Great, Great Grandfather, who owned a building on Decatur.
On the wharves, shipment of citrus and bananas from Central America compete for space with ships filled Irish, German, and Italian immigrants. Most of the newcomers are arriving with little more than a bag. Without much money, many of the Italians settle in the southeastern corner of the French Quarter. Most of the Italians come from the northern coast of Sicily, fromPalermo to Cefalu. Thus, this area, with borders of Dumaine Street to the north, Jackson Square to the west, Decatur to the south, and Esplanade to the east, becomes known as “Little Palermo.”
The French and the Ursuline nuns, whose convent remains the oldest structure in New Orleans and the Mississippi Valley, had dominated this section of the Quarter until the Italians found favor or, more accurately, refuge, here. The Ursuline nuns warmly received them and the oldest church in the city, St. Mary’s Church, became the center of Italian culture and life. “St. Mary’s Italian,” as it became better known, hosted the important rites of passage in one’s life -- baptism, confirmation, marriage, and funeral. The Ursulines and the Italians were integral to this neighborhood during those scores of years at the close of the 19th and opening of the 20th centuries.
Just as it was in the days of Cain and for us today, sin was crouching at the door, desiring to rule over us. Many New Orleanians are proud that organized Italian crime is said to have its American origins here. It may extend all the way back to the Civil War, when a Palermo faction, under the leadership of the Agnello family, fought for control of the docks against factions from Messina and Trapani. These skirmishes, at first, were provincial and attracted little attention from the press.
But as New Orleans became the mecca of fruit importation in the 1880s, the fight to be king of this mountain grew more intense and more violent. Produce trading in those days was equivalent to a billion dollar business today, and he who controlled the docks controlled at least a part of the trade. And those docks were in New Orleans, at the foot of the French Quarter, at the home of the Italians.
New Orleans was uniquely situated to receive and distribute the citrus of Florida and the Caribbean and the bananas and pineapples of Central America. Sure, there were other ports that did the same, places like Galvezton, Mobile, and Baltimore, but New Orleans was the golden port. During this decade, Joseph Provenzano led the Palermo syndicate against the rising stars of the Matranga family.
By the 1880s, Joseph Provenzano led the Palermo faction, but he was a lame duck. The Matrangas were climbing and war was on the horizon. The Provenzano-Matranga waged with shootings, bombings, and countless threats. The war led to the assassination of NOPD Chief David Hennessy, as Hennessy supported Provenzano. The rest of that saga is part of New Orleans lore, but that war resulted in the largest lynching in U.S. history and firm control of the produce import business resting in the hands of the Matranga family, whose power eventually was given to the Carollas and later the Marcellos.
The docks and markets of the lower French Quarter were a rough area controlled by rough men whose culture was quite different from the cultures elsewhere in New Orleans. But according to the stories, this neighborhood was among the most tight-knit in all New Orleans. Its citizens had the world within a few blocks: the city’s best clothing stores, best seafood, best produce, best bakeries, best sno-balls. By and large, they policed themselves.
We need community to live. People were not created to live in isolation, but in joy with one another, to share in the summits and sorrows and ordinariness of life. Isolation stunts, perverts, and eventually kills. New Orleans knows these truths more than any American city. It is why a church today, as in its founding as a city, stands central to its geographic and civic life.
The first members of the Church, as in 2000 years ago, devoted themselves to the teachings of the apostles and the fellowship of breaking bread and praying. The word St. Paul uses for fellowship is koinonia. It is often translated as communion.
Communion is life. In this act of eating, we taste that the Lord is good. In the early Church, the Communion meal was what brought its members together. There were no sermons or fancy liturgical shows or beautiful buildings. It was simply an act of sharing bread that formed this fellowship which would grow and grow to become the most powerful social movement in human history.
The Roman Church over the centuries replaced this community based communion with a juridical one. The Roman Church federalized the sacraments teaching that the sacraments were uniquely holy and needed guarding from the world. Eventually, though, the people saw that many within the Church were mired in sin, just as it says in the Bible. The system the Church created had some problems the Protestants sought to smoothe in less than smooth ways. It was the Calvinist-Puritanical branch of the Reformation that focused so intently on the reformation of Communion, seeing Communion as a symbolic act of spiritual fellowship with the divine rather than a literal physical act.
The Protestants were not without fault. Motivated by hatred for the Vatican more than theology, most Protestant churches not Anglican or Lutheran moved to sanctify Communion by scarcity. Thus they fulfilled the axiom whereby the farther to one side one moves, the closer one moves to his enemy’s position without realizing it. Calvin did all he could to ensure that Communion would be celebrated at least weekly in Geneva. Both in practice and in theology, Calvin taught, “we ought always to provide that no meeting of the church is held without the Word, prayer, the dispensation of the Supper and alms.” Ultimately, Zwingli won and it became a monthly occurrence. For later Puritans, celebrating Communion became a seasonal or even an event celebrated once each year.
My Puritan ancestors have given much to this great nation: laws, order, prudence, virtue, self-control, temperance. But they failed in giving us a sense of deep community. I blame this flaw on their stance on Communion, which gave birth to a brand of privatized life. This individual first worldview festered for generations only to find exponential growth and decay in the internet age. Some American cultures, though, highly prize community and Communion, perhaps none more so than Italian American culture.
Imagine, if you will, finding yourself in the French Quarter of the 1870s. Now nearly a hundred years old, its decrepit, faded buildings have none of the fashion of Uptown, Bywater, or up Esplanade. The muddy streets are filled with garbage and rats. Looking toward the river you see nothing but steam and warehouses. You cannot keep your eyes off the ground too long, as threat of mule excrement ruining your shoes is ever present. The hooves of those animals click and clack against ballast stones, which make for a bumpy ride if you are a cake eater like Great, Great, Great Grandfather, who owned a building on Decatur.
On the wharves, shipment of citrus and bananas from Central America compete for space with ships filled Irish, German, and Italian immigrants. Most of the newcomers are arriving with little more than a bag. Without much money, many of the Italians settle in the southeastern corner of the French Quarter. Most of the Italians come from the northern coast of Sicily, fromPalermo to Cefalu. Thus, this area, with borders of Dumaine Street to the north, Jackson Square to the west, Decatur to the south, and Esplanade to the east, becomes known as “Little Palermo.”
The French and the Ursuline nuns, whose convent remains the oldest structure in New Orleans and the Mississippi Valley, had dominated this section of the Quarter until the Italians found favor or, more accurately, refuge, here. The Ursuline nuns warmly received them and the oldest church in the city, St. Mary’s Church, became the center of Italian culture and life. “St. Mary’s Italian,” as it became better known, hosted the important rites of passage in one’s life -- baptism, confirmation, marriage, and funeral. The Ursulines and the Italians were integral to this neighborhood during those scores of years at the close of the 19th and opening of the 20th centuries.
Just as it was in the days of Cain and for us today, sin was crouching at the door, desiring to rule over us. Many New Orleanians are proud that organized Italian crime is said to have its American origins here. It may extend all the way back to the Civil War, when a Palermo faction, under the leadership of the Agnello family, fought for control of the docks against factions from Messina and Trapani. These skirmishes, at first, were provincial and attracted little attention from the press.
But as New Orleans became the mecca of fruit importation in the 1880s, the fight to be king of this mountain grew more intense and more violent. Produce trading in those days was equivalent to a billion dollar business today, and he who controlled the docks controlled at least a part of the trade. And those docks were in New Orleans, at the foot of the French Quarter, at the home of the Italians.
New Orleans was uniquely situated to receive and distribute the citrus of Florida and the Caribbean and the bananas and pineapples of Central America. Sure, there were other ports that did the same, places like Galvezton, Mobile, and Baltimore, but New Orleans was the golden port. During this decade, Joseph Provenzano led the Palermo syndicate against the rising stars of the Matranga family.
By the 1880s, Joseph Provenzano led the Palermo faction, but he was a lame duck. The Matrangas were climbing and war was on the horizon. The Provenzano-Matranga waged with shootings, bombings, and countless threats. The war led to the assassination of NOPD Chief David Hennessy, as Hennessy supported Provenzano. The rest of that saga is part of New Orleans lore, but that war resulted in the largest lynching in U.S. history and firm control of the produce import business resting in the hands of the Matranga family, whose power eventually was given to the Carollas and later the Marcellos.
The docks and markets of the lower French Quarter were a rough area controlled by rough men whose culture was quite different from the cultures elsewhere in New Orleans. But according to the stories, this neighborhood was among the most tight-knit in all New Orleans. Its citizens had the world within a few blocks: the city’s best clothing stores, best seafood, best produce, best bakeries, best sno-balls. By and large, they policed themselves.
This post was edited on 2/8/21 at 8:29 am
7
Posted on 2/7/21 at 9:02 pm to TulaneLSU
This was the French Quarter to which Salvatore Lupo, a native of Palermo, arrived in 1902 at the age of 22. Why he left New York, where he first arrived, to come here I wish I knew. We do not know when exactly his first shop opened. I have searched countless documents trying to uncover the address of his first grocery, but thus far, I have been unsuccessful. Even Uncle does not know. Tradition has it that Lupo, whose passport indicated he was a pork butcher, opened a shop somewhere on Decatur in 1906, the year after Brocato’s opened. Several years later, perhaps as late as 1919 when his brother-in-law and business partner, Gaetano De Majo, took ownership of the building, he opened at the grocer’s current location at 923 Decatur. Renovations were likely sparse, as it had served immediately before as the Anthony M. Masich Grocery.
It was a perfect spot, and I would love to know the story of how they bought that building. Across the street, where the golden Joan of Arc statue presides, were the markets where Italian farmers from all over brought their goods. Not far south were the warehouses where stevedores worked up enormous appetites while they moved bananas from ship to rail, leading to the banana’s ascendancy over the apple as America’s most popular fruit. To the north was the second most densely populated Italian enclave in America. Central Grocery was in the center of Little Palermo, where commerce met home.
When the muffuletta was invented will never be known, nor will we ever know with certainty who put meat and cheese on bread for the first time. According to today’s third generation owners, the Lupo-Tusa family, it was Salvatore. They say he initially sold the deli meats and cheeses along with olives and bread to the laborers at the market and the docks. Because they did not have tables on which to eat, they often spilled their charcuterie boards of food, as they tried balancing the foods on their legs. Salvatore Lupo, they say, solved the problem by putting everything in the house of bread, a sort of Bethlehem for those who know Hebrew.
There are other theories. The Perrone family of the nearby Progress Grocery has at times laid claim to the muffuletta’s creation. There is a family out in Galveston, the Maceo family, that claims one of its ancestors, Tony Lovoi, created the muffuletta in 1901 while he was living in New Orleans. They even claim that he was the one who made the first muffulettas and sold them to Central Grocery. As crazy as that sounds, while I was a streetcar conductor, I met an old man, who now almost certainly has passed into glory, who claimed it was invented in the Irish Channel at a long since lost Italian deli there.
Everyone agrees that the sandwich got its name from the type of bread used to make it a sandwich, the muffuletta loaf. It was this bread that ties together its constituent ingredients, just like the poorboy loaves, just like the Bread of Life, Jesus.
Grandfather, before he died, shared with me some of his early memories of this community before it succumbed to the post-WW2 migration to the suburbs. One of these stories he shared while we sat in the dining room at Central Grocery, sharing a muffuletta, watching workers build their masterpieces.
“It was 1948. I was leaving for Princeton and needed a new suit. My mother gave me streetcar fare and sent me to Holmes, where she preferred that I shop.”
“TulaneLSU, I had plenty of suits from Holmes and they all looked the same. I wanted to be the ace of the Ivy Club. One of my friends had recently purchased a beautiful double breasted suit from Goldberg’s on Decatur. And that was where I headed, but not before getting a new skimmer hat at Meyer’s.”
I loved when Grandfather told stories. He remembered the most intricate details. Uncle attributes his own gift for detail to his father.
“Keep in mind my mother had no idea that I knew anything about Goldberg’s. The only time I heard her talk about the shop was to criticize their Christmas advertisements, which used Xmas instead of Christmas. My mother thought that was a heresy, forgetting that the Goldbergs are Jewish and still await their Messiah. She also did not know Greek nor did she know that the earliest Christians often marked their places of worship with a Chi, which is the shape of our X, as in Christ. But let me tell you about that suit.”
1950s Central Grocery at 923 Decatur flanked by De Luca Hardware and Goldberg & Sons, 925 Decatur
“Yes, Grandfather, I want to know about your suit.”
He continued. “It was about a mile walk through the Quarter from the streetcar. I always took Royal Street because it was lined with the prettiest shops. By the time you passed St. Ann, though, it became a bit rough. When I entered that area I always knew that I was an outsider and I had to play by their rules. I walked swiftly and with purpose. But I never felt unsafe. And it was not that uncommon for me to walk there. I loved visiting Brocato’s in those days, which actually had a drive-in service for cars, like Sonic. 615 Ursuline I think it was. For a while, Brocato’s sold sandwiches, the vastedda, a Palermo sandwich with caciocavallo and ricotta cheese with fried veal spleen. But it was no match for the muffuletta. When they moved out to Mid-City in 1981 Ursuline Street became an empty shell.”
“But what about the suit?” I wish I had paid more attention to all the details he shared with me, because these I share with you are just a small measure of them.
“Men in those days never dared to wear something like shorts. I think the hippies brought us shorts. It did not matter what time of year it was, July, August, if you were a man, you did not go in public with your legs showing. That was one thing we had in common with the Italians.”
“That neighborhood down there, that is where I got most of my fishing gear for our trips to the Tally-Ho. De Luca’s had the best fishing gear in town back then. My father, your Great Grandfather, bought all his crab and shrimp nets for the club down at Cattana’s. But he had closed shop after his son, a pretty good boxer, was found guilty of using a gun to rob a nearby tobacco shop.”
I knew by now that any further entreaties about the suit would only delay the story, so I remained silent.
“By the time I reached Ursulines, I was parched. I got a lemon ice to go and headed to the market, which was starting to clean up its act. Chickens no longer ran around unattended and the litter was minimal. I walked through the crowds and the bananas stalks and long sacks of garlic. It was a veritable cornucopia of every fruit and vegetable known to America. Finally I found what I sought: a pineapple to surprise my mother.”
“I entered Goldberg’s and told the tailor there, ‘I need your finest double breasted suit. Wool. Caramel color. Notch lapels.’ Soon enough, Mr. Goldberg had me in the suit that would show to Princeton that New Orleans was still the fashion capital of America. It fit perfectly, so I requested to wear it out the store.”
It was a perfect spot, and I would love to know the story of how they bought that building. Across the street, where the golden Joan of Arc statue presides, were the markets where Italian farmers from all over brought their goods. Not far south were the warehouses where stevedores worked up enormous appetites while they moved bananas from ship to rail, leading to the banana’s ascendancy over the apple as America’s most popular fruit. To the north was the second most densely populated Italian enclave in America. Central Grocery was in the center of Little Palermo, where commerce met home.
When the muffuletta was invented will never be known, nor will we ever know with certainty who put meat and cheese on bread for the first time. According to today’s third generation owners, the Lupo-Tusa family, it was Salvatore. They say he initially sold the deli meats and cheeses along with olives and bread to the laborers at the market and the docks. Because they did not have tables on which to eat, they often spilled their charcuterie boards of food, as they tried balancing the foods on their legs. Salvatore Lupo, they say, solved the problem by putting everything in the house of bread, a sort of Bethlehem for those who know Hebrew.
There are other theories. The Perrone family of the nearby Progress Grocery has at times laid claim to the muffuletta’s creation. There is a family out in Galveston, the Maceo family, that claims one of its ancestors, Tony Lovoi, created the muffuletta in 1901 while he was living in New Orleans. They even claim that he was the one who made the first muffulettas and sold them to Central Grocery. As crazy as that sounds, while I was a streetcar conductor, I met an old man, who now almost certainly has passed into glory, who claimed it was invented in the Irish Channel at a long since lost Italian deli there.
Everyone agrees that the sandwich got its name from the type of bread used to make it a sandwich, the muffuletta loaf. It was this bread that ties together its constituent ingredients, just like the poorboy loaves, just like the Bread of Life, Jesus.
Grandfather, before he died, shared with me some of his early memories of this community before it succumbed to the post-WW2 migration to the suburbs. One of these stories he shared while we sat in the dining room at Central Grocery, sharing a muffuletta, watching workers build their masterpieces.
“It was 1948. I was leaving for Princeton and needed a new suit. My mother gave me streetcar fare and sent me to Holmes, where she preferred that I shop.”
“TulaneLSU, I had plenty of suits from Holmes and they all looked the same. I wanted to be the ace of the Ivy Club. One of my friends had recently purchased a beautiful double breasted suit from Goldberg’s on Decatur. And that was where I headed, but not before getting a new skimmer hat at Meyer’s.”
I loved when Grandfather told stories. He remembered the most intricate details. Uncle attributes his own gift for detail to his father.
“Keep in mind my mother had no idea that I knew anything about Goldberg’s. The only time I heard her talk about the shop was to criticize their Christmas advertisements, which used Xmas instead of Christmas. My mother thought that was a heresy, forgetting that the Goldbergs are Jewish and still await their Messiah. She also did not know Greek nor did she know that the earliest Christians often marked their places of worship with a Chi, which is the shape of our X, as in Christ. But let me tell you about that suit.”
1950s Central Grocery at 923 Decatur flanked by De Luca Hardware and Goldberg & Sons, 925 Decatur
“Yes, Grandfather, I want to know about your suit.”
He continued. “It was about a mile walk through the Quarter from the streetcar. I always took Royal Street because it was lined with the prettiest shops. By the time you passed St. Ann, though, it became a bit rough. When I entered that area I always knew that I was an outsider and I had to play by their rules. I walked swiftly and with purpose. But I never felt unsafe. And it was not that uncommon for me to walk there. I loved visiting Brocato’s in those days, which actually had a drive-in service for cars, like Sonic. 615 Ursuline I think it was. For a while, Brocato’s sold sandwiches, the vastedda, a Palermo sandwich with caciocavallo and ricotta cheese with fried veal spleen. But it was no match for the muffuletta. When they moved out to Mid-City in 1981 Ursuline Street became an empty shell.”
“But what about the suit?” I wish I had paid more attention to all the details he shared with me, because these I share with you are just a small measure of them.
“Men in those days never dared to wear something like shorts. I think the hippies brought us shorts. It did not matter what time of year it was, July, August, if you were a man, you did not go in public with your legs showing. That was one thing we had in common with the Italians.”
“That neighborhood down there, that is where I got most of my fishing gear for our trips to the Tally-Ho. De Luca’s had the best fishing gear in town back then. My father, your Great Grandfather, bought all his crab and shrimp nets for the club down at Cattana’s. But he had closed shop after his son, a pretty good boxer, was found guilty of using a gun to rob a nearby tobacco shop.”
I knew by now that any further entreaties about the suit would only delay the story, so I remained silent.
“By the time I reached Ursulines, I was parched. I got a lemon ice to go and headed to the market, which was starting to clean up its act. Chickens no longer ran around unattended and the litter was minimal. I walked through the crowds and the bananas stalks and long sacks of garlic. It was a veritable cornucopia of every fruit and vegetable known to America. Finally I found what I sought: a pineapple to surprise my mother.”
“I entered Goldberg’s and told the tailor there, ‘I need your finest double breasted suit. Wool. Caramel color. Notch lapels.’ Soon enough, Mr. Goldberg had me in the suit that would show to Princeton that New Orleans was still the fashion capital of America. It fit perfectly, so I requested to wear it out the store.”
This post was edited on 2/7/21 at 9:13 pm
Posted on 2/7/21 at 9:02 pm to TulaneLSU
“As I took my first steps out in my new tour de force the smell of olives hit me like a St. Charles streetcar hitting a tourist’s car blocking his path. I looked to my right and there it was, Central Grocery. I had never been to this grocery store nor had I ever heard of it.”
“Like a speckled trout tempted by a Rattletrap, that smell coming from Central Grocery’s open doors brought me inside to a new world. It was such a spectacle -- all those cans of olive oil, barrels of olives, boxes of dry pastas, and hanging meats.”
“I went to the counter and ordered a circle sandwich. The man behind the counter said with a low toned voice that had a squeaky high pitch, ‘A what?’”
“I pointed to the loaf of muffuletta bread, which at that time, came from United Bakery. After Katrina ruined those beautiful brick ovens I think the Gendusa family started baking their loaves.”
“Oh, you want a moof-uh-let-ah,” the tan man said.
Grandfather later explained to me that you should never order a “muff-ah-lotta” at Central Grocery unless you want to be chastised on proper pronunciation. “There is no ah or lotta in a muffuletta. That lazy tongue comes from those barbaric Fro-Stop burgers of the 60s, when they advertised the Lotta Burger. People, prone to laziness, started conflating the lotta burger with the muffuletta. Horrid.”
Grandfather continued, “He sliced that sesame seeded loaf like a fish cleaner. First came layers of Genoa salami and ham. Then the cheese layers of Emmenthal and Provolone. I thought that would be it, but he continued with mortadella and another blanket of Genoa salami before heaping a Monkey Hill sized mound of that olive salad. He did not slice the sandwich, but he pressed it, causing golden olive oil to drip from the edges. He wrapped it in paper and away I went.”
“Here I was, in a new suit, lugging around a giant sandwich and pineapple. I figured I could lighten my load by eating the sandwich, so I walked to Jackson Square. I sat and opened the sandwich and that first bite was a taste I wish I could retaste. It was marvelous and refuted everything my mother had ever taught me about Italians.”
“Because it had not been cut, it was quite a handful. I was not deterred and finished the entire sandwich before I heard the bells of St. Louis Cathedral ring even once. I was mesmerized by those delicious flavors and had failed to realize that much of the sandwich’s oil had dripped onto my beautiful new suit. I was heartbroken, even if my belly had never been happier.”
“When I entered our house, my mother gasped when she saw the suit.”
“You did not get that at Holmes. What has happened to you?”
Grandfather continued, “My mother was quite happy actually that the suit was ruined because she did not want me wearing something that was so fashionable. The next day she dragged me to a new men’s store on Magazine. We had never before been because the owner had been in an automobile accident that left my father’s tailor, Mr. Levy, dead. But accidents happen and we found quite a suitable suit there. Once I graduated college, all of my suits came from Goldberg’s.”
“Grandfather, Goldberg’s is the best!”
“Yes, they are, TulaneLSU. So is Central Grocery. And so is Jesus, the Bread of Life. Whoever comes to him will never be hungry, and whoever believes in him will never thirst.”
Friends, one of the great living museums of New Orleans is Central Grocery. The main attraction may be the sandwich, but the aisles and walls of that fixture are worthy of many moments of your attention. I hope that next time you enter, you will search the history of the place rather than rush to queue and dart. I had hoped to give a list of depictive, detailed memories, but I found the history so engrossing, I will leave you with just short fragments of TulaneLSU’s Top 10 memories from Central Grocery:
“Like a speckled trout tempted by a Rattletrap, that smell coming from Central Grocery’s open doors brought me inside to a new world. It was such a spectacle -- all those cans of olive oil, barrels of olives, boxes of dry pastas, and hanging meats.”
“I went to the counter and ordered a circle sandwich. The man behind the counter said with a low toned voice that had a squeaky high pitch, ‘A what?’”
“I pointed to the loaf of muffuletta bread, which at that time, came from United Bakery. After Katrina ruined those beautiful brick ovens I think the Gendusa family started baking their loaves.”
“Oh, you want a moof-uh-let-ah,” the tan man said.
Grandfather later explained to me that you should never order a “muff-ah-lotta” at Central Grocery unless you want to be chastised on proper pronunciation. “There is no ah or lotta in a muffuletta. That lazy tongue comes from those barbaric Fro-Stop burgers of the 60s, when they advertised the Lotta Burger. People, prone to laziness, started conflating the lotta burger with the muffuletta. Horrid.”
Grandfather continued, “He sliced that sesame seeded loaf like a fish cleaner. First came layers of Genoa salami and ham. Then the cheese layers of Emmenthal and Provolone. I thought that would be it, but he continued with mortadella and another blanket of Genoa salami before heaping a Monkey Hill sized mound of that olive salad. He did not slice the sandwich, but he pressed it, causing golden olive oil to drip from the edges. He wrapped it in paper and away I went.”
“Here I was, in a new suit, lugging around a giant sandwich and pineapple. I figured I could lighten my load by eating the sandwich, so I walked to Jackson Square. I sat and opened the sandwich and that first bite was a taste I wish I could retaste. It was marvelous and refuted everything my mother had ever taught me about Italians.”
“Because it had not been cut, it was quite a handful. I was not deterred and finished the entire sandwich before I heard the bells of St. Louis Cathedral ring even once. I was mesmerized by those delicious flavors and had failed to realize that much of the sandwich’s oil had dripped onto my beautiful new suit. I was heartbroken, even if my belly had never been happier.”
“When I entered our house, my mother gasped when she saw the suit.”
“You did not get that at Holmes. What has happened to you?”
Grandfather continued, “My mother was quite happy actually that the suit was ruined because she did not want me wearing something that was so fashionable. The next day she dragged me to a new men’s store on Magazine. We had never before been because the owner had been in an automobile accident that left my father’s tailor, Mr. Levy, dead. But accidents happen and we found quite a suitable suit there. Once I graduated college, all of my suits came from Goldberg’s.”
“Grandfather, Goldberg’s is the best!”
“Yes, they are, TulaneLSU. So is Central Grocery. And so is Jesus, the Bread of Life. Whoever comes to him will never be hungry, and whoever believes in him will never thirst.”
Friends, one of the great living museums of New Orleans is Central Grocery. The main attraction may be the sandwich, but the aisles and walls of that fixture are worthy of many moments of your attention. I hope that next time you enter, you will search the history of the place rather than rush to queue and dart. I had hoped to give a list of depictive, detailed memories, but I found the history so engrossing, I will leave you with just short fragments of TulaneLSU’s Top 10 memories from Central Grocery:
This post was edited on 2/7/21 at 9:04 pm
Posted on 2/7/21 at 9:02 pm to TulaneLSU
10. The La Nasa and Lupo conspiracy embarrassment
This memory is not a good memory. In fact, it is an embarrassing memory, but still a top one. In the early 2000s, certainly before Katrina, I had unraveled a shadowy plot among the underworld of New Orleans. And they found out and sought to kill me (they still are trying). But at that time, I did not know who they were, so I sought answers in the archives at the HNOC. While I swam through the files, I found the most concerning of stories. It came from Baltimore.
I well knew the La Nasa name of the lower Quarter. Antonio La Nasa had been quite the businessman and owned many properties all around Central Grocery. But I found his name connected to a bigger story involving the international fruit trade. La Nasa, a Sicilian immigrant living in Baltimore, had teamed with Joseph Di Giorgio, a fellow Sicilian, and a Jamaican named Goffe to form The Atlantic Fruit Company. La Nasa and Goffe both believed that in 1906, Di Giorgio had cheated them, selling a majority stake of the company to The United Fruit Company. According to court records, La Nasa hired a Sicilian New Yorker by the name of Salvatore Lupo to assassinate his partner, Di Giorgio. Lupo was to put a bomb in Di Giorgio’s house and the rest would take care of itself.
The plan failed when the bomb exploded with no one home. La Nasa and Lupo were arrested, but Lupo was freed, as he cooperated as the government’s witness. La Nasa had a team of legal eagles and was acquitted. Lupo, some sources suggest, became a famous New York hitman while La Nasa remained a stalwart in the Baltimore import business. Di Giorgio, though, moved to California, where he became one of the nation’s largest land owners and consolidated the produce from the great valleys of California.
When I read this story, naturally I concluded that this La Nasa and this Lupo were the New Orleans characters who shared the same names and were active at the same time. So when I walked into Central Grocery to ask the cashier about this connection, he said, “What are you talking about?”
Words rolled out of my mouth as if I had solved a century’s old mystery. One of the owner’s family members overheard my novel story. He came over and said, “That is really interesting, but Lupo never worked in Baltimore and he certainly was not a killer nor did he ever live in New York.”
The air went out from me, as I realized then that I was a fool. I went back to the archives, and sure enough, there was no connection of that story to our New Orleans characters. It was sheer coincidence, but an interesting one at that. When I returned to Central Grocery later in the week, I apologized to the man who corrected me. He accepted my apology, but I was so ashamed I did not return for many months. Instead, I had family bring me an occasional muffuletta.
9. My first smoked oysters
Many of you laugh when I talk about my love of smoked oysters, particularly the Great Value ones. Would the same people laugh if I told them the first time I tried smoked oysters was at Central Grocery.
Mother took me there in the late 1990s, quite the treat for me. I had just come from the dentist where several fillings were completed. Mother needed to get some sandwiches for a gathering she was hosting. I so wanted a sandwich too, but she told me, “No, your teeth are not ready for bread.”
I searched the grocery for a suitable alternative. Dried beans? No, that made no sense.
Sliced cheese? No, that will not sit well with my bowels right now.
Dried fish? Those probably would not taste good on their own.
Olive salad? No, the acidity will burn the gums.
And that was right when my eyes found the smoked oysters. They were the perfect treat for a post-procedural sensitive mouth. Mother approved, and thus began my relationship with smoked oysters.
8. French Quarter Fest
Some of our cousins who live in Oregon visited us in 2010 to attend the French Quarter Fest. While exploring the Quarter on Thursday, before crowds became too large, I showed them Central Grocery. They immediately fell in love with the store, and then the sandwich.
We brought to the river banks several muffulettas, Barq’s root beers, and bags of Zapp’s plain. The jazz played overhead while the weather was perfect. I do not think any of them had ever experienced anything so beautiful, so I thought it the perfect time to read from Thomas Watson’s A Body of Divinity, one of the classics of early American Puritan theology.
I opened the book and shared the good news. One of my cousins, who had been an agnostic, heard the words in their truth and confessed his unfaithfulness right then and there, asking for forgiveness on the banks of the Mississippi. Jesus grabbed his heart and that cousin entered the fold forever. Hallelujah! If only every time we broke bread could be that beautiful.
7. The street performer receives charity
Many of you have probably seen me perform in the French Quarter. It was for a short time, but shortly before Katrina, thousands upon thousands of people passed me as I daily performed at Washington Artillery Park Amphitheater. My routine was a series of traditional Christian hymns -- Love Divine, Christ the Lord is Risen Today, Thine Be the Glory, and others. But it never gained traction. Crowds threw bottles at me, mocked me, called me terrible names, and even spit on me. It was a bit discouraging.
After one particularly difficult day, when the rain ruined my shoes and one passerby punched me in the nose, I sat on the benches to count my wages. Six hours on the job led to six dollars and thirty three cents. Most of the money was in the form of quarters and nickels.
Feeling dejected, I thought a muffuletta would be just what I needed to cheer up before Mother picked me up, which she did on rainy days. On dry days, I usually took the streetcar.
When I reached the counter, I realized that I did not have enough for even a half a sandwich, which at that time, was $7 with tax. A tear welled in my eye, as I asked the man at the counter if he would sell me a quarter of a sandwich.
Before this encounter, this man had always scared me. His tattoos were many and his eyes were dark like those of a great white shark.
With those same eyes that had always struck me with fear he looked dead at me. He probably saw the absolute defeat in my eyes that day. And he said, “Here, keep your money. Take this one. It’s on me.” He slid the sandwich’s delicate white wrapper over the counter and into my trembling hands.
I have never forgotten that act of true charity.
This memory is not a good memory. In fact, it is an embarrassing memory, but still a top one. In the early 2000s, certainly before Katrina, I had unraveled a shadowy plot among the underworld of New Orleans. And they found out and sought to kill me (they still are trying). But at that time, I did not know who they were, so I sought answers in the archives at the HNOC. While I swam through the files, I found the most concerning of stories. It came from Baltimore.
I well knew the La Nasa name of the lower Quarter. Antonio La Nasa had been quite the businessman and owned many properties all around Central Grocery. But I found his name connected to a bigger story involving the international fruit trade. La Nasa, a Sicilian immigrant living in Baltimore, had teamed with Joseph Di Giorgio, a fellow Sicilian, and a Jamaican named Goffe to form The Atlantic Fruit Company. La Nasa and Goffe both believed that in 1906, Di Giorgio had cheated them, selling a majority stake of the company to The United Fruit Company. According to court records, La Nasa hired a Sicilian New Yorker by the name of Salvatore Lupo to assassinate his partner, Di Giorgio. Lupo was to put a bomb in Di Giorgio’s house and the rest would take care of itself.
The plan failed when the bomb exploded with no one home. La Nasa and Lupo were arrested, but Lupo was freed, as he cooperated as the government’s witness. La Nasa had a team of legal eagles and was acquitted. Lupo, some sources suggest, became a famous New York hitman while La Nasa remained a stalwart in the Baltimore import business. Di Giorgio, though, moved to California, where he became one of the nation’s largest land owners and consolidated the produce from the great valleys of California.
When I read this story, naturally I concluded that this La Nasa and this Lupo were the New Orleans characters who shared the same names and were active at the same time. So when I walked into Central Grocery to ask the cashier about this connection, he said, “What are you talking about?”
Words rolled out of my mouth as if I had solved a century’s old mystery. One of the owner’s family members overheard my novel story. He came over and said, “That is really interesting, but Lupo never worked in Baltimore and he certainly was not a killer nor did he ever live in New York.”
The air went out from me, as I realized then that I was a fool. I went back to the archives, and sure enough, there was no connection of that story to our New Orleans characters. It was sheer coincidence, but an interesting one at that. When I returned to Central Grocery later in the week, I apologized to the man who corrected me. He accepted my apology, but I was so ashamed I did not return for many months. Instead, I had family bring me an occasional muffuletta.
9. My first smoked oysters
Many of you laugh when I talk about my love of smoked oysters, particularly the Great Value ones. Would the same people laugh if I told them the first time I tried smoked oysters was at Central Grocery.
Mother took me there in the late 1990s, quite the treat for me. I had just come from the dentist where several fillings were completed. Mother needed to get some sandwiches for a gathering she was hosting. I so wanted a sandwich too, but she told me, “No, your teeth are not ready for bread.”
I searched the grocery for a suitable alternative. Dried beans? No, that made no sense.
Sliced cheese? No, that will not sit well with my bowels right now.
Dried fish? Those probably would not taste good on their own.
Olive salad? No, the acidity will burn the gums.
And that was right when my eyes found the smoked oysters. They were the perfect treat for a post-procedural sensitive mouth. Mother approved, and thus began my relationship with smoked oysters.
8. French Quarter Fest
Some of our cousins who live in Oregon visited us in 2010 to attend the French Quarter Fest. While exploring the Quarter on Thursday, before crowds became too large, I showed them Central Grocery. They immediately fell in love with the store, and then the sandwich.
We brought to the river banks several muffulettas, Barq’s root beers, and bags of Zapp’s plain. The jazz played overhead while the weather was perfect. I do not think any of them had ever experienced anything so beautiful, so I thought it the perfect time to read from Thomas Watson’s A Body of Divinity, one of the classics of early American Puritan theology.
I opened the book and shared the good news. One of my cousins, who had been an agnostic, heard the words in their truth and confessed his unfaithfulness right then and there, asking for forgiveness on the banks of the Mississippi. Jesus grabbed his heart and that cousin entered the fold forever. Hallelujah! If only every time we broke bread could be that beautiful.
7. The street performer receives charity
Many of you have probably seen me perform in the French Quarter. It was for a short time, but shortly before Katrina, thousands upon thousands of people passed me as I daily performed at Washington Artillery Park Amphitheater. My routine was a series of traditional Christian hymns -- Love Divine, Christ the Lord is Risen Today, Thine Be the Glory, and others. But it never gained traction. Crowds threw bottles at me, mocked me, called me terrible names, and even spit on me. It was a bit discouraging.
After one particularly difficult day, when the rain ruined my shoes and one passerby punched me in the nose, I sat on the benches to count my wages. Six hours on the job led to six dollars and thirty three cents. Most of the money was in the form of quarters and nickels.
Feeling dejected, I thought a muffuletta would be just what I needed to cheer up before Mother picked me up, which she did on rainy days. On dry days, I usually took the streetcar.
When I reached the counter, I realized that I did not have enough for even a half a sandwich, which at that time, was $7 with tax. A tear welled in my eye, as I asked the man at the counter if he would sell me a quarter of a sandwich.
Before this encounter, this man had always scared me. His tattoos were many and his eyes were dark like those of a great white shark.
With those same eyes that had always struck me with fear he looked dead at me. He probably saw the absolute defeat in my eyes that day. And he said, “Here, keep your money. Take this one. It’s on me.” He slid the sandwich’s delicate white wrapper over the counter and into my trembling hands.
I have never forgotten that act of true charity.
This post was edited on 2/7/21 at 10:14 pm
Posted on 2/7/21 at 9:02 pm to TulaneLSU
6. College admission celebration
When I received my acceptance letter to Yale, Uncle was thrilled. In fact, I think he was happier on that day than the day he caught a 700 pound blue marlin in the Gulf. To celebrate, he considered taking me to Impastato’s. Instead, he took me to Central Grocery where he bought me three muffulettas. To this day, it is the only time I have ever eaten three muffulettas at one sitting.
5. First trip after Katrina
Was it January of 2006? Either way, I do not think the backroom was open, so we got it to go. The bags during those days were white with green and red ink. The plastic was quite sturdy, unlike most of the paper thin bags you get at groceries now. I still remember the comforting touch of that plastic in my hands as I left the building with a city’s prize in tow. Today,the bags are still hefty, but, as the green ink has been jettisoned, it is not nearly as attractive.
4. Grandfather’s story
Grandfather told so many stories as we dined at Central Grocery, but that story about his Goldberg’s suit was the last story he shared with me over a muffuletta.
3. The end of my volleyball career
I questioned if this incident should be included because I never arrived at my destination. But it is among the most memorable and life altering events of my life.
It was 1998 that I was rushing down Dumaine. The previous day I used the last of father’s Central Grocery olive salad. He was out of town, but was returning that night. The last time I did not replenish the muffuletta mix he was so enraged he tossed a fork across the room, breaking the glass of our grandfather clock. That pane is to this day blemished.
I took the streetcar as soon as school finished and hurried. I made good time down Royal, like my Grandfather before me, before making the right. My feet barely brushed the ground, like they do as I rush for the clearance at Walmart or Dillard’s the week after Christmas. Man, however, is a terrestrial being, and I learned quickly that my impatience cost me far more time than it could save. Gravity’s ally that day was a malaligned Laurel brick. Its arris grabbed the tip of my toe and I fell to the ground.
Standing, I tried to return to my previous pace only to find that it was not possible. I tried one step, but the pain was so piercing I fell back to the same treacherous bricks that beguiled and grabbed me. An ambulance took me to Tulane Hospital where I was diagnosed with a broken ankle.
Father actually did not return that evening. My hurrying was for naught. Months of rehab later, I was able again to walk and run. My jumping, however, was forever diminished. The injury effectively ended my budding volleyball career. Since then, I have kept a grudge against bricks as a sidewalk material.
2. NORD volleyball championship meal
921-923 Decatur in the background in the 1910s
923 Decatur in 1964
923 Decatur in 2021
Throughout the 1990s, until the tragedy of 1998 on Dumaine, I played on many volleyball teams. One of the most enjoyable teams on which I was a member, surprisingly was a NORD team. We won the city volleyball championship in either 95 or 96, and to celebrate, Uncle took the whole team to Central Grocery where we packed into the dining room and pigged out on some cured pig!
1. The first bite of a Central Grocery muffuletta
July 10, 1993. I remember the day as though it were yesterday. Mother and father brought me to the Quarter for shopping. They were looking at a Gorham sterling flatware that M.S. Rau had recently acquired. I cannot remember if they purchased it or not because my appetite was so disturbing.
After pleading with them for what seemed, to an eight year old, like an eternity. They finally agreed to go to lunch. I wanted a cheese board from Napoleon House, but father had eaten there the previous weekend.
“What about Central Grocery?” father asked Mother.
“All they serve is the muffuletta. I do not think he is ready for one,” she answered.
Father patted me on the head, “Sure he is.”
It was not a far walk and there was no line. This was back in the days before food shows and Yelp made these local secrets tourist destinations.
We sat on the stools in the back. After saying a prayer of gratitude, we opened our sandwiches. It was then that I said to Mother and father, “Look, it is wrapped just like a Christmas present.”
To this day, I watch myself in slow motion as I remove that pale tape from the paper wrapper and flip the sandwich right side up. I examined it. Suspiciously I sniffed it. I had never before smelled a food with fragrances that comforted my soul like the ones coming from the muffuletta. I bit into it and pure joy filled every cell in my body.
“How do you like it?” father asked.
I smiled and took another bite.
The three of us sat there together, alone in the room, but in a perfect state of communion with each other, with the created world, and with God. My hunger was gone.
Faith, Hope, and Love,
TulaneLSU
When I received my acceptance letter to Yale, Uncle was thrilled. In fact, I think he was happier on that day than the day he caught a 700 pound blue marlin in the Gulf. To celebrate, he considered taking me to Impastato’s. Instead, he took me to Central Grocery where he bought me three muffulettas. To this day, it is the only time I have ever eaten three muffulettas at one sitting.
5. First trip after Katrina
Was it January of 2006? Either way, I do not think the backroom was open, so we got it to go. The bags during those days were white with green and red ink. The plastic was quite sturdy, unlike most of the paper thin bags you get at groceries now. I still remember the comforting touch of that plastic in my hands as I left the building with a city’s prize in tow. Today,the bags are still hefty, but, as the green ink has been jettisoned, it is not nearly as attractive.
4. Grandfather’s story
Grandfather told so many stories as we dined at Central Grocery, but that story about his Goldberg’s suit was the last story he shared with me over a muffuletta.
3. The end of my volleyball career
I questioned if this incident should be included because I never arrived at my destination. But it is among the most memorable and life altering events of my life.
It was 1998 that I was rushing down Dumaine. The previous day I used the last of father’s Central Grocery olive salad. He was out of town, but was returning that night. The last time I did not replenish the muffuletta mix he was so enraged he tossed a fork across the room, breaking the glass of our grandfather clock. That pane is to this day blemished.
I took the streetcar as soon as school finished and hurried. I made good time down Royal, like my Grandfather before me, before making the right. My feet barely brushed the ground, like they do as I rush for the clearance at Walmart or Dillard’s the week after Christmas. Man, however, is a terrestrial being, and I learned quickly that my impatience cost me far more time than it could save. Gravity’s ally that day was a malaligned Laurel brick. Its arris grabbed the tip of my toe and I fell to the ground.
Standing, I tried to return to my previous pace only to find that it was not possible. I tried one step, but the pain was so piercing I fell back to the same treacherous bricks that beguiled and grabbed me. An ambulance took me to Tulane Hospital where I was diagnosed with a broken ankle.
Father actually did not return that evening. My hurrying was for naught. Months of rehab later, I was able again to walk and run. My jumping, however, was forever diminished. The injury effectively ended my budding volleyball career. Since then, I have kept a grudge against bricks as a sidewalk material.
2. NORD volleyball championship meal
921-923 Decatur in the background in the 1910s
923 Decatur in 1964
923 Decatur in 2021
Throughout the 1990s, until the tragedy of 1998 on Dumaine, I played on many volleyball teams. One of the most enjoyable teams on which I was a member, surprisingly was a NORD team. We won the city volleyball championship in either 95 or 96, and to celebrate, Uncle took the whole team to Central Grocery where we packed into the dining room and pigged out on some cured pig!
1. The first bite of a Central Grocery muffuletta
July 10, 1993. I remember the day as though it were yesterday. Mother and father brought me to the Quarter for shopping. They were looking at a Gorham sterling flatware that M.S. Rau had recently acquired. I cannot remember if they purchased it or not because my appetite was so disturbing.
After pleading with them for what seemed, to an eight year old, like an eternity. They finally agreed to go to lunch. I wanted a cheese board from Napoleon House, but father had eaten there the previous weekend.
“What about Central Grocery?” father asked Mother.
“All they serve is the muffuletta. I do not think he is ready for one,” she answered.
Father patted me on the head, “Sure he is.”
It was not a far walk and there was no line. This was back in the days before food shows and Yelp made these local secrets tourist destinations.
We sat on the stools in the back. After saying a prayer of gratitude, we opened our sandwiches. It was then that I said to Mother and father, “Look, it is wrapped just like a Christmas present.”
To this day, I watch myself in slow motion as I remove that pale tape from the paper wrapper and flip the sandwich right side up. I examined it. Suspiciously I sniffed it. I had never before smelled a food with fragrances that comforted my soul like the ones coming from the muffuletta. I bit into it and pure joy filled every cell in my body.
“How do you like it?” father asked.
I smiled and took another bite.
The three of us sat there together, alone in the room, but in a perfect state of communion with each other, with the created world, and with God. My hunger was gone.
Faith, Hope, and Love,
TulaneLSU
This post was edited on 2/7/21 at 10:14 pm
Posted on 2/7/21 at 9:34 pm to TulaneLSU
One day, I'd like to kick your arse.
Just sayin'
Just sayin'
Posted on 2/7/21 at 9:58 pm to TulaneLSU
Friend,
Thank you for your many wonderful contributions to this internet chat cafe.
Yours,
George
Thank you for your many wonderful contributions to this internet chat cafe.
Yours,
George
Posted on 2/7/21 at 10:21 pm to Smeg
quote:
One day, I'd like to kick your arse.
Just sayin'
Imagine being so miserable that you want to physically injure another human being simply for posting his thoughts on a message board.
Imagine me supersizing my sonic combo as I setup my travel chair in the bed of my truck and lay the money line on TLSU while I watch the shitstorm commence.
Posted on 2/8/21 at 6:15 am to TulaneLSU
I remember the first time I had a muffuletta...
Posted on 2/8/21 at 6:47 am to TulaneLSU
quote:
Motivated by hatred for the Vatican more than theology
This is dumb.
Posted on 2/8/21 at 7:26 am to TulaneLSU
My most memorable memory of Central Grocery is a kid spitting in a barrel of red beans.
This post was edited on 2/8/21 at 11:59 am
Posted on 2/8/21 at 7:35 am to Stadium Rat
I knew grandfather was going to get olive oil on his new suit as soon as he walked out of Goldberg’s wearing it.
Posted on 2/8/21 at 8:02 am to Stadium Rat
quote:
a kid splitting in a barrel of red beans.
Seems pretty flexible.
Posted on 2/8/21 at 8:14 am to TulaneLSU
Thanks for the history lesson.
Posted on 2/8/21 at 8:24 am to TulaneLSU
quote:
TulaneLSU
thank you for this
Posted on 2/8/21 at 8:25 am to TulaneLSU
No love for buttocks?
Posted on 2/8/21 at 9:04 am to Twenty 49
I hate it when people use the phrase "prove me wrong"....
However, TulaneLSU if the long lost progeny of Ignatius Riley and minka minkoff, prove me wrong!
However, TulaneLSU if the long lost progeny of Ignatius Riley and minka minkoff, prove me wrong!
Posted on 2/8/21 at 1:11 pm to TulaneLSU
maybe get a blog. idk
Posted on 2/8/21 at 1:12 pm to TulaneLSU
Saying you have way too much free time on your hands would be an extreme understatement
Posted on 2/8/21 at 1:31 pm to TulaneLSU
quote:
they found out and sought to kill me (they still are trying)
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