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Message
TulaneLSU's Top 10 signs of West End
Posted on 5/3/20 at 5:37 pm
Posted on 5/3/20 at 5:37 pm
Dear Friends,
Life moves as a ship cutting through a dense fog. Onward it presses though our goal is shrouded in a great mist. Great Grandmother called this nebulous vision “gliding through the great cloud of witnesses.” She was fond to remind me that the spirits of those before us never were really gone from this world. “They keep the Great Lighthouse just out of sight. That way we do not become complacent and presumptive like the Presbyterians.”
I forgive her for the Platonic or even Pythagorean notions of the immortality of the soul. The nuns at Ursuline taught her and she well memorized the Catechism of the Catholic Church that teaches “every spiritual soul is created immediately by God and is immortal: it does not perish when it separates from the body at death.”
Like a ship with decades of momentum, no amount of reprovement could change her mind so late in its journey. I promise you, even as an eight year old, I tried. My efforts have borne fruit with her daughter, Grandmother, whose Roman Catholicism is tempered with the orthodox theology of the Westminster Catechism I have tilled in her heart. Her belief in ghosts is a superstitious remnant of childhood that only lives in her stories.
A New Year’s fog in New Orleans is hardly “something to write home about,” as Bob Breck would say. When the fog does come at that time of year in the city, it is engrossing. A blanket of white or grey, depending on the sun’s angle or time of day, clothes the land and sea equally. When people describe fog as pea soup, I question if they have ever been in a real fog. It is not green nor salty nor even mushy. It is, however, indiscriminate and anyone caught within its opacifying, cataractous realm is put in man’s rightful place in this world: in the hands of God’s mercy.
As a child, New Year’s Eve was a marker for sadness, not celebration. It meant Christmas was over and we were a year away from that most joyous of celebrations. New Year’s also reminded us that school was about to resume. No day in all the calendar was as horrible as the last Sunday of Christmas vacation. The diet of fear, anxiety, and mindless work that a school child eats throughout the year constipates, and it is that last Sunday where a year’s worth of angst is forced through the bowels, fissuring whatever tries to restrain it.
Was it the New Year’s Eve of 1995 when this story takes place? I was around ten years old. WVUE was transitioning its affiliation from ABC to FOX. To mark the occasion, WVUE shanghaied WWL golden boy John Snell, whose hair even then was becoming less golden and more stringy. If you have an old weather almanac from that period, look for a New Year’s Eve with temperatures and dew points hovering around 60.
Father was busy with his other family at that point. Uncle, aware of my disdain for New Year’s Eve and its attendant festivities, entered my room, where I was building a Noah’s ark from popsicle sticks and a hot glue gun Mother gave me for Christmas -- I knew of the city’s vulnerability to floods even then. “Do you want to go to The Yacht Club, TulaneLSU?” he asked. No answer was necessary as I grabbed my commodore hat, which Mother got from Meyer’s for my birthday present the previous year. I quickly changed into Blazer Casual, provided by M. Goldberg’s.
Uncle was, and I believe still is, a member of the Southern Yacht Club and the New Orleans Yacht Club. Whenever he says The Yacht Club, we know he means the SYC. Uncle had not yet taken a shine to me, so invitations like this one were rare. He even let me bring Queen, a beautiful Collie, my first dog, only recently gifted by Grandmother and Grandfather at Christmas.
Arriving at the club, we wasted no time, heading straight for lunch. These were the days when it was socially acceptable to leave your leashed dog tied to a column because no one would dare consider bringing a dog into a store or restaurant. Queen was fine with being left alone.
Lunch at the club’s restaurant was acceptable. The highlight was when our waiter brought a dessert of a delicious brie cheese. Jean Brillat-Savarin, the great French anti-carbohydrate gastronome of two centuries ago said, “A dessert without cheese is a beauty with only one eye.” How right he was and how much I wish more New Orleans restaurants would feature cheese as a dessert item.
The weather was quite pleasant. It was overcast but balmy. The winds blew from behind the club. They were not enough for a spoondrift but a steady ten to fifteen knots. It was good sailing weather. “Let’s take the ol’ girl out,” Uncle suggested.
By ol’ girl, Uncle meant his Bermuda cutter, a fine vessel whose teak I had oiled over the years with gallons upon gallons of Watco teak oil. Her name shall remain anonymous here, but suffice it to say she sliced through the Pontchartrain’s waters like a silver plated Galatoire’s knife through squares of butter warmed by the kinesis and electricity of a Friday lunch.
We walked to the slip, boarded, and cast off the bow and stern lines. Queen had never been on the water and was visibly happy as could be. She ran to the bowsprit and regally postured as our avant-garde. Uncle engaged his 9.9 horsepower kicker engine as we threw a smile and wave to a friend lounging by the club’s pool. On the port were fishermen at The Pernt, lines wet hoping for a late season redfish. Uncle told me it was at The Point that he shared his first kiss with a girl after dinner at the Magazine Compagno’s. “Did Aunt kiss you back?” I asked excitedly. “This wasn't with Aunt.” And I responded, “Despicable. Please stop your story.”
By 3:00, the cloud deck was lowering as the winds were slacking. The water was still confused, chocolate and choppy as only the water of the Pontchartrain can become in such a slight breeze. Uncle was teaching me how to sail when a seagull found its rest on deck.
I had not yet taught Queen the importance of sharing and she could not stand to share this space with any other living creatures. I said to her, “Now what if we end up with this bird in an ark?” She ignored my question and chased and harangued the bird without ceasing. In her defense, the gull just mocked her with caws, gallivanting from point to point on the boat as I sat bemused. Queen followed the bird wherever it flew. I turned to Uncle, expecting to see him smiling, but fear was painted on his face.
Life moves as a ship cutting through a dense fog. Onward it presses though our goal is shrouded in a great mist. Great Grandmother called this nebulous vision “gliding through the great cloud of witnesses.” She was fond to remind me that the spirits of those before us never were really gone from this world. “They keep the Great Lighthouse just out of sight. That way we do not become complacent and presumptive like the Presbyterians.”
I forgive her for the Platonic or even Pythagorean notions of the immortality of the soul. The nuns at Ursuline taught her and she well memorized the Catechism of the Catholic Church that teaches “every spiritual soul is created immediately by God and is immortal: it does not perish when it separates from the body at death.”
Like a ship with decades of momentum, no amount of reprovement could change her mind so late in its journey. I promise you, even as an eight year old, I tried. My efforts have borne fruit with her daughter, Grandmother, whose Roman Catholicism is tempered with the orthodox theology of the Westminster Catechism I have tilled in her heart. Her belief in ghosts is a superstitious remnant of childhood that only lives in her stories.
A New Year’s fog in New Orleans is hardly “something to write home about,” as Bob Breck would say. When the fog does come at that time of year in the city, it is engrossing. A blanket of white or grey, depending on the sun’s angle or time of day, clothes the land and sea equally. When people describe fog as pea soup, I question if they have ever been in a real fog. It is not green nor salty nor even mushy. It is, however, indiscriminate and anyone caught within its opacifying, cataractous realm is put in man’s rightful place in this world: in the hands of God’s mercy.
As a child, New Year’s Eve was a marker for sadness, not celebration. It meant Christmas was over and we were a year away from that most joyous of celebrations. New Year’s also reminded us that school was about to resume. No day in all the calendar was as horrible as the last Sunday of Christmas vacation. The diet of fear, anxiety, and mindless work that a school child eats throughout the year constipates, and it is that last Sunday where a year’s worth of angst is forced through the bowels, fissuring whatever tries to restrain it.
Was it the New Year’s Eve of 1995 when this story takes place? I was around ten years old. WVUE was transitioning its affiliation from ABC to FOX. To mark the occasion, WVUE shanghaied WWL golden boy John Snell, whose hair even then was becoming less golden and more stringy. If you have an old weather almanac from that period, look for a New Year’s Eve with temperatures and dew points hovering around 60.
Father was busy with his other family at that point. Uncle, aware of my disdain for New Year’s Eve and its attendant festivities, entered my room, where I was building a Noah’s ark from popsicle sticks and a hot glue gun Mother gave me for Christmas -- I knew of the city’s vulnerability to floods even then. “Do you want to go to The Yacht Club, TulaneLSU?” he asked. No answer was necessary as I grabbed my commodore hat, which Mother got from Meyer’s for my birthday present the previous year. I quickly changed into Blazer Casual, provided by M. Goldberg’s.
Uncle was, and I believe still is, a member of the Southern Yacht Club and the New Orleans Yacht Club. Whenever he says The Yacht Club, we know he means the SYC. Uncle had not yet taken a shine to me, so invitations like this one were rare. He even let me bring Queen, a beautiful Collie, my first dog, only recently gifted by Grandmother and Grandfather at Christmas.
Arriving at the club, we wasted no time, heading straight for lunch. These were the days when it was socially acceptable to leave your leashed dog tied to a column because no one would dare consider bringing a dog into a store or restaurant. Queen was fine with being left alone.
Lunch at the club’s restaurant was acceptable. The highlight was when our waiter brought a dessert of a delicious brie cheese. Jean Brillat-Savarin, the great French anti-carbohydrate gastronome of two centuries ago said, “A dessert without cheese is a beauty with only one eye.” How right he was and how much I wish more New Orleans restaurants would feature cheese as a dessert item.
The weather was quite pleasant. It was overcast but balmy. The winds blew from behind the club. They were not enough for a spoondrift but a steady ten to fifteen knots. It was good sailing weather. “Let’s take the ol’ girl out,” Uncle suggested.
By ol’ girl, Uncle meant his Bermuda cutter, a fine vessel whose teak I had oiled over the years with gallons upon gallons of Watco teak oil. Her name shall remain anonymous here, but suffice it to say she sliced through the Pontchartrain’s waters like a silver plated Galatoire’s knife through squares of butter warmed by the kinesis and electricity of a Friday lunch.
We walked to the slip, boarded, and cast off the bow and stern lines. Queen had never been on the water and was visibly happy as could be. She ran to the bowsprit and regally postured as our avant-garde. Uncle engaged his 9.9 horsepower kicker engine as we threw a smile and wave to a friend lounging by the club’s pool. On the port were fishermen at The Pernt, lines wet hoping for a late season redfish. Uncle told me it was at The Point that he shared his first kiss with a girl after dinner at the Magazine Compagno’s. “Did Aunt kiss you back?” I asked excitedly. “This wasn't with Aunt.” And I responded, “Despicable. Please stop your story.”
By 3:00, the cloud deck was lowering as the winds were slacking. The water was still confused, chocolate and choppy as only the water of the Pontchartrain can become in such a slight breeze. Uncle was teaching me how to sail when a seagull found its rest on deck.
I had not yet taught Queen the importance of sharing and she could not stand to share this space with any other living creatures. I said to her, “Now what if we end up with this bird in an ark?” She ignored my question and chased and harangued the bird without ceasing. In her defense, the gull just mocked her with caws, gallivanting from point to point on the boat as I sat bemused. Queen followed the bird wherever it flew. I turned to Uncle, expecting to see him smiling, but fear was painted on his face.
This post was edited on 5/4/20 at 8:01 am
12
Posted on 5/3/20 at 5:37 pm to TulaneLSU
The wind was just 5 knots, from the south. “It’s time to return to port. Now.” His stern voice towered over the gentle sloshing of the water against the hull. We were about two miles offshore. We turned and began beating to windward.
Minute by minute, the warmer onshore air was meeting the cooler waters of the lake. The air saturated before our eyes, clouding our vision. Soon, our visibility was no more than ten feet. The gull wanted no part of it. Perhaps suspecting an opening above, it launched from its perch on the boom. Must I write what happened next? I will not, as I suspect you can all infer.
“Queen! Come back!” I cried into the grey void. We circled the area for half an hour. As the fog deepened so too did hope’s grave. Uncle grabbed my shoulders, which held a tear-soaked and broken face. “TulaneLSU, I am sorry, but we must go back now.” I had no strength for defiance, although a thought raced that I too should jump into the December waters to meet Queen again. But I put up no fight.
Darkness was falling and I have never since been more invisible than I was in that fog. The only possible comparison was 1991 in father’s car, as I sat alone for hours. We slowly made our way into harbor. Even as we passed just feet from the New Canal Lighthouse, I cannot recall seeing its light, even dimly. So profound was the fog of sadness and numerous the tears in my eyes. When we docked, Uncle tried to console me, saying he would get me a new dog. He did, and we named him Rex, in honor of Queen.
I never again boarded Uncle’s old sailboat. It gave me a silent pleasure when it was destroyed in Katrina. It meant never again would I have to find excuses for avoiding his sailboat.
Most people have far happier memories of West End. They remember concerts in the park or eating at Metairie’s famed seafood restaurants of East End. The most famous, of course, were Bruning’s (1859-2005) and Fitzgerald’s (1946-1998), which bookended Maggie and Smitty’s Crabnett (1963-1993), where I had my first boiled crab, which I shared with a stray cat. Others to note were Federico's, Augie's De Lago, Kirsch's, Fontana's, Swanson's, Yaeger's, The Dock, and The Bounty.
It is a shame that none of these, except Yaeger’s, survives, and that elsewhere. Some of the most iconic signs in New Orleans history once stood sentinel over this liminal ground. The signs that remain, as you will see, are mostly unimpressive. But even when we are not impressed by their beauty, there is still great profit in examining their very existence.
TulaneLSU’s Top 10 signs of West End:
10. WPA markings throughout West End Park
One thing about which I am dissatisfied with Trump’s nearly blind money giveaway last month was that there was no public work attached to the public money. Not so with the WPA. In the 1930s, the government put people to work, and in the process, left behind gift after gift to multiple generations. New Orleans is one of the great benefactors of this project, with the Audubon Zoo, City Park, Lakefront Airport, Charity Hospital, Tad Gormley Stadium, and Jackson Square being some of the gifts of this national effort.
West End Park is a little known park today, but it was once bustling with parties and concerts. At its heart was the West End Fountain, built by the city in 1918, which is now in disrepair. The city does not seem to think there is any value in this beautiful area. I wish I had stories to share about this park, but I do not. Even before Katrina it was largely neglected. I have never played or danced here until taking these pictures recently. This placard comes from the bridge over the park’s eastern lagoon.
I suspect this three decade long neglect will not last forever. West End Park was first dreamed in 1908 and it came to fruition in 1910 with the construction of a concrete seawall. Jefferson Parish relinquished some of its rights to the newly constructed land, even though some of the land on the eastern side of the 17th Street Canal technically was in Jefferson Parish. The city gained hundreds of acres of land by filling this seawalled zone.
West End Park opened later in the summer of 1910. Roads were built in 1913 and live oaks and crepe myrtles were planted in 1914. It was billed as a “public lakeside resort unequaled in [the] South.” Almost every history of this area indicates that the park was not built until 1921. Those histories are absolutely wrong. I have both source data and the journal of my great, great grandfather, Tally Ho member and lover of this park, to support my case.
Then came the Hurricane of 1915, that generation’s Katrina. It set back the park a few years, but by the early 1920s, concerts and amusements were returning to the area. The Great War was over; it was the Roaring 20’s. The city even began selling lots around the park. Who wouldn’t want to live there?
It was not the first time the area boomed. As far back as the 1830’s the West End area was a booming resort town called Lake End. It went through times of boom and bust, depending on war, the economy and natural disaster. One rebirth began around 1880 when it got its current name, due to the fact that it sits on the western end of Orleans Parish. Reading through the journal of my great, great, great, great grandfather, he actually called it “West Lake End” through the 1880s. For me, it will always be West End, a simple, descriptive, and pleasant name.
The WPA did not build the park. Let me make that clear. The citizens and city of New Orleans built it decades earlier. Nonetheless, the WPA made some fine additions, of which the construction of the Municipal Yacht Harbor was most significant and the extremely steep bridge over the park’s eastern lagoon was the most aesthetically pleasing. I can only assume that the builders built this bridge so high because they envisioned gondolas and sailboats passing beneath it. Walking this area is quite reminiscent of walking some of the lagoons of City Park. Take a look yourself next time you’re out there.
Minute by minute, the warmer onshore air was meeting the cooler waters of the lake. The air saturated before our eyes, clouding our vision. Soon, our visibility was no more than ten feet. The gull wanted no part of it. Perhaps suspecting an opening above, it launched from its perch on the boom. Must I write what happened next? I will not, as I suspect you can all infer.
“Queen! Come back!” I cried into the grey void. We circled the area for half an hour. As the fog deepened so too did hope’s grave. Uncle grabbed my shoulders, which held a tear-soaked and broken face. “TulaneLSU, I am sorry, but we must go back now.” I had no strength for defiance, although a thought raced that I too should jump into the December waters to meet Queen again. But I put up no fight.
Darkness was falling and I have never since been more invisible than I was in that fog. The only possible comparison was 1991 in father’s car, as I sat alone for hours. We slowly made our way into harbor. Even as we passed just feet from the New Canal Lighthouse, I cannot recall seeing its light, even dimly. So profound was the fog of sadness and numerous the tears in my eyes. When we docked, Uncle tried to console me, saying he would get me a new dog. He did, and we named him Rex, in honor of Queen.
I never again boarded Uncle’s old sailboat. It gave me a silent pleasure when it was destroyed in Katrina. It meant never again would I have to find excuses for avoiding his sailboat.
Most people have far happier memories of West End. They remember concerts in the park or eating at Metairie’s famed seafood restaurants of East End. The most famous, of course, were Bruning’s (1859-2005) and Fitzgerald’s (1946-1998), which bookended Maggie and Smitty’s Crabnett (1963-1993), where I had my first boiled crab, which I shared with a stray cat. Others to note were Federico's, Augie's De Lago, Kirsch's, Fontana's, Swanson's, Yaeger's, The Dock, and The Bounty.
It is a shame that none of these, except Yaeger’s, survives, and that elsewhere. Some of the most iconic signs in New Orleans history once stood sentinel over this liminal ground. The signs that remain, as you will see, are mostly unimpressive. But even when we are not impressed by their beauty, there is still great profit in examining their very existence.
TulaneLSU’s Top 10 signs of West End:
10. WPA markings throughout West End Park
One thing about which I am dissatisfied with Trump’s nearly blind money giveaway last month was that there was no public work attached to the public money. Not so with the WPA. In the 1930s, the government put people to work, and in the process, left behind gift after gift to multiple generations. New Orleans is one of the great benefactors of this project, with the Audubon Zoo, City Park, Lakefront Airport, Charity Hospital, Tad Gormley Stadium, and Jackson Square being some of the gifts of this national effort.
West End Park is a little known park today, but it was once bustling with parties and concerts. At its heart was the West End Fountain, built by the city in 1918, which is now in disrepair. The city does not seem to think there is any value in this beautiful area. I wish I had stories to share about this park, but I do not. Even before Katrina it was largely neglected. I have never played or danced here until taking these pictures recently. This placard comes from the bridge over the park’s eastern lagoon.
I suspect this three decade long neglect will not last forever. West End Park was first dreamed in 1908 and it came to fruition in 1910 with the construction of a concrete seawall. Jefferson Parish relinquished some of its rights to the newly constructed land, even though some of the land on the eastern side of the 17th Street Canal technically was in Jefferson Parish. The city gained hundreds of acres of land by filling this seawalled zone.
West End Park opened later in the summer of 1910. Roads were built in 1913 and live oaks and crepe myrtles were planted in 1914. It was billed as a “public lakeside resort unequaled in [the] South.” Almost every history of this area indicates that the park was not built until 1921. Those histories are absolutely wrong. I have both source data and the journal of my great, great grandfather, Tally Ho member and lover of this park, to support my case.
Then came the Hurricane of 1915, that generation’s Katrina. It set back the park a few years, but by the early 1920s, concerts and amusements were returning to the area. The Great War was over; it was the Roaring 20’s. The city even began selling lots around the park. Who wouldn’t want to live there?
It was not the first time the area boomed. As far back as the 1830’s the West End area was a booming resort town called Lake End. It went through times of boom and bust, depending on war, the economy and natural disaster. One rebirth began around 1880 when it got its current name, due to the fact that it sits on the western end of Orleans Parish. Reading through the journal of my great, great, great, great grandfather, he actually called it “West Lake End” through the 1880s. For me, it will always be West End, a simple, descriptive, and pleasant name.
The WPA did not build the park. Let me make that clear. The citizens and city of New Orleans built it decades earlier. Nonetheless, the WPA made some fine additions, of which the construction of the Municipal Yacht Harbor was most significant and the extremely steep bridge over the park’s eastern lagoon was the most aesthetically pleasing. I can only assume that the builders built this bridge so high because they envisioned gondolas and sailboats passing beneath it. Walking this area is quite reminiscent of walking some of the lagoons of City Park. Take a look yourself next time you’re out there.
This post was edited on 5/4/20 at 8:10 am
Posted on 5/3/20 at 5:37 pm to TulaneLSU
9. Landry’s
This sign only means something because it brings to mind Bart’s. The original Bart’s opened in this location as Bart’s Restaurant and Bar in 1946. The restaurant became a local favorite and by the late 1970s hosted lots of outdoor activities, including a lakeshore run. Uncle placed in the top 10 in the 1978 race, winning a super cool mug. While showing it off to me a few years ago, he said, “And when I entered the Port Hole Lounge, they filled it with beer.” I was shocked that he would allow such a poison to touch this thing that was now touching me. In my shock, I dropped the mug, breaking it and his heart in the process, as it was the only running award he ever received. I still feel bad about that incident.
In 1981, not 1976 as Fitzmorris claims, the restaurant burned down. Real estate developers quickly swooped in, hoping to buy the prime land to build a luxury 17 floor condominium building. Locals rejected it and by 1984, Bart’s was open again as Bart’s Lighthouse Inn.
It was during this iteration that Bart’s took on a life of its own. Most locals called it Bart’s on the Lake. I can remember shortly before and after the divorce, father would tie his Viking yacht to the many cigarette boats at its dock. Some time around 1990 it was there that I first met Al Copeland. He was very jovial and kind to me. I always enjoyed the festive atmosphere and the fried crab claws. It was supposed to be an appetizer, but the waitstaff always let me get it in a dinner portion.
I believe Bart’s closed in 1994, making way for Joe’s Crab Shack in 1996. Joe’s did not reopen after Katrina. In its place is now Landry’s Seafood, which opened in 2007. The food at Landry’s is an abomination, although the restaurant affords the best view in the city.
8. SYC nautical flagpole
My family’s affiliation with the Southern Yacht Club goes back six generations. Although I should be a member on tradition alone, I have never received an invitation to join. If any member is reading, please consider putting me up for membership.
The Southern Yacht Club’s history is well documented and honestly, not very interesting to me. Back in the days of yellow fever outbreaks, the rich of New Orleans found their way to the Mississippi coast during the summer months. They either had summer homes that breathed the healthy Gulf air, as my family did, or stayed in one of the many coastal resort hotels. It was similar to what 30A is today, but much more refined.
In 1849, a group of sailing enthusiasts met at the Pass Christian Hotel and formed the Southern Yacht Club. The following year the group began the annual regatta from the lakefront to Pass Christian. This is probably the club’s biggest event, and to win it is quite an honor. No one in my family has ever been a very good sailor nor come close to winning.
The Club is quite protective of its signage, so rather than include a picture of its now miniscule signage -- the Club is far too persnickety and proper to broadcast its name on a building -- I will include its nautical flagpole in the courtyard. I assume the vexillologists of Tigerdroppings will appreciate this picture. It is New Orleans’ finest flagpole, a beautiful cross that calls to mind the powerful hymn, "Eternal Father, Strong to Save."
7. New Orleans Yacht Club
The New Orleans Yacht Club is to the Southern Yacht Club as Endymion is to Comus. Founded in 1949, the NOYC is not nearly as elite nor show its elitism like SYC. Its building is not nearly as impressive -- those tinted semi-sphere plastic or glass windows are an abomination. But I feel like its membership is in it for the right reasons -- to enjoy life on the water.
I can only share two stories about the NOYC. First, a girl invited me to a high school dance at the club. I think she went to St. Martin’s or maybe it was Ben Franklin. I honestly do not remember. We went and the decorations were so poorly done I called Mother to be picked up. Mother refused, telling me, “You have to learn to spend time with girls your age.” She hung up and I spent the rest of the evening repressed by loud and annoying noise. My date tried dancing with me, but I found the time more enjoyable sitting at a table reading my Book of Common Prayer.
As the music wound down, my date suggested that we go to The Point. I can only imagine what she had in mind. Of course, I politely declined the salacious invitation and she returned me to Prytania. I never heard from her again.
My second story comes from September of 2005. It was just weeks after Katrina. Many of Uncle’s friends wanted to know the state of their boats, so he hired me to go to the Lakefront and snap photos. These folk were willing to spend $100 each for the pictures, perhaps for insurance purposes or for state of mind. Either way, I donated the money I received. Of the three major disasters of my life: Katrina, the BP oil spill, and Covid-19, I was eligible for money from government, charities and individuals. Never once did I keep any of it. It saddens me how people who do not need money keep charity intended for those in need.
6. II Tony’s
Anthony Montalbano Sr. and his son, Anthony Jr., opened this restaurant in 1987 on Decatur in the French Quarter before moving to Bucktown in 1993. In the late 2000s, the US Army Corps of Engineers was building one of the largest pumping stations in the world at the mouth of the 17th Street Canal and multiple restaurants stood in its way. Of them Sidmar’s land was the first to be claimed. I do not know exactly why II Tony’s relocated from their Bucktown location, as that land was never reappropriated -- it is where Station 6 sits today. Perhaps it was the real threat that their restaurant might be swallowed by the USACE machine.
Whatever the reason, in 2011, the year after the eldest owner died, II Tony’s moved to its current Pontchartrain Blvd. location. Many of you may remember when this building was a Pizza Inn, which opened in 1977. This franchise introduced the city to all-you-can-eat pizza long before Pizza Hut and Cici’s. For just $1.99 you could do your part to spread the obesity epidemic.
In 1987, this spot became the West End Cafe. It closed in 2004 and the Pontchartrain Point Cafe opened there and survived Katrina before closing in 2010. I remember eating at the West End Cafe a couple of times and enjoying it. At one of those meals we were surprised by a distant cousin who was working there as a waiter. Although I tried the Pontchartrain Point Cafe, I cannot say I enjoyed it. II Tony’s is a capable example of Creole Italian. I am not a big fan of the restaurant’s use of onion in its red sauce nor of the inclusion of calamari on the menu.
5. Water gauge
When you exit the levee on the way to West End Park, you may notice this water gauge on the side of the street, which allows drivers to determine if it is safe to enter. It is a pragmatic sign for residents and visitors who must be pragmatic when visiting this corner of the city that the city has largely abandoned.
This sign only means something because it brings to mind Bart’s. The original Bart’s opened in this location as Bart’s Restaurant and Bar in 1946. The restaurant became a local favorite and by the late 1970s hosted lots of outdoor activities, including a lakeshore run. Uncle placed in the top 10 in the 1978 race, winning a super cool mug. While showing it off to me a few years ago, he said, “And when I entered the Port Hole Lounge, they filled it with beer.” I was shocked that he would allow such a poison to touch this thing that was now touching me. In my shock, I dropped the mug, breaking it and his heart in the process, as it was the only running award he ever received. I still feel bad about that incident.
In 1981, not 1976 as Fitzmorris claims, the restaurant burned down. Real estate developers quickly swooped in, hoping to buy the prime land to build a luxury 17 floor condominium building. Locals rejected it and by 1984, Bart’s was open again as Bart’s Lighthouse Inn.
It was during this iteration that Bart’s took on a life of its own. Most locals called it Bart’s on the Lake. I can remember shortly before and after the divorce, father would tie his Viking yacht to the many cigarette boats at its dock. Some time around 1990 it was there that I first met Al Copeland. He was very jovial and kind to me. I always enjoyed the festive atmosphere and the fried crab claws. It was supposed to be an appetizer, but the waitstaff always let me get it in a dinner portion.
I believe Bart’s closed in 1994, making way for Joe’s Crab Shack in 1996. Joe’s did not reopen after Katrina. In its place is now Landry’s Seafood, which opened in 2007. The food at Landry’s is an abomination, although the restaurant affords the best view in the city.
8. SYC nautical flagpole
My family’s affiliation with the Southern Yacht Club goes back six generations. Although I should be a member on tradition alone, I have never received an invitation to join. If any member is reading, please consider putting me up for membership.
The Southern Yacht Club’s history is well documented and honestly, not very interesting to me. Back in the days of yellow fever outbreaks, the rich of New Orleans found their way to the Mississippi coast during the summer months. They either had summer homes that breathed the healthy Gulf air, as my family did, or stayed in one of the many coastal resort hotels. It was similar to what 30A is today, but much more refined.
In 1849, a group of sailing enthusiasts met at the Pass Christian Hotel and formed the Southern Yacht Club. The following year the group began the annual regatta from the lakefront to Pass Christian. This is probably the club’s biggest event, and to win it is quite an honor. No one in my family has ever been a very good sailor nor come close to winning.
The Club is quite protective of its signage, so rather than include a picture of its now miniscule signage -- the Club is far too persnickety and proper to broadcast its name on a building -- I will include its nautical flagpole in the courtyard. I assume the vexillologists of Tigerdroppings will appreciate this picture. It is New Orleans’ finest flagpole, a beautiful cross that calls to mind the powerful hymn, "Eternal Father, Strong to Save."
7. New Orleans Yacht Club
The New Orleans Yacht Club is to the Southern Yacht Club as Endymion is to Comus. Founded in 1949, the NOYC is not nearly as elite nor show its elitism like SYC. Its building is not nearly as impressive -- those tinted semi-sphere plastic or glass windows are an abomination. But I feel like its membership is in it for the right reasons -- to enjoy life on the water.
I can only share two stories about the NOYC. First, a girl invited me to a high school dance at the club. I think she went to St. Martin’s or maybe it was Ben Franklin. I honestly do not remember. We went and the decorations were so poorly done I called Mother to be picked up. Mother refused, telling me, “You have to learn to spend time with girls your age.” She hung up and I spent the rest of the evening repressed by loud and annoying noise. My date tried dancing with me, but I found the time more enjoyable sitting at a table reading my Book of Common Prayer.
As the music wound down, my date suggested that we go to The Point. I can only imagine what she had in mind. Of course, I politely declined the salacious invitation and she returned me to Prytania. I never heard from her again.
My second story comes from September of 2005. It was just weeks after Katrina. Many of Uncle’s friends wanted to know the state of their boats, so he hired me to go to the Lakefront and snap photos. These folk were willing to spend $100 each for the pictures, perhaps for insurance purposes or for state of mind. Either way, I donated the money I received. Of the three major disasters of my life: Katrina, the BP oil spill, and Covid-19, I was eligible for money from government, charities and individuals. Never once did I keep any of it. It saddens me how people who do not need money keep charity intended for those in need.
6. II Tony’s
Anthony Montalbano Sr. and his son, Anthony Jr., opened this restaurant in 1987 on Decatur in the French Quarter before moving to Bucktown in 1993. In the late 2000s, the US Army Corps of Engineers was building one of the largest pumping stations in the world at the mouth of the 17th Street Canal and multiple restaurants stood in its way. Of them Sidmar’s land was the first to be claimed. I do not know exactly why II Tony’s relocated from their Bucktown location, as that land was never reappropriated -- it is where Station 6 sits today. Perhaps it was the real threat that their restaurant might be swallowed by the USACE machine.
Whatever the reason, in 2011, the year after the eldest owner died, II Tony’s moved to its current Pontchartrain Blvd. location. Many of you may remember when this building was a Pizza Inn, which opened in 1977. This franchise introduced the city to all-you-can-eat pizza long before Pizza Hut and Cici’s. For just $1.99 you could do your part to spread the obesity epidemic.
In 1987, this spot became the West End Cafe. It closed in 2004 and the Pontchartrain Point Cafe opened there and survived Katrina before closing in 2010. I remember eating at the West End Cafe a couple of times and enjoying it. At one of those meals we were surprised by a distant cousin who was working there as a waiter. Although I tried the Pontchartrain Point Cafe, I cannot say I enjoyed it. II Tony’s is a capable example of Creole Italian. I am not a big fan of the restaurant’s use of onion in its red sauce nor of the inclusion of calamari on the menu.
5. Water gauge
When you exit the levee on the way to West End Park, you may notice this water gauge on the side of the street, which allows drivers to determine if it is safe to enter. It is a pragmatic sign for residents and visitors who must be pragmatic when visiting this corner of the city that the city has largely abandoned.
This post was edited on 5/4/20 at 8:16 am
Posted on 5/3/20 at 5:37 pm to TulaneLSU
4. Rose Manor Inn
Next to II Tony’s, this inn or hotel was Albert and Martha Masson’s house from the 1960s until the 90s. Some may remember their restaurant down the street, Masson’s Beach House Restaurant, which replaced Chez Paree, noted to be "one of the best suburban clubs" in the WPA's 1938 New Orleans City Guide. I became quite hungry after reading Masson's menu. In my mind, I started with the fresh lump crabmeat Louis. My salad was asparagus tips colossal. I passed on a soup before settling on broiled buster crabs Maitre d'Hotel. Naturally, I chose the camembert cheese for dessert. All that for just $5.25. No wonder it is no longer there. After Katrina the Masson’s stately home became the Rose Manor. I know nothing about this inn.
3. Schubert’s Marine
Jules Schubert opened his marine repair and supply store back in the early 1960s and it has served the vessels of the Orleans Marina ever since. While father’s boat was at the nearby pumps, loading up with hundreds of gallons of noxious diesel, I would sometimes wander through the dry docks and read the clever names, of which I remember Placebo and Uptown Girl. A kind man by the name of Rawlah or Rolla, I never knew how he spelled it, often talked to me about boats when I ran into him.
2. Keep Out
KEEP OUT signs about the old heart of the West End eating scene serve as the perfect signs for what has happened here. Walking near this elegiac landscape is to walk along a graveyard's border. In that graveyard there rest memories whose tombstones we cannot visit. Will the bones of these islands poking up from the seafloor exist next year? The city seems ready to wipe this cemetery from our face. Keeping us out will keep us from remembering. What a contrast these autocratic, imperious signs are to the welcoming, warm neon signs of decades past.
They say nothing has been rebuilt because insurance makes restaurants here cost prohibitive. That lie is absolutely absurd. I think of Dewey's Destin at the Pass. It operates a large restaurant at sea level less than one mile from the Gulf of Mexico. It is vulnerable to storm surges far higher than ever encountered on the Pontchartrain. I envision a food truck-like kitchen serving an outdoor deck. There is no need for an indoor restaurant. Model it on Dewey's and we could once again eat on the Pontchartrain, as generations before us.
So many memories formed here have been lost, but I hold on to a few. I have memories of Bruning’s, my week with Capt. Mike, and Coconut Beach. Perhaps you will share some of your old West End memories here.
As most of you know, in the late 1990s, I was a star volleyball player for my middle school and I was moving in the direction of a professional volleyball career. My career started at St. George’s, but became serious at Coconut Beach, which opened in 1988. Although I hated how the sand felt on my skin and looked on my clothes, I spent countless hours at Coconut practicing. The alcohol that flowed there and the fact that many people played without wearing shirts bothered me, but my focus was on becoming a joust king.
Coconut Beach was another casualty of the Army Corps’ giant pumps. Once it closed and the leagues went away, one of the few signs of life in post-Katrina West End, disappeared. It briefly appeared near the Copeland Tower on Severn before finding its permanent home in northern Kenner in 2012.
The sign in the second picture, of which we can see its caudal side, reads, “Danger. High Outflow. No Boats Beyond This Point.” It is as if our friend, OweO, typed out the words, superfluously capitalizing each word. I confess that his capitalizing pattern is my fault. When we both posted on the ESPN CFB Top 25 forum, to grab attention to my 2003 LSU argument, I posted in capital letters. OweO, who had not yet learned how to stand out was at first annoyed by my writing pattern. I remember him writing, “Stop trolling and capitalizing all your title words.” Only a decade and a half later did I realize that he adopted some techniques from my teenage years.
1. Russell’s Marina Grill
Russell Cuoco opened this West End breakfast favorite in 1985. It is actually on land reclaimed from the former New Basin Canal. That canal existed from the 1830s to the 1940s. And if you’ve lived in New Orleans long enough, you will have heard an Irish descendant tell you about how many Irish lives were lost during its construction. I fear I have already written more than most of you want to read, so I will stop here. I plan to get a better picture of this classic sign at night soon.
Friends, I feel as though the fog from the novel coronavirus scare is now lifting. Baptism, a second birth, is possible through water and trying times. I pray that the fog of these few months will serve as a symbolic baptism for many and for our world. The Great Lighthouse is not so far away now. I can see it.
Faith, Hope, and Love,
TulaneLSU
Next to II Tony’s, this inn or hotel was Albert and Martha Masson’s house from the 1960s until the 90s. Some may remember their restaurant down the street, Masson’s Beach House Restaurant, which replaced Chez Paree, noted to be "one of the best suburban clubs" in the WPA's 1938 New Orleans City Guide. I became quite hungry after reading Masson's menu. In my mind, I started with the fresh lump crabmeat Louis. My salad was asparagus tips colossal. I passed on a soup before settling on broiled buster crabs Maitre d'Hotel. Naturally, I chose the camembert cheese for dessert. All that for just $5.25. No wonder it is no longer there. After Katrina the Masson’s stately home became the Rose Manor. I know nothing about this inn.
3. Schubert’s Marine
Jules Schubert opened his marine repair and supply store back in the early 1960s and it has served the vessels of the Orleans Marina ever since. While father’s boat was at the nearby pumps, loading up with hundreds of gallons of noxious diesel, I would sometimes wander through the dry docks and read the clever names, of which I remember Placebo and Uptown Girl. A kind man by the name of Rawlah or Rolla, I never knew how he spelled it, often talked to me about boats when I ran into him.
2. Keep Out
KEEP OUT signs about the old heart of the West End eating scene serve as the perfect signs for what has happened here. Walking near this elegiac landscape is to walk along a graveyard's border. In that graveyard there rest memories whose tombstones we cannot visit. Will the bones of these islands poking up from the seafloor exist next year? The city seems ready to wipe this cemetery from our face. Keeping us out will keep us from remembering. What a contrast these autocratic, imperious signs are to the welcoming, warm neon signs of decades past.
They say nothing has been rebuilt because insurance makes restaurants here cost prohibitive. That lie is absolutely absurd. I think of Dewey's Destin at the Pass. It operates a large restaurant at sea level less than one mile from the Gulf of Mexico. It is vulnerable to storm surges far higher than ever encountered on the Pontchartrain. I envision a food truck-like kitchen serving an outdoor deck. There is no need for an indoor restaurant. Model it on Dewey's and we could once again eat on the Pontchartrain, as generations before us.
So many memories formed here have been lost, but I hold on to a few. I have memories of Bruning’s, my week with Capt. Mike, and Coconut Beach. Perhaps you will share some of your old West End memories here.
As most of you know, in the late 1990s, I was a star volleyball player for my middle school and I was moving in the direction of a professional volleyball career. My career started at St. George’s, but became serious at Coconut Beach, which opened in 1988. Although I hated how the sand felt on my skin and looked on my clothes, I spent countless hours at Coconut practicing. The alcohol that flowed there and the fact that many people played without wearing shirts bothered me, but my focus was on becoming a joust king.
Coconut Beach was another casualty of the Army Corps’ giant pumps. Once it closed and the leagues went away, one of the few signs of life in post-Katrina West End, disappeared. It briefly appeared near the Copeland Tower on Severn before finding its permanent home in northern Kenner in 2012.
The sign in the second picture, of which we can see its caudal side, reads, “Danger. High Outflow. No Boats Beyond This Point.” It is as if our friend, OweO, typed out the words, superfluously capitalizing each word. I confess that his capitalizing pattern is my fault. When we both posted on the ESPN CFB Top 25 forum, to grab attention to my 2003 LSU argument, I posted in capital letters. OweO, who had not yet learned how to stand out was at first annoyed by my writing pattern. I remember him writing, “Stop trolling and capitalizing all your title words.” Only a decade and a half later did I realize that he adopted some techniques from my teenage years.
1. Russell’s Marina Grill
Russell Cuoco opened this West End breakfast favorite in 1985. It is actually on land reclaimed from the former New Basin Canal. That canal existed from the 1830s to the 1940s. And if you’ve lived in New Orleans long enough, you will have heard an Irish descendant tell you about how many Irish lives were lost during its construction. I fear I have already written more than most of you want to read, so I will stop here. I plan to get a better picture of this classic sign at night soon.
Friends, I feel as though the fog from the novel coronavirus scare is now lifting. Baptism, a second birth, is possible through water and trying times. I pray that the fog of these few months will serve as a symbolic baptism for many and for our world. The Great Lighthouse is not so far away now. I can see it.
Faith, Hope, and Love,
TulaneLSU
This post was edited on 5/4/20 at 7:49 am
Posted on 5/3/20 at 5:39 pm to TulaneLSU
Never disappoint on the strangeness.
Posted on 5/3/20 at 5:45 pm to TulaneLSU
quote:going to hand paint this on canvas and frame it in my kitchen
Life moves as a ship cutting through a dense fog.
Posted on 5/3/20 at 5:49 pm to TulaneLSU
Oh,TulaneLSU, my heart breaks at the loss of your beloved pet.
Posted on 5/3/20 at 5:49 pm to TulaneLSU
This is a proper TulaneLSU thread.
Posted on 5/3/20 at 5:55 pm to TulaneLSU
Still no post about the archdiocese of New Orleans filing bankruptcy??
Posted on 5/3/20 at 5:56 pm to lynxcat
quote:what’s strange about this thread? I’ve learned so much more about the New Orleans than ever before and it’s all thanks to TulaneLSU
Never disappoint on the strangeness.
Posted on 5/3/20 at 6:07 pm to TulaneLSU
quote:
. My date tried dancing with me, but I found the time more enjoyable sitting at a table reading my Book of Common Prayer.
Bravo
Posted on 5/3/20 at 6:07 pm to TulaneLSU
Dbeck's top 3 list of posters to downvote:
1) Oweo
2) TulaneLSU
3) Davidthegnome
1) Oweo
2) TulaneLSU
3) Davidthegnome
Posted on 5/3/20 at 6:09 pm to TulaneLSU
quote:
, “And when I entered the Port Hole Lounge, they filled it with beer.” I was shocked that he would allow such a poison to touch this thing that was now touching me. In my shock, I dropped the mug, breaking it and his heart in the process
Also bravo
Posted on 5/3/20 at 6:12 pm to TulaneLSU
quote:
Uncle told me it was at The Point that he shared his first kiss with a girl after dinner at the Magazine Compagno’s. “Was that Aunt?” I asked excitedly. “No.” And I responded, “Despicable. Please stop your story.”
The third laugh
Posted on 5/3/20 at 6:17 pm to TulaneLSU
quote:
The New Orleans Yacht Club is to the Southern Yacht Club as Comus is to Endymion.
Good thing this isn't the SAT!
Posted on 5/3/20 at 6:20 pm to TulaneLSU
This is quality. Great work.
Posted on 5/3/20 at 6:20 pm to TulaneLSU
quote:Wow, you and I are almost the same age. I assumed you were much older based on your posts. We were neighbors at Tulane and Loyola.
New Year’s Eve of 1995 when this story takes place? I was around ten years old.
Posted on 5/3/20 at 6:25 pm to TulaneLSU
Do you have a blog? I feel like these posts are wasted on the morons of the OT.
Posted on 5/3/20 at 6:26 pm to TulaneLSU
Friend. Why did you choose to place Tulane in front of LSU in your username and not the other way around?
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