Sculpting the Blues

Back in 2003 my buddy Jason, his best friend Eric, and I took a three week road trip that culminated in New Orleans for the Jazz fest. It was a trip I will never forget and truly cemented my friendship with these two fine fellows. All three of us were at crossroads in our lives; for me a promising start to my professional career, for Eric probably his last hurrah as a single man, and for Jason who was fresh from a divorce, his life was in a sense beginning again. We all relished the opportunity to travel across the country without expectations, without any real responsibility, and with an openness to happenstance. All three of us are foodies. We each love food and we all love discovering eclectic eateries, and experimenting with the culinary montage. It was Eric who turned me on to Chowhound, a great site on the web for sharing the best places for great eats. It was eating and discovering good restaurants that was the guiding force behind our trip. Of course we were headed to New Orleans for the music and the revelry that draws many of us back to that great city. Each of us had been there before, both Eric and Jason for previous Jazz festivals, myself for conferences and a Mardi Gras years prior. But along the way we were eager to discover new restaurants, share with each other places we knew, and partake in a gastronomic odyssey.
Over the next few weeks I plan to share some of those places we visited and the stories that came with those incredible meals. There were some incredible coincidences that I'd like to share too. Look for future postings: Patting Papa's Head and Hair of the Goat...
But this morning I'd like to share with you one of the great moments of wonderment that occurred on the trip. Like my last post (Sacred Mud), this plate of shrimp was served up in the Southwest. We had spent nearly two weeks traveling to New Orleans where we spent a solid four days in that city. We had eaten many incredible meals, met and reveled with amazing folks, and heard a tremendous array of music. The final act we heard was the legendary Buddy Guy. I remember walking to Liuzza's for our last bloody Mary when a large white Cadillac rolled by with Buddy Guy sandwiched between two big haired ladies. It was a classic scene, one I will always remember. Traveling southwest after the Jazzfest, took us through Texas and into New Mexico. We had an incredible Texmex breakfast at Cisco's in Austin, where we ate migas and chorizo omelets. Then we happened upon the Cattleman's steakhouse outside of El Paso, where we ate steaks bigger than our heads surrounded by rich Mexican business men in ten gallon hats. In Santa Fe we stayed with my old friend Michelle and ended up at the El Farol, one of the oldest bars in that area. Michelle was living in this incredible villa at the time. It was an older pueblo styled house with huge raw beams and and terracotta tiled floors. Michelle is a character; an artist from Caracas Venezuela, she grew up in New York City. She is a culinary student in Thailand now and she never fails to surprise me with her zest for life and beauty. At the time she was seeing a fellow named Kareem who owned a rug store in the downtown plaza of Santa Fe. The two of them took us to El Farol which was packed with young hippsters. We all piled into Kareem's van and I remember sitting on rolled rugs in the back as we bounced through the night along the narrow streets near downtown. It was impossible to find a seat in the bar until Michelle and I squeezed into a booth with an older couple who both were wearing dark sunglasses. The man looked a lot like Samual Jackson and at first I was sure it was him. The woman had dark hair and was slightly built, reminded me of the actress from the Matrix. There was blues band just ripping the place up and it was loud. I was sitting closest to the woman when she leaned into my ear and yelled, "I think you are sitting on my beer." At that moment it struck me that they were wearing dark sun glasses because they were blind. I slid the beer into her hands and we began to have a conversation over the roar of the music and buzz of the place. She told me how she loved the blues and was in love with a guitarist who lived in Louisiana. I told her that my friends and and that we were on our way back from the jazz festival. In fact, I said, "we actually got to see Buddy Guy."
"That is an interesting coincidence," she said.
"I am flying up to Chicago next week to sculpt his face."
As it turned out she was an artist who was working on series of busts celebrating great blues musicians. She gave me her card, which happened to be in braille, but I have to admit I have never followed up on contacting her. We ended up dancing and she was unbelievably perceptive and graceful in that mass of spinning bodies. She'd twirl away from me, only to find my hands and giggle in the milieus of deep harmonica and gravelly soul. At one point she grabbed the harmonica player by his suspenders and the three of us were interlinked in a long groove of sweat and sound. It was an evening that I will never forget. A true, cosmic plate of shrimp, that make the dance of being, a real joy.... true wonderment.