17-Year Wait for a Roast Beef Sandwich
Last week, I wrote about bucket lists and how shocked I am when people don’t have them. Today I had breakfast at Mother’s in New Orleans, a famous diner known for their baked ham. After eating a ham omelette, a pancake, and the fluffiest, biggest biscuit I’ve ever had—I chatted with the owner, Joe, who told me about a roast beef sandwich and a veteran with a bucket list.
During our conversation, he talked about how important it is for a restaurant to keep their food consistent so people get the same experience every time they come. And that’s when he told me about a guy in the military who had eaten at Mother’s when he was a young man and had the “best roast beef sandwich he’d ever had.” Then, 17 years later, he had it again and thought it tasted exactly, deliciously the same. Having one more of those sandwiches before he died was on that veteran’s bucket list, and Joe was happy to have made it happen.
Although Mother’s was established in the 1930s, Joe’s family took over ownership in the 1980s and he’s there on the daily. Despite a stream of customers coming and going as we spoke, Joe kept chatting while greeting folks and passing out menus. I asked why he didn’t hang art in all the rooms, and he told me it was too hard with brick walls. He talked about being a butcher, and I said my grandfather had also been a butcher back in the day. Joe said he used to feature his butchering on social media, but then drew the line when someone asked him to butcher a cow and record it. He thought that was simply too much, and I admired his integrity.
Once I move back to California (see prior blog, 4/3/26), I will certainly miss the kind of small talk I had with Joe; it’s something I adore about the South—connecting not because you have to but because you want to. Because taking the time and energy to share stories with another human being in the present is what makes life worth living. Another thing I will miss is having New Orleans so close—a city that offers the most benign or the most wild experiences, depending on your preferences.
Yesterday was Easter, and my brother, his husband, and I went to a drag brunch in NOLA instead of going to church, as I sometimes do on Easter. If you’ve never been to a drag brunch or don’t know what one is, it’s basically brunch with drag queens providing song and dance numbers while you eat. It’s a lot of fun—they have amazing outfits, lip-sync to popular hits from days gone by, and do a number of stunts in high heels, like the splits or somersaults on the floor. You show them love by enthusiastically throwing dollar bills at them.
We also went to a gay bar with a balcony to watch the gay Easter parade along Bourbon Street. Although my brother opted to stay outside with friends, my brother-in-law and I instead decided to be the first ones on the dance floor. They had a good DJ, and eventually others joined us. I got my picture taken with a guy who had one of the most creative outfits I have ever seen—bunny ears, a ski mask, pumps, and what looked kind of like a mix between briefs and a mini skirt—all in pink. He also had plastic gemstones stuck to his entire torso. It was fetching.
Like the owner of Mother’s, I also admired this young, smooth-skinned bunny rabbit. I’m always in awe of a person with great fashion sense who can put together such a unique look. Honestly, my mother was like that—wearing eye-catching things like purple cowboy boots or necklaces made of chunks of glass, wrapped in copper wire, strung on a little silk rope. Always dressed to the nines! Unfortunately, I take after my dad in this way and make comfort my first priority, which is why I’m no fashion plate. If it has the feel of pajamas (but is not actually pajamas), that’s the outfit for me.
Photo credit: Susan Mah