Verita Thompson and friends at Molly's Bar

and the Pursuit of Libations

Class and monetary distinctions abound in New Orleans, despite its laissez faire attitude; the Plantation Mentality perpetuates the disparity between the have and the have-nots. That is… until you enter your neighborhood bar. In these hallowed halls democracy is played out for all its worth. Recently, one such evening of camaraderie was in full swing by six.
Sandwiched between the plush of Royal Street and the prurience of Bourbon Street, happy hour is roaring at Molly’s on Toulouse. Dave Brubeck is pounding out “Blue Rondo A La Turk” via the jukebox as Uncle Louie enters. Still dressed in his red, white, and blue with matching top hat this towering genteel mime graciously receives greetings generally reserved for dignitaries. Louie joins fellow mime Congressman Willie Bojangles, a diminutive octogenarian, sporting a wide brimmed velvet sombrero sprouting flowers and ribbons, for a glass of wine. It’s wine tasting night and Brie and crackers are being served. And, as if on cue, in runs Ginger a yellow Lab and her side kick Rosie, a terrier mix (actually more of a short legged rump roast) – both regulars.
Up and down the bar all walks of life are represented: a newspaper editor, art dealers, gallery gals with their pointy-toed heels kicked off, waiters (some off-duty, some AWOL), a doctor, a lawyer, an Indian Chief. Well, maybe no Indian Chiefs but a guy in cowboy boots is shooting pool with wife/husband team, MaryAnn and Luther, retired banker and law professor respectively, who are hands-down the best dressed pool sharks around.
Back at the bar, our hostess, Polly, is pouring and explaining the finer points of tonight’s featured wine: “This Merlot stands up nicely to a bag of Zapps, but make that Mesquite Zapps.” Verita Thompson, Humphrey Bogart’s old flame is holding court with a certain columnist. Verita in her Channel suits and perfect little hats looks the role of the grand dame but with a mouth on her that will take the wind out of any Bourbon street hustler’s sail. God help the hapless fool who tries to get one over this lady.
Being this close to Bourbon the occasional riffraff will slip in for a bit of the action. A loosely guarded handbag or a tip left lingering too long will attract the illicit entrepreneur. This seems to be the case now. A quiet warning has been issued and the ripple effect of nervously clutched backpacks, Gucci bags and men reassuringly patting their wallets occurs without conversations losing a single beat. Next, a bit of Brie (but not too much, as an unpretentious cabernet still awaits us) is deftly spilled onto the crotch of the fellow whose interest has been unduly focused upon a woman’s purse. Ginger quickly diverts the man’s interest away from the purse by fetching the cheese (and a wee bit of fabric) from his trousers. This unwelcome guest flees with manhood still intact and not so much as a goodbye. “Some folks just don’t appreciate the nuances of a wine tasting”, quips Polly.
Back at the pool table MaryAnn and Luther are dueling with a German couple. And dodging those renegade pool sticks a foot or so away is the “round table”— not quite Algonquin; nonetheless a lively discussion is audibly vying with John Coltrane and plotting the overthrow of the status quo and other such annoyances. Towards the back, video poker is rewarding very few and draining one poor soul of his hard-earned. Meanwhile, at the bar, a marriage proposal is in progress.
Eight O’clock now, and shift change has begun; champagne, courtesy of the newly engaged couple from Wichita, is being polished off. Polly’s crowd slowly gathers their smokes, briefcases, backpack and dogs. Tabs are paid, tips laid out, and arguments at the round table are winding up, as friends, new and old, plot to meet again same time same place. “See ya Polly.”
And behind the bar the next hostess prepares for her evening. At the door is the changing of the guard. As happy hour folks drift out onto Toulouse the next shift of regulars drift in to take their places and begin another chapter in French Quarter democracy.
Debbie Lindsey