My friend and broker, David Malone, suggested I swing by a restaurant named Mandina’s for lunch. To be honest, I really wanted to eat at that great New Orleans cliche, Mother’s, but the line was (as usual) out the door. So Mrs. Murphy and I headed up Canal for lunch at Mandina’s.

I thought about giving "carriage rides" to raise gas money.

I was skeptical as we parked the car. The place is hot pink. Pink is not an appetizing color. Pink is a color one wants to see after a big meal, not before. Still, David had promised a good Po-boy at Mandina’s, so we took the plunge and went in.

Air conditioned, yes indeed.

New Orleans sweltered today like a hot, wet washcloth on my face. The air conditioning of Mandina’s hit me with an icy blast and I ordered giant iced teas to sip while we plotted our route to Mobile.

That's one really pink restaurant.

Our waitress, Mary, came by and took our order. Mary’s hair, demeanor, and eye shadow are perfect for her profession. She’s a very kind person, sensitive to the customer, but one also gets the impression that she could whack you upside the head with a frying pan before you knew what hit you. Mental note: don’t cross Mary.

The perfect New Orleans Po-boy and turtle soup.

I’ll admit, I was not feeling chatty. It was probably the heat. Or maybe I was still nervous about the Brougham. To be honest, Priestess Miriam unnerved me a little. How did she know that Heavy Jones liked cigars? What was with that exploding car tire on the guy that had driven by right as Priestess Miriam had devoodoofied the car?

Mary and her Pontiac

Mrs. Murphy, however, can always be counted upon to chat with vigor, so she engaged Mary. We ordered shrimp and oyster Po-Boys and more turtle soup (why not?).

Dessert and coffee were on Mary--what a sweetheart.

Lunch arrived and the Po-boys were the best I’ve ever tasted. Really. The perfect bread was completely French (very flakey). The crispy fried batter on the shrimp and oysters gave way to tender seafood beneath. And the fully-dressed ‘boy was shredded for easy eating. A hearty douse of Crystal hot sauce made it the perfect moment of lunch.

The wonderful thing about New Orleans is no matter how much you eat at any given meal or drink at any given bar, there’s always someone nearby eating or drinking more. As I devoured my Po-boy, I noticed a table full of women eating what appeared to be the contents of the entire Mississippi Delta. Great heaps of fried food filled their table. Really. I could only see one of the women from the neck up. The rest was a mountain of shrimp. “I couldn’t possibly eat all this,” the woman said to Mary. Our waitress just nodded and refilled the lady’s ice tea. Thirty minutes later, there wasn’t a shrimp in sight.

Mary, as it turns out, isn’t just the most famous waitress in New Orleans. She’s also a Katrina survivor. So is her Pontiac–it was filled with water past the tops of the doors. That didn’t stop Mary, though. She’s brought the old girl back to life. We talked cars for a while and you can tell Mary knows her Hurst shifters and exhaust systems. She drives her baby to work, too.

Maybe if you’ve lived through a disaster like Katrina, you know life is too short to drive some oversized toaster oven to work.

Katrina survivors.

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Ahh, blissful sleep. Mrs. Murphy and I (finally) had a moment to sleep late and enjoy the sweet summer slumber of a New Orleans morning. With one last cup of cafe au lait, we headed out to practice a little New Orleans magic on the Brougham.

Magic?

Welcome to the Voodoo Spiritual Temple (and car repair center)

Yes, indeed. If you’ve been following the blog regularly, you know that I’ve encountered some, er, mechanical difficulties. Now, some of those difficulties were my fault. The burned-up coil in West Virginia. That was me. The fried coil in Wisconsin. Also me. I take full responsibility.

Some of the difficulties I’ve encountered along the way have to do with our modern gasoline. The plugged fuel filters and carburetors in Sicklerville, New Jersey. The gas gauge and low fuel light giving up the ghost in Nebraska, for instance. Old cars do not like gas with alcohol.

Yet some of our problems just seemed . . . well, very strange. The wheel coming apart in Boston and the generator dying (not once, but twice) in Texas and then again in Idaho. These are not your run-of-the-mill problems. Of course, I’m pushing this Brougham. If something is going to break–it’s going to break here, on this trip. Most collectors, who maybe drive their cars once or twice a month, would never encounter metal fatigue.

Some magic couldn't hurt.

But just to be on the safe side, I decided to call in some professional help. Now I’m not talking mechanics. I’ve used the best and brightest auto mechanics in this country. I’ve been to specialists of every sort: engine mechanics, electrical engineers, restoration enthusiasts, and historical preservationists. More knowledgeable Brougham people have touched this car than perhaps any other Brougham in the history of Cadillac motordom. And that’s a fact.

But hey, we’re in New Orleans. And this town has some specialists of another variety. Which is why I payed a visit to Priestess Miriam.

Getting the spirits to be at rest.

Priestess Miriam owns the Voodoo Spiritual Temple and “cultural center” in New Orleans. If you need some major voodoo mojo, she’s your gal. So Mrs. Murphy and I went to her lair on the edge of the French Quarter.

While Mrs. Murphy browsed for incense, prayer beads, and voodoo stick figures, I talked to Priestess Miriam. I explained Heavy’s ailments. I told her about my road trip. I carefully painted a picture of Heavy, emphasizing the mysterious.

Smoking out the devil.

She told me I needed a mechanic.

After some cajoling, I managed the get the priestess to look at Heavy. That did the trick. She is an enchanting pile of metal. Priestess Miriam asked me some questions about Heavy. How long I’ve owned her. What symptoms did she have? Any signs of unclean spirits?

The ingredient room.

Then Priestess Miriam talked to the car. She mumbled about and chanted and sang a little song. She lit what appeared to be a giant doobie and waved it about. While it didn’t exactly stink, it didn’t smell to great, either. As for her chants, I didn’t catch any of what she said, but it sounded impressive. After her initial visit, she motioned for me to go back with her into her room of ingredients. I’m sure it has a better name than “room of ingredients,” but I’ve never seen so many lotions and potions in my life. Scads of them.

The room of requirement.

She busied herself combining the ingredients in a frying pan, which she set fire to and began to walk around Heavy with the pan. More muttering, chanting, and incantations ensued. Smoke is an integral part of voodoo magic, evidently.

Telling Heavy to calm down.

Priestess Miriam came back into the shop and shook her head. “There was something in that car for sure. It’s gone now, but I will make you a protective satchel just in case.” With that, she pulled out a small leather pouch and began to furiously fill it with dragon’s blood, basil, salt, pepper, and Worcestershire Sauce (for all I knew). As she was filling the bag, she began telling me about the original owner, “He loved this car and wants to know that it’s being taken care of. You need to regularly put some whiskey and cigars into Heavy as an offering.”

Blessing the tailfin.

Suddenly, out on the street, there was a huge bang. It sounded as if someone fired a shot. Mrs. Murphy came running in and said, “A black car just drove by and the precise moment that it passed Heavy, it’s front tire blew out.”

The new recipient of Heavy's unclean spirits.

Hmm. Maybe the bad mojo had left the car. I “donated” $50 to Princess Miriam for her time, stuffed the bag of ingredients into the passenger ashtray, and Amy and I headed out for lunch.

The best $50 I've spent the whole trip.

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Astute readers may have noticed that Mrs. Murphy has not made an appearance in the blog since New York. And back there, she wisely only rode in the Brougham for about 30 miles.

Mrs. Murphy behind the wheel of a 1955 Cadillac.

Having known me for 11 years, Mrs. Murphy understands my passion for old cars. Granted, she is a former New Yorker, which means that when we were married, she could only identify cars by color. “That’s a red one!” “That’s a blue one!” But over the past few years, Mrs. Murphy has learned that the first 1,000 miles of a “new” vintage car aren’t ideal for trouble-free travel. 

Jennifer and Mrs. Murphy--good friends meet in NOLA.

In the Brougham’s case, being a far more complicated machine, perhaps the first 10,000 miles aren’t the best. Truly, I’ve been running the bugs out of the old girl. I’m hoping for a trouble-free ride with Mrs. M.

I tease my wife that her first car was a Checker cab–but really, that’s not far from the truth. “Some people are meant to be driven,” Mrs. Murphy is fond of saying. This works out well in our marriage, since I like to drive. I’ve watched Mrs. Murphy drive a car exactly three times in 11 years. 

Can you name this Cadillac's model and year?

How about this one? Mrs. Murphy knows the difference.

After eight years of marriage, however, Mrs. Murphy is now something of a car buff. At a recent car show, I heard her seriously intone, “I prefer the 1962 Cadillac over the 1961, due to the integrated turn signals and the addition of the side cornering lights.”

You could have pushed me over with a sun visor. 

We’ve owned 19 Cadillacs in our marriage together, which is probably a record for any opera singer.

Mrs. Murphy's favorite Cadillac

Oh, did I mention Mrs. Murphy is a famous soprano? We met singing with Skitch Henderson and the New York Pops at Carnegie Hall. I love to brag that I was a principal and Mrs. Murphy was in the chorus. In truth, however, this fact merely illustrates her humility and the lack of men singing light opera in today’s world. I stink. Mrs. Murphy is a world-class singer.

World class? Really? Yes. In fact, her absence during this two-month period is due to the fact that she again returned to Carnegie Hall in May, then taught a two-week workshop for Red Mountain Theatre Company, then instructed 120 students ranging from eight to 80, was called by two Broadway producers to conduct emergency coaching sessions for out-of-whack stars, and finally jetted off to Vienna, Austria to sing a humongous solo for the 200th anniversary of Haydn’s death in the Konzerthaus (which is German for “opry shack”).

Mrs. Murphy last week in Vienna.

Having been on the road since May 6th, I was ready to see my bride. I jumped into the Brougham and made tracks back to the airport. Happily, all systems were “go” for launch, and I made quick time to Louis Armstrong International.

A standing ovation from the Austrians.

The Brougham is running so smoothly and so quietly that at stoplights I often wonder if the car is even on. When not confounded by the assorted leaking tire or polluted gas tank, I am very pleased with Cadillac’s most significant postwar car.

Mrs. Murphy’s flight came in right on time (thanks, Southwest) and we proceeded, posthaste, to Cafe du Monde. A tourist trap, you say? Perhaps. But I love the place. It’s the shop where I learned to love coffee and big, tasty beignets. Plus it has the best people-watching views in New Orleans.

Cafe au lait and beignets at Cafe du Monde

From Cafe du Monde, we met our host, Jennifer, at Commander’s Palace. Commander’s is a fabulous restaurant. I started with the turtle soup, and to be honest, it was so delicious that I forgot nearly everything else I ate that afternoon. Our waitress, Mary, is everything a great waiter should be: engaging, knowledgeable, and eager to make sure your time at Commander’s is a good one. No wonder the Brennan sisters sit at Mary’s table every Saturday. 

Mary--a car buff and excellent waitress.

Plus, Mary knows cars. Her first? A 1985 Cadillac Sedan DeVille.

In the kitchen with Commander's Chef Tory.

After a huge meal of grand dishes at Commander’s, we rolled out to the Cadillac and waddled back to the Garden District for a nap. Rested, we immediately thought upon awakening, what’s for dinner? This is New Orleans, after all. Food is everything. Well, almost everything.

Jennifer and Ryan at Mr. B's. Bibs? What bibs?

We met Jennifer’s beau, Ryan, for dinner at Mr. B.’s, which was also delicious. I had the shrimp and grits and Mrs. Murphy enjoyed Mr. B.’s famous barbecue shrimp dish. Note: one wears a bib to eat Barbecue Shrimp, so we all donned our special napkins for the event.

Why wear a bib to eat BBQ Shrimp? Check out that sauce.

New Orleans is one of those towns where I wished my appendix worked. I’d store a few meals for later. I drifted off to sleep with dreams of turtle soup and fantastic oysters.

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