Soul of New Orleans

by Mark Moseley

Not to put on airs, but in the mid-90’s I lived in an apartment in Kenner, Louisiana. “America’s City,” as Kenner touts itself, is a lusterless suburb that enjoys its proximity to New Orleans on a very selective basis. Nonetheless, I’d decided to settle there to create an innovative “sports information service.” You see, I had a system to pick winners in college football and was sure my inevitable success would soon have Gulf Coast bettors paying for my picks.

The Kennerites at the business permit office – located down the road from the casino– did not appreciate my commercial vision. They deemed my plans as too gambling-adjacent. And I had just received their letter denying my license application.

So it was time to regroup and look for stable employment. At least until the world caught up to me. The newspaper classifieds provided some options. One particular listing was vague on skill requirements but promised considerable upside. Well, then! I called the number and a very hurried person asked me two brief questions and told me to interview at the following address. I didn’t have a pen handy so I just memorized it because I didn’t want to ask them to repeat the location. That would’ve sounded unprepared. Plus, I have great recall. Off the top of my head I can tell you that Wisconsin covered the spread in the Copper Bowl by three touchdowns. Surely any business could use a generalist with a crisp memory like mine.

Early the next morning, a Friday, I dressed smart and drove off with a confident mien. I chuckled at the circumstances and thought about doors closing and windows opening. This new career doesn’t know what’s in store for it.

But I wasn’t familiar with the particular side street they’d given me. It was in a light-industrial area much closer to the airport than expected. Like, near the runway close. Rows of flex-space warehouses lined the street and they all looked similar. 

I had assumed the destination would be obvious. But now I second-guessed everything, even the address number I memorized. Was it 3120 or 2130?

It was almost 8am, interview time, and none of these buildings looked right. I was circling in confusion between Mr. Binky’s and Moisant Stock Yards. Then I saw a business surrounded by parked cars. The lights were on and it brimmed with morning activity.

This has to be it. Silly me, the number must’ve been 2310. I almost missed this interview, but here I am right on time. Just goes to show you can’t keep a good man down.

I took a moment to regenerate my confidence because that’s the key to any interview. Then I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and strode through the door like I owned the place.

Yikes. The front office was very dated, with cheap wood paneling and worn shag carpet. The waiting area had two vinyl chairs and both were empty. Even the receptionist looked like she was an aunt from a family reunion held in the seventies.

Unfazed, I maintained my opportunistic mindset. The other applicants aren’t even here yet– I’m already a heavy favorite!

The receptionist-aunt asked if she could help me. “I’m here for the job,” I declared, pitch-perfectly. And I really nailed it, too; cheery, matter of fact, yet assumptive. She paused, apparently to admire my announcement, and told me to have a seat.

I’ve already got this job in the palm of my hand. It’s basically a formality at this point. Just a matter of whether they can meet my salary requirements, which I’m sure they can, but perhaps I’ll negotiate hard to make them sweat.

I still wasn’t clear on the nature of this business, though. Something was happening in back, but I couldn’t hear any machinery or hydraulics. What the hell industry is this? Logistics, possibly? The photos on the wall offered no clues, nor did the magazines on the coffee table. And I didn’t see an available office desk that I’d be using for my sales calls. It was puzzling.

The receptionist had gone back by the grey filing cabinets and I figured she would fetch my paperwork. Instead, she went all the way to the far door and yelled for Bruce.

A burly, imposing man immediately emerged from the warehouse. Faded plaid shirt, jeans, robust belly, and decisive physicality— this was definitely a Bruce. I could tell he was the owner and had been for a while. 

“He says he wants a job,” the aunt-receptionist whispered loudly to Bruce.

Uh oh. Why did she say ‘A’ job? Why didn’t she say ‘THE’ job?

Bruce repeated, “He wants a job?” Then they both turned to assess me from across the office. 

I feigned preoccupation. My goodness, doesn’t this Field & Stream look amazing? And it says autumn is the time for big bass – super cool!  

But deep down I knew I had gone to the wrong address. That was, as we say in the biz, a lock.

Bruce was approaching. Decision time: Should I politely explain myself and leave? 

Ah hell, confidence brought me this far, let’s see where it leads.

We shook hands and exchanged names. Bruce was direct: “I have a job if you want one. Let me show you in back.”

We went past the file cabinets to the back door. Bruce swung it open and held it.

I entered a bright white warehouse room with lots of tables and workers. It was unexpectedly sterile and very cold!

Bruce was a boss who talked while he walked. "So you want to learn the butcher business, do ya?"

We were passing rows of stainless steel tables with white poly top, manned by cutters in white coats and blue hairnets. Their knives quietly maneuvered through animal tissue at top speed. I noticed how their arms were all in furious motion but the rest of their bodies looked relaxed, perhaps even bored.

The cutters would subtly glance at us as we passed. Bruce explained about the pork and poultry they handle, and how they portion out the cuts and individually-wrap them for restaurant use. But my internal dialogue overtalked him.

What did I just get into? I don’t have knife skills! Not like these guys. It would take me years to get that clever. And even if I did, it’s freezing in here. I don’t want to be on my feet in a cold room all day.

My burly guide pointed out other stations and packing areas. But I was absorbed by the cutter next to me carving out equal-sized duck breasts one after another. He fixed them so fast it looked like a special effect. Same for the other table where the pork fell into chops like books on a shelf. The skillful consistency was other-worldly. I wondered how I could possibly succeed in this milieu. 

Bruce clarified how it would go: “You can ride with Soul today on his delivery route. Afterwards, if you think this is for you, we can talk about next week.”

The refrigerated box truck waited at the loading dock, fully packed. Its compact cabin hummed with anticipation. I went around and hopped in the passenger side. Soul, the driver, slid behind the wheel. He looked at me and a grin spread across his face. "Ready to see the city, my friend?" His voice had a playful lilt. We heard the truck door fasten behind us and a double knock meant we were clear to go. 

Driving on I-10, the traffic was loose and we were moving well. Soul liked the windows partly down and the radio on R&B. I relaxed and felt better. Okay, now this I can do!

As we cruised along, Soul took on the role of mentor, explaining the intricacies of meat delivery. "It's all packed in order for the route," he said, pointing behind us. "Gotta keep to the schedule, or the chefs’ll have our heads." He chuckled for a bit and I tried to imagine myself in this role; navigating through the city's hidden arteries, delivering culinary lifeblood.

Soul said he lived in New Orleans over by St. Roch but added we wouldn’t be going that far. It wasn’t on the route, he repeated. Then he asked me where I stayed and I told him at an apartment in Kenner. He nodded, unsurprised.

Threading the cemeteries, we climbed the overpass and the morning skyline unveiled. The downtown silhouette was dark violet but appeared more welcoming than usual - almost expectant.

We took the Vieux Carre exit and descended into it. There were other delivery trucks on the tight streets and Soul navigated around them. Naturally, various absurd obstacles would appear out of nowhere: morning stumblers, craterous potholes, closed streets. Soul would just swerve and improvise. If needed, he’d beep the horn perfunctorily. 

We pulled up to a nondescript back entrance and Soul jumped out and showed me how to sequence the boxes on the hand truck. I followed him to the door and noticed the makeshift wood ramp covering the step. We maneuvered inside and - bam! - the rich smell of beef stock hit me like a wave. The kitchen air was impossibly savory. But I had to stay alert, things were moving fast. The restaurant kitchen was a tightly choreographed ballet of sous chefs preparing for lunch service. Their movements were brisk and their verbal back-and-forth was relentless. 

A woman with blonde hair pulled into a bun meticulously checked the delivery, reconciling the various delivery boxes with her list. Soul, ever the showman, didn't miss a beat. "Morning, Love!" he greeted, his voice a warm tenor in the bustling kitchen. Then he started singing her a personalized serenade. "Ann has her choice of any maaan…" I looked around and no one indicated this was unusual. “She is the queen of the scene and so beautiful…” Soul’s melody filled the tight space. Ann checked the last box and permitted a half-smile. Then I realized where we were: Peristyle! I was shocked, this was the hottest restaurant in the city! And I was standing in the kitchen next to the chef and owner, who everyone raved about. I kept on task moving boxes into cold storage, but inside I was starstruck.

We continued our route, but I couldn’t believe I’d just delivered meat and poultry to one of the top restaurants in New Orleans. The truck's tires were bouncing over uneven cobblestones, past overflowing trash bins and puddles of stale urine. But my nose was insulated with glorious beef dew, and I was catching views of lush private courtyards. The morning light brought the Creole townhouse colors to life and it all seemed increasingly vibrant and good. Plus, I'd become more familiar with elements of the delivery routine. Load the boxes on the hand truck in order, follow Soul’s lead, and don’t leave the truck door unlocked again.

Each stop was a portal into a different world, a backstage pass to the city's culinary heart. And we were essential to its beat -- or at least that’s how I felt when I wheeled through the back entrance with a stack of goods. We’d go to the cold storage while the kitchen workers were in high gear: pans sizzling, trays going in ovens, and orders shouted across the din. One time a chef ran up to us and cut open a box to grab a handful of pork chops he needed right away. Soul smoothly dealt with it all, his infectious energy and flirty songs weaving moments of levity into the hectic environment.

At Tujague's, the servers hailed Soul like a long-lost brother, and continued an ongoing Saints conversation that inched along each day. My presence piqued their curiosity. "Who's the new guy?" they asked, flicking their cigarettes. Their eyes twinkled with amusement. Soul introduced me with a flourish as his trusted assistant. Sure, he got my name wrong but that was immaterial. I'd become intoxicated by this foreign underworld I’d stumbled into.

The Central Business District offered a change of pace with its wider streets and ample freight zones. The restaurant kitchens were less cramped and more polished, but the underlying energy remained the same— a blasé whirlwind. The deliveries ran easier here and with each one I felt more comfortable. 

Finally, we reached Uptown, motoring past grand old homes framed by even older oaks. The air felt lighter here, and somehow we were ahead of schedule. Soul still serenaded the women at each stop, his voice a welcome addition to their standard duties. I wondered if these were the same personalized songs every time or daily improvisations. I didn't see any eye rolls or irritation, though their attention was often divided.

We parked off Prytania and went to Zara's for lunch. They took our orders at the counter and we ate our po-boys outside in the shade. Soul had hot sausage and I had the ham. We shared a bag of Zapp's. "Only a couple more left," Soul said. “Gonna finish early today. Upperline’s next.” 

I wasn't tired, just exhilarated. The day had been an adventure, a glimpse into a world I’d never seen. It didn’t even feel like work. More like a performance. Soul was the headliner and I was his eager understudy. I found myself contemplating the possibility of a new career. Should I just embrace the unexpected and go with this? I don't know how to sing or use a knife, but I could learn.

The drive back to Kenner was more subdued. Soul's usual exuberance gave way to contemplative silence. I wondered if he worried I might take his job, but I couldn't bring myself to ask. The radio played, but the tunes lacked the energy they had in the morning. The truck tires thumped along the highway monotonously.

When we arrived, I thanked Soul for showing me the ropes. We entered the office and he advised me to wait by the front door. His voice was much flatter.

"Mike, uh, this time of week is always kind of a bad time for me."

I didn’t understand. Friday after work-- a bad time? How’s that?

Again he told me to wait by the door. Soul went to the aunt-receptionist and she rose and escorted him to the filing cabinets. She gave him an envelope and he slowly opened it and took out his check.

The aunt-receptionist stood close by as Soul held the paper. Then his face twisted in. He shook faintly and began to weep, standing bent. The paper in his hand vibrated. Then he inhaled in a high-pitched squeal.

Oh no.

He cried silently until another squeal. And another. It was awful. The company aunt caressed his arm back and forth while she spoke softly. 

Across the room, I couldn’t move. Every four seconds he’d make that shrill noise when he gasped for air. His pain echoed off the filing cabinets and over the office. Each time you didn’t think the sound could happen again but it did. 

This was too much. My stomach churned and my eyes darted. I had to leave. Part of me wanted to ask if I should come back Monday but -– squeal! – hell no, I had to go. Right then.

Out the door, to my car, fast back to the apartment. 

I hadn’t felt that good and then that bad in a long time.

—

In the summer of 2007 I lived in Uptown and was walking down Prytania Street near La Crepe Nanou. I noticed a familiar refrigerated truck from the same food supplier. I ventured around the side to see if Soul was there. He was! Offloading the last of his boxes.

"Soul? Is that you?"

He was definitely looking older. He said yes with a hopeful smile.

I told him I met him ten years earlier and wondered if I could ask him something.

“What's that?"

“Are you still singing, Soul?”

“Still singing,” he affirmed.

I looked at him with a knowing grin. He was trying to place me. The sun was bright in his face and I wondered how I appeared to him.

He showed me his hands, then did a quick step.

“Whoop, dere it is,” he motioned self-referentially.

I smiled in thanks. “Alright den.”