Head to downtown New Orleans and you are bound to see a rather curious line forming outside of a dilapidated old brick building. Visitors waiting in line don’t seem to mind; after all, they are about to receive the greatest po-boys in the city. Mother’s Restaurant is well known throughout the Big Easy for their exceptional cooking. Tourists are always a bit confused at first–all this fuss for a hole in the wall establishment with little seating? But one bite of their overstuffed and dripping roast beef debris po-boy and the secrets of the universe seem to unfold before your eyes. Okay, so maybe its not quite that good, but it’s the closest thing I’ve experienced.

Located on the corner of Poydras and Tchoupitoulas (Chop-a-TOO-lis) street, Mother’s is nestled in the heart of the Central Business District a few blocks from the mighty Mississippi River. Originally established in 1938, few things about Mother’s have changed. You don’t go to Mother’s for the ambiance, and you certainly don’t go there for a dining experience. In fact, Mother’s only has a handful of crowded tables and bar stools. You do go there, however, for the food. Patrons eagerly gobble down shrimp Po-boys and jambalaya and wash them down with ice cold Barq’s root beer (or Dixie beer if there’s a Saints game at the Superdome). If you linger a little too long over your plate, you are bound to have new guests breathing over your shoulder, waiting to take your place and begin their meal.

What makes Mother’s so unique is their resistance to change, even in today’s fast-paced society. One would naturally assume that as their popularity grew, so would their establishment, but Mother’s refuses to change, expand, and compromise the very sandwiches that made them famous. They continue to do things the way they’ve always done things and really, you can’t argue with the results.

In every town there is a restaurant like Mother’s—an establishment dedicated to good food and tradition. Most of them are hole in the wall places that are legendary to locals and a few observant tourists. But if you are ever in a city (New Orleans included) and you see a line curling around a rundown restaurant, take my advice–that is where you should eat.

Before there was Six Flags and before there were gravity defying roller coasters that stood you up on your head, there was Ponchartrain Beach. Located on the waterfront in New Orleans, Ponchartrain Beach was responsible for generations of family centered amusement rides and attractions. It originally opened in 1928, and its biggest and main attraction was the Zephyr—the thousand-foot roller coaster that taunted me at the age of six.

Ok, maybe it wasn’t a thousand feet tall, but it seemed like it to me. I used to stare at its intimidating frame as I watched car after car of screaming teenagers ascend into the darkness. I have reason to believe that my father and grandfather were once young teenagers gliding along those rails in the Louisiana moonlight. I unfortunately had not inherited their bravery or mastery of the Zephyr. It was a monster that I seemed to have a love/hate relationship with. On the one hand it was the thing nightmares were made of–wheels clacking, boards creaking with each turn. Its old wooden frame was in desperate need of paint and maintenance and even at a young age I could sense the danger that lurked around every bend.  On the other hand, the shiny metal cars beckoned me to be brave, and more than once I stood in line determined to see it through. Car after car of sticky, sweaty teenagers laughed and whooped as they exited–no one ever seemed disappointed. Still, as I neared the entrance gates, the ratcheting of the roller coaster cars as they began their routine ascent would send me reeling in panic.

Every time we went to Ponchartrain Beach it was the same thing, a desperate dance between a not so brave 6 year old and a not so young roller coaster that had seen its prime. As the years progressed, the longing intensified. Then one night in 1983, I got word that Ponchartrain Beach was closing its doors and I made up my mind that I would join the ranks of the converted and ride the Zephyr.

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Every Wednesday, my grandmother used to take me to the Audubon Zoo, nestled amongst the oak trees in New Orleans. As usual we took the oldest form of transportation there, made famous in movies throughout the past century: the streetcar. My quarter plunked in the metal tin receptacle at the front of the car, and we made our way back to find our seats. In the summer months, the windows were open all the way, allowing the sticky humid New Orleans air to penetrate the car. Even with the windows open, the back of my thighs stuck to the wooden slated seats as I sat squashed next to my grandmother. Sweat-stained workmen mingled with Tulane scholars as the streetcar clacked along the rails towards our destination.

Once we were there, the zoo seemed like an amazing paradise. Tropical birds, jaguars, elephants, and sea lions represented a variety of animals from virtually every continent. As we made our way past the growling tigers and pacing lions, I fingered a little brown lunch sack with anticipation. It was a tradition, made by myself at the ripe old age of 3, that we would eat our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches by the giraffes every Wednesday. As we found a seat on the wooden park bench, I admired the graceful yet clumsy creatures. Their long necks, innocent eyes, and gentle natures appealed to me for reasons I still don’t quite understand.

I ate my sandwich with the peanut butter sticking to the roof of my mouth and washed it down eagerly with cold Sprite straight from the bottle. My grandmother was never in a hurry, and she allowed me all the time I needed to enjoy my lunch with the giraffes. After lunch was over, we would stroll through the rest of the zoo watching indigenous squirrels and sparrows fight over popcorn crumbs. Cocky peacocks strutted by displaying their feathers for all to see, and goldfish half my size begged for food from the center fountain.

When our day was over, we would pile back on the streetcar. The rhythmic rocking of the streetcar held me in a trance as it scuttled down the line. Just before I drifted off to sleep, I already began planning our next trip. After all, when you are 4 and with your grandmother, Wednesday can’t come soon enough.

It was probably 1984…or maybe it was 85. Either way, the day was cold; at least, cold for New Orleans. A wind chill in the 40′s threw most of our plans out of the window, all except for one–Mardi Gras.  I begged and pleaded with my father to take me downtown to the parade route, and against my mother’s best judgment he finally relented. So I got dressed in my costume, a handmade Rubik’s Cube costume, and piled into the station wagon. Beneath two layers of thermal underwear and gloves, I was all smiles. It was the festival of all festivals, the carnival of all carnivals. It was Mardi Gras, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

We drove uptown to the parade route and parked the car. My feet wouldn’t keep still in my lace up high tops; they were so full of excitement and anticipation. My father and I had worked on my Rubik’s Cube costume for weeks, and it was beautiful. In reality it was nothing more than a cardboard box with electrical tape and colorful paint, but in my mind, I was the best-dressed one out there. Most of the people we saw agreed, and I gladly posed for picture after picture on the cold neutraground.

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