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"I eat in the finest restaurants in New Orleans,
but I don't think I ever enjoyed a meal more," he said,
gazing around the small kitchen. "My cook has a
kitchen to rival the best restaurants, and your mother
does so much with so little."
"Where do you live in New Orleans,
monsieur?" "Please, call me Pierre, Gabriel. I live in
what's known as the Garden District."
"What is it?"
"The Garden District? Well, it began as the area
for the rich Americans when New Orleans became
part of the U.S.A. These people were not accepted by
the French Quarter Creoles, so they developed their
own lavish neighborhood. My grandfather got our
property in a foreclosure and decided we weren't
above living there. Elegant gardens visible from the
street give this section of the city its name. Tourists
visit, but there are no buses permitted. There are some
famous houses in the Garden District, such as the
Payne-Strachan House. Jefferson Davis, president of
the Confederacy, died there in 1889.
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound like a tour
guide," he said, laughing at his own enthusiasm. "Is your house very big?"
He nodded.
"Is it bigger than any house you've seen in the
bayou?" He nodded again.
"How big is your house?" I demanded, and he
laughed. "It's a two-story Grecian with two galleries
in front. think there are fourteen or fifteen rooms." "You think? You live in a house so big you're
not sure of how many rooms?"
