Free Big Easy Bonanza by Julie Smith, Tony Dunbar Page B

You wouldn’t want to run a few of them by me?”
    “Oh, God, don’t get me started. When I lived in San Francisco I never paid for a meal. I just spouted N’awlins lore and I was invited everywhere.” She gave him a new beer.
    “N’awlins? Is that the correct pronunciation?”
    “God, no. I’ve never actually heard it within the city limits. But outside, it’s the folklore favorite. Like, when you land here, the flight attendant says, ‘Welcome to N’awlins,’ and you’re supposed to be in the know.”
    “So what’s right?”
    “Ah, many, many things. New Awlins if you’re very southern. New Orl-ee-uns if you’re kind of preppy and affected. New Orlins for most people. (Never New Or-leens, of course.) And New Awyuns, if you also say my-nez.”
    “Hold it a minute. My-nez ?”
    “For mayonnaise. It’s what they say at the very top rung around here. If you hear my-nez or New Awyuns, kowtow. But do not be fooled—if you want to go to Napoleon Avenue and the taxi driver takes you to Na-poe-yun, he probably isn’t an aristocrat in reduced circumstances. Even the yats say Na-poe-yun.”
    “And yats would be?”
    “In good time, in good time. Weren’t we talking about strata?” She was beginning to enjoy herself. It was like being in California again.
    “Uh-huh. Full speed ahead.”
    “Well, of course you’ve got your old Creole families with the fancy French names, and then you’ve got your Uptown WASPs—sort of like me, except my folks are first generation, which is good enough for Rex if you’re rich enough and determined enough, but not good enough for the Boston Club, which is upper-upper crust, no matter whose ass you kiss.”
    “You’re a WASP? Langdon isn’t an Irish name?”
    “We don’t talk about that. We go to Trinity Episcopal Church, and that qualifies us as WASPs. Then there’s your old Jewish families and there’s the Petroleum Club crowd—mostly oil execs. And lots of other Johnny-come-latelies with more money than history, like the Langdons. Then there’s your slightly less wealthy—or even fairly poor—Ole Miss and LSU grads who work around town and mix in with the Uptown crowd a little. And way, way down the line, you’ve got your yats.”
    “Ah, yes.”
    “It’s short for ‘whereyat,’ which is their greeting. If anyone says, ‘whereyat, Steve?’, whatever you do, don’t say, ‘at the corner of Ursulines and Royal’ or they’ll think you’re crazy. Say, ‘Hey, cap, how you?’ ”
    “I get it. It means hello.”
    “Approximately. Yats are working-class whites who originally settled the Irish Channel, on the river side of Magazine Street, and also the Ninth Ward, out beyond the Faubourg Marigny. For reasons no one has yet been able to discern, they speak with Brooklyn accents. A female yat is called a charmer, pronounced ‘chawama’ by Uptown twits such as myself.”
    “That’s how they talk?”
    “Yep. They berl up a pot of red beans every Monday and their bathrooms are equipped with terlets and also with zinks, in which they rinch their pantyhose. They also eat s’rimp and ax questions.”
    “Good thing you’re not a snob.”
    “Just passing on the local color.”
    “Speaking of which, where do blacks fit into the strata?”
    Skip opened a ceramic box on one of the tables beside the sofa. “Now that,” she said, “is a subject of much interest. However, the professor cannot go on without sustenance. Would you care to join me?” She held up a joint. Steve looked half eager, half confused. She shrugged, lit the joint, took a toke, and passed it to him. He didn’t refuse.
    “Blacks are a different caste, just like in other American cities, but they have their own strata. In the days of slavery, the Creole People of Color had their own very well-developed society in the Quarter. They owned businesses and they were rich, lots of them, and well-respected. The prettiest girls, meaning the ones with the most obvious Caucasian genes, were sent