They were married at the courthouse in New Orleans, and when all the waiting around to have it approved and over with, they stepped out into the winter-chilled Louisiana sunshine. The bride and groom hadn’t eaten all day and were famished.

“We could look for a place in the French Quarter,” said the groom.

The bride said, “I don’t think I can wait that long.”

“What about that place?” He pointed to a humble pink building on the other side of the courthouse parking lot. Atop it, green letters spelled out “MISSISSIPPI FRIED CHICKEN” as if it were the name of the place, and beneath that it advertised BBQ Ribs and Beans and Rice. They walked toward it. Still another of its signs read JAZZ AND DANCING.

A black man in the black coat and pants of a plantation butler welcomed them as he opened the door. Two other patrons sat at modest tables draped in with green and white tablecloths. The place was just about to close for the day. “All we gots left’s fried chicken and red beans and rice,” said a black woman in a black servant’s dress.

“That okay?” the groom asked the bride.

“Uhm-hum,” she nodded smiling.

“We’ll take it,” the groom said to the waiter. “You got any champagne?”

“I’ll have to look. Is it some kind of special occasion?”

He chuckled. “We just got married at the courthouse across the street about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Well, lordy, lordy, who me!” she exclaimed.

“Congratulations,” called the two black ladies dining there.

One little round table with a white tablecloth, stood on a platform raised against the wall, separated by a railing from the rest of the room but for a gap to allow entrance. “Well, you should sit uppie hyer,” said the waiter.

It did seem like exactly the place for very newlyweds to sit.

“Who married y’all?”

“Judge Sophia Spears.” This datum elicited another shriek of delight. “Oh, she come in here sometimes. She’s nice. Her daughter goes to school with my daughter.”

“She was nice,” the groom agreed.

The waiter brought out the champagne, and the woman was close behind him with biscuits and butter. The woman said, “I’m’a put on some music for y’all,” and walked over to the jukebox. Soon, the waiter was coming out with the chicken, beans, and rice, soulful tunes were oozing into the air, and the bride and groom thought they would live happily ever after.

Sa 9:37 PM Dallas time 1-8-99

The day after we were married, my wife and I took a drive down past the stately old homes on St. Charles.  We passed Tulane and Loyola universities and stopped and had breakfast near there.  I had a crawfish omelet.  It was yummy.  We went next door and had bloody Marys and screwdrivers and read the Picayne Tribune.  Saints Coach, Iron Mike Ditka, was fired.  After that, we drove down Magazine past ramshackle shops, searching for pawned wedding bands.  We went down to Gentilly and got two bands for a hundred and ten bucks.  We put them on each other’s fingers.  Then we headed out to plantation country on “The Great River Road.”  We drove through one dilapidated parish of dilapidated homes after another along a maze of numbered highways not covered in this stupid Fodor’s book map.  But we picked our way through to the Destrahan Plantation, and to Laura’s which is said to be the birthplace of Uncle Remus, and to Oak Alley with its gothic-looking Spanish-moss-draped giants all a row.  We drank beer and used the cell phone to make reservations at Commander’s Palace.  Rochelle evened the orgasm score on the way back to the guest house.  We showered and went to the pubs and had a couple beers before summoning a taxi to take us to the Garden District.  The maitre’d made me put on a dinner jacket before they escorted us upstairs to the glass-walled garden room overlooking a lush courtyard.  I ordered a ’96 bottle of some red wine, 1996, and some shrimp remoulade and baked oysters on the half shell for appetizers, and for entrees we got Mississippi roasted quail and veal chop chopitoulas.  The quail came with asparagus and bread pudding and a meat stuffing that tasted a little like fresh ground hot dog meat.  Let’s tell ourselves it was some gourmet andouille.  We had coffee and a smoke and took a cab back to the house where we humped and passed out early.  We got up the next morning and drove out to Barataria to bayou country and took a mostly boring swamp tour on a flat-bottomed boat and saw herons and cormorants and a couple listless alligators too dumb hibernate.  We drove to the French Quarter after that and split an order of red beans and rice and a shrimp po’ boy.  We walked around a bit.