Maison      
      de Ville 
    Vieux Carré 
    New Orleans,
      Louisiana    

"New Orleans is not like other cities," Stella tells Blanche in Tennessee William's Streetcar Named Desire.

Maison de Ville is not like other hotels. Its quiet, cool darkness sequesters me from the glare and tumult of Vieux Carré (the French Quarter.) In its courtyard, scintilla of light and water dance from a tiered fountain. Spiky palms, hot pink begonias and a pint-sized Civil War Cannon perform the arabesque. Narrow stairs snake up to the gallery where chartreuse asparagus ferns silhouette tracery on terracotta-colored walls. The language is French, the feel is Latin.

Late in the 1700's nearly all of the French-built Vieux Carré was consumed by fires. A Spanish city and Maison de Ville arose from the ashes. By then, Spain had ruled New Orleans for decades. Louisiana would return briefly to France in 1803 only to be sold out by Napoleon to those "barbaric" Americans.

Sipping tea by the fountain, I am transfixed by the tranquility. I can see back through the mist of years. A pale young man, dapper waistcoat askew, negotiates the narrow stairs up to his rooms in the gar¸oncierre. Shrewdly, Creoles housed their testosterone-driven young men in separate quarters behind the main house. Equally as shrewdly, Maison de Ville has made this gar¸oncierre into quarters for the epicurean-driven.

The mist also shrouds a shrunken coffee-colored woman, gray hair pulled back in a bun. She is leaning over a large copper washing tub near her slave quarters. These buildings--which possibly survived the fire--are now liberated, languorous cottages.

Tennessee Williams, a slave to cottage Number 9, stayed here often. Some say the famous line from Streetcar was conceived here, but its not likely--most of Streetcar was written over at 623 St Peters Street. We do know Williams was partial to the light of New Orleans and would sit in this courtyard for long sultry spells just watching it wax and wane.

A mimosa-yellow wall, two blocks away on Dauphine Street, holds the discrete entrance to Maison de Ville's country retreat. Crepe myrtles overarch the footpath leading to a crystalline pool. Six hidden gardens surround the pool, each has its own cottage.

John James Audubon crafted much of his Birds of America series while living in Cottage Number One. My verdant cloister, Cottage Number Four, waits behind an iron gate. Trees of the tropics and azaleas of the south dress the tall walls. I hear only Audubon's birds and the drone of a fountain.

French doors usher me into my Creole home, cool with lofty ceilings. A Napoleonic general peers out from his portrait at the rich tapestry which hangs on the soft yellow walls. Oriental rugs lay on the high-polish of wide-plank floors. Royal blue brocade chairs and a sofa welcome the weary, an antique escritoire serves the industrious, and the dining table accommodates four.

Dinner is served by Maison de Ville's noted restaurant, The Bistro. They sprint over with dishes of Nouvelle Creole Cuisine, an inspired mixing of New Orleans favorites with traditional bistro fare. The current Executive Chef, Greg Picolo is a rising star on the New Orleans culinary scene. He follows in The Bistro tradition of introducing young and talented chefs (like Bayona's Susan Spicer) to New Orleans.

My bouillabaisse arrives redolent and steamy. Enormous sweet scallops, briny mussels and spicy Italian sausage blend perfectly with a Creole rouille. Croutons, pungent with garlic, add the final touch. Coffee is served under the stars with the far-off riff of a trumpet.

And so, to bed….Climbing the stairs past Audubon prints, mine is the first of two bedrooms, each with its own bath. My companion settles into her French country bed having hung her dress in a stunning 18^th century armoire. Out of her French doors onto a balcony connects her room with mine.

You may address me as Marquise d'Orleans Nouvelle for that is how I feel ascending the steps of my canopied and feathered bed. Setting aside gay carnival beads and an ever-so-New Orleans praline (the leavings of the turndown fairy,) I slip between the embroidered sheets. The four posters, carved with lotuses, hold aloft a canopy of lace. Halcyon are the dreams in this quiet room, darkened by heavy drapes.

Morning commences with the arrival of breakfast's silver tray bearing white linens and a peach-colored rosebud. The just-squeezed orange juice, carrot muffin and strong coffee are fortifying. The croissant with Seville orange marmalade is inspiring, the Times-Picayune is amusing, the Wall Street Journal is not.

The news of day stales, so with my second cup of coffee, I pour over the splendid book of Audubon prints from the coffee table. I could spend the entire day, nay a week, just like this--dipping in the pool if I get antsy. I'll miss the charms of New Orleans's French Quarter just outside my gate, but I'm not sure why I should care luxuriating in this languorous of atmosphere of bygone, more gracious days.

Maison de Ville is not like other hotels. Merci Dieu!
     
                         By Kate Crawford     September, 2000

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