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    Hotel Monteleone: More Than a Landmark, The Heart of New Orleans Since 1886
    Hotel Monteleone: More Than a Landmark, The Heart of New Orleans Since 1886
    Hotel Monteleone: More Than a Landmark, The Heart of New Orleans Since 1886
    Ebook116 pages45 minutes

    Hotel Monteleone: More Than a Landmark, The Heart of New Orleans Since 1886

    By Jenny Adams and Phillip Collier

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    About this ebook

    From elegant architecture to the familiar faces of employees who have served guests for decades, from the chime of a century-old clock in the lobby to the vintage glow of the neon garage sign, the Hotel Monteleone is iconic to New Orleans and to America, not in one single aspect, but in many. These pages are filled with early historical accounts of the French Quarter and the hotel's visionary creator, Antonio Monteleone, but they are also packed with humorous memories from notable authors like Richard Ford, Tennessee Williams and Eudora Welty. From Liberace to Louis Prima, from the Swan Room to the famous Carousel Bar, music and celebration are woven in the fabric of this hotel and its story as much as in the town of New Orleans itself. This book is another form of celebration. It's a testament and a thank you to the cast and characters that have all helped shaped the Hotel Monteleone's years of amazing history.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublishereBookIt.com
    Release dateApr 26, 2016
    ISBN9781456603151
    Hotel Monteleone: More Than a Landmark, The Heart of New Orleans Since 1886

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      Book preview

      Hotel Monteleone - Jenny Adams

      978-1-4566-0315-1

      INTRODUCTION

      by Richard Ford

      My most enduring memory of the Monteleone— and my most endearing—must’ve originated about 1950. I was six. It was a typical shoe-leather-melting summer day in New Orleans. My mother, to while away the steamy hours and divert her only son, had been taking us back and forth across on the Algiers Ferry for most of an afternoon, letting me stand up in the bow, breathing in the hot, complex, brackishness of the river, watching the city’s modest skyline move away, then draw close again, move away, come near, move away. Pralines are a central feature of this memory. They were on sale at the ferry dock, packaged in small, waxy sleeves, and sold for a dime.

      At five sharp, however, we quit our journeying and walked hand in hand up Canal Street, the short stroll to Royal and down the shadowy block and a half to the Monteleone, which was my father’s headquarters when he worked his south Louisiana accounts—Schwegmann’s and Delchamps in town, and all the small wholesale grocer concerns down through Houma and over to Lake Charles, up to Villeplatte and Alec, and back again. He sold laundry starch. Faultless. It was a name that meant something then. He’d be waiting for us in the hotel.

      When we arrived, we found him seated on a stool in the Carousel Bar, just to the right, inside the hotel entrance where it still is today, its windows facing onto Royal to let the patrons watch the world go by outside from within, where it’s cool. My mother and I sat down beside my father at the circular bar. They were happy to see each other after a long hot day apart. Our family was only the three of us. But my father had a look of consternation on his long Irish lip, and his brow was furrowed, a familiar expression that meant things weren’t going well. Carrol, what’s the matter? my mother said. You look worried.

      I don’t know. My father shook his head as if to exhibit confusion. I’ve just had one drink. But I guess it made me drunk. Because when I came in here twenty minutes ago, I sat down at this bar and I could’ve sworn I was facing the door—so I’d see you. But now I’m facing the window. I don’t know what’s happening to me.

      My mother told this story with relish all her life. I suppose I’ll tell it all of mine. To her it proved what a sweetly guileless man my father was, a country boy, unsophisticated in the ways of big cities, trusting to how things should be, not so sure about a world where the elegant bar in a swell hotel could imperceptibly make a complete revolution every fifteen minutes, taking its unsuspecting tipplers along for the ride; a ride they might not—if they were my father—even notice they were taking. Carousel. The name might’ve suggested something, but didn’t. That guilelessness was partly why she loved him all her life. I always have a drink there when I’m around, think sweetly of the two of them all those years ago in the Monteleone.

      I guess one has to say—in view of memories like mine—that the best thing today about the stately old Monteleone (now 125 years young) is that it’s still here, its latch-string still on the outside, its brassy doors still swinging open to drummers like my father, to vacationers down from Des Moines, newlyweds overnighting for a slice of heaven, legislators cutting midnight deals, executives with their secretaries in tow, Arab sheiks, movie types, goateed jazz-men, gigolos and gigolettes, the odd writer needing refuge to polish his story in a room that sees the river. If you would read closely, at the conclusion of Eudora Welty’s magnificent New Orleans story No Place for You, My Love, you’d see (at least I see) the heroine of this sumptuous, passion-streaked story, alighting from her lover’s convertible and disappearing through the revolving doors of a hotel. It’s this hotel. It could scarcely be any other.

      So, yes—or no. The Monteleone’s still

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