Dem dat know et al

By Ned Cheever

The distinct style of the spoken word is a trait peculiar to New Orleans that transcends ethnic limits. Much of the population speaks in the vernacular of the homogeneous culture, where place, not race, is the defining characteristic. Blacks, whites, and browns often speak in the same style and idiom, enjoying the universal acceptance and understanding of their speech across disparate elements. Dey talk dis way because evahbody knows what dey sayin’.

Thus, the patois of New Orleans.

My friends often chide me over my fascination for New Orleans. Being a non-resident, I take every opportunity to visit the Crescent City, and they cannot fathom why I go there so often. Perhaps reflecting upon a bad night on Bourbon Street, they speak with disdain of my favorite destination.

These critics, being ignorant of my rich discoveries, have not been availed of what I have found to love about the beauty, history, and tradition of this wonderful old city.

There is a traditional song that has its roots in the New Orleans culture that explains my relationship with those who poke fun at me. Seeking license, I have drawn upon the theme for my title. The refrain, simple but telling, goes like this:

Dem dat know, know dat dey know;
Dem dat don’t know – dey don’t know dey don’t know.

By good fortune, enlightened, I am one of dem dat know — or I prefer to think so. The things of which my friends (dem dat don’t know) are without knowledge and benefit could fill volumes. To wit:

If they’ve never ridden the St. Charles Streetcar to the end of the line;

If they’ve never embarked on the ferry to Algiers and back;

If they’ve never sailed the dinner cruise on the steamboat;

If they’ve never taken the Zoo Cruise to the Audubon Zoo;

If they’ve never sat in Audubon Park;

If they’ve never wept at the WWII Museum;

If they’ve never listened to music in Lafayette Square;

If they’ve never begged for throws at a Mardi Gras parade;

If they’ve never walked in City Park;

If they’ve never tarried along Bayou St. John;

If they’ve never visited the New Orleans Museum of Art;

If they’ve never caught a cabaret performance at Le Chat Noir;

If they’ve never followed the music up Frenchmen Street;

If they’ve never perused the French Market;

If they’ve never savored a glass of wine in a boutique hotel courtyard;

If they’ve never strolled down Royal Street and back up Chartres;

If they’ve never shopped the six miles of Magazine Street;

If they’ve never taken a mule-drawn carriage tour of the Vieux Carre;

If they’ve never watched the artists at work in Jackson Square;

If they’ve never two-stepped on the street at the Cajun/Zydeco Festival;

If they’ve never danced at the Rock ‘n Bowl;

If they’ve never heard Grandpa Elliott sing “Unchained Melody” from a door way;

If they’ve never had lunch at The Parkway, or Mandina’s, or Liuzza’s;

If they’ve never driven past Gautreau’s because the restaurant displays no sign;

If they’ve never had oysters at Pascale’s Manale;

If they’ve never savored the single malt scotch while waiting in Clancy’s bar;

If they’ve never spent Friday afternoon at Galatoire’s;

If they’ve never toured the Aquarium;

If they’ve never sampled the bug dishes at the Insectarium;

If they’ve never waited in line at Mother’s;

If they’ve never visited the Ursulines Convent or the St. Louis Cathedral;

If they’ve never had a Pimm’s Cup while listening to the classical music at Napoleon House;

If they’ve never had an Abita Amber with the locals at Harry’s Corner or the Lafitte Blacksmith Shop Bar in the French Quarter, or Fat Harry’s Uptown;

If they’ve never had a muffaletta at the Central Grocery or Frank’s Restaurant;

If they’ve never caught the tunes at Tipitina’s;

If they’ve never toured the Lafitte Swamp in an air boat;

If they’ve never had a martini at the Columns Hotel;

If they’ve never had a Smithwick’s at the Kerry Irish Pub;

If they’ve never known the Muses, both mythical and real;

If they’ve never watched the sun rise from the Moonwalk;

If they’ve never had cafe au lait and beignets at Cafe Du Monde;

If they’ve never relished the springtime at the French Quarter Fest or Jazzfest;

If they’ve never had a loser at The Fair Grounds;

If they’ve never tasted a Creole tomato or a mirliton;

If they’ve never walked Royal Street in costume on Mardi Gras;

If they’ve never had jazz brunch in a courtyard;

If they’ve never been to a Saints game at the Superdome;

If they’ve never strutted in a second line parade;

If they’ve never seen a jazz funeral;

If they’ve never been close enough to touch Dr. John, or Ingrid Lucia, or Charmaine Neville performing in a small venue;

If they’ve never seen the conical clock in the lobby of the Roosevelt Hotel or savored a Sazerac in the bar of the same name;

If they’ve never heard the horns of Kermit Ruffins or Trombone Shorty;

If they’ve never listened to Jeremy in The Davenport Lounge;

If they’ve never seen the cemeteries or garnered a ghost tour;

If they’ve never eaten a Lucky Dog on a street corner;

If they’ve never been axed where dey got dem shoes;

If they’ve never done these things, den dey jus’ don’t know.

Sadly, perhaps tragically, dey jus’ don’t know dat dey jus’ don’t know.