Homecoming is always bittersweet.*
You see the people you've waited all off-season to see.
And then you drink too much.
You embrace your family with open arms, raising your voice and cup to what brings you closer.
And then Jason David happens.
The Cafe, even with multiple tables open, was rocking Saturday night. The regulars - minus Hogan - were all there. An original gangsta was there. New season ticket holders Chef K-Paul, K-Les, and the Charcutier were there. And the guests didn't stop: Guests from Ralph Brennan's seats. Guests from the Krewe of Brid and Egg Yolk Jubilee. Roller girl guests. Latin guests. Reincarnations of Buddy D. guests. Shit, Jake Who Dat even designed a killer dueling spoons logo for the Cafe and dressed as Drew Brees.
And then Jason David happened. And when Jason David happens, even my Anheuser Busch-induced warm glow fades so quickly that any goodness of Saturday night is replaced by this message, repeated every 42 seconds until we become the change we wish to see.
* Except in 2006.