Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Of Horns, Beans, & Birds

A few Saturday observations from the Cafe:

1. Walking the Upper Terrace concourse past Section 635, we noticed a crowd of about 30, mostly men, chanting and holding cameras above their heads to flash photos. Are you kidding? We're thirty minutes to kickoff, a drunken Red Bird is tit peddlin' for beads, and ya'll are gonna stop for this? Turns out it was only Joseph Horn, reppin' a Deuce McAllister jersey, stopping for every photo and autograph request. The Porn Chef dropped a "Braising Arizona" menu on him and we made our way to the top of the Cafe. Then, just before kickoff, I look down to see that Joe is sitting about twenty rows down in Section 640. Done. I've got some words for Joe, been waiting to spit 'em for three years now, and if he's around in the third quarter and the autograph/photo cycle thins, I'm gonna get my face time.

"Joe, don't want to take a photo with you or get an autograph. Just wanted to tell you a few things. First, when the storm hit, I evacuated to Texas. Ya'll were in San Antonio. And I read what you said about the city then. Thank you."

"Second, Joe. I wanted to tell you that yours was the first Saints jersey I ever bought."

"And last, Joe, do you remember three years ago when you said that you would rip your strained groin muscle off the bone if it meant you would play in the Philly game?"

"Well that inspired me, Joe. I was so inspired, Joe, that I took your groin and smoked it into a groin jerky and put it on my playoff menu, Joe."

I wanted to add that before that same Philly game, I wrapped my own groin in an Ace bandage, sprinted up the 42 rows to the top of the Cafe, and ripped off the bandage to reveal a Slim Jim groin jerky. But I had forgot about that. But, Joe, he was cool with all that.



2. Nothing tops face time with Joe, but hosting the fiance of one Beanie Wells and his future brother-in-law, wasn't bad either. Alex, Beanie's fiance, was seated in the Cafe in Row 43 and thus privy to numerous dirty dogs. Beautiful, polite girl. And Beanie scored a touchdown, so that was nice. Her younger brother is shown here with the Hot Girlz of Cafe 641: Ms. Shootz to Kill, The Entity, and the Cocktail Chef.

3. Row 43's deconstructed Chaffed Redbird installation should be the next acquisition of the New Orleans Museum of Art's Sculpture Garden.

4. Porn Chef's sports hernia, a common injury in his industry, did not stop him from dropping a dog in the third quarter.

5. There is no finer family the one we've got in Cafe 641. Only about half are featured here (plus Mr. Rita Benson LeBlanc's Cardinal-loving sister).

6 comments:

Shreveport 641 said...

Porn Chef was bringin the heat all game long. Even hooked the cleanin man up with a swig of his "special sauce" and the Who dat Indian Man had some firewater as well.

Forgive me, must get all the alias' right. Im a rookie, but a fan and pride owner of seats 9 & 10row G of the beloved 641. Peace!

Anonymous said...

Just wanted to tell you again what a wonderful time I had at the game, despite the outcome. You all were wonderful. And per the agreement for the rest of the season I am a Saints Fan. Hope to see you all again at another game.

Erin (Proud Mary's Daughter)

Chef Who Dat said...

Much love to Erin. It was great to meet you. She's walking proof that we're respectable people to almost everyone, except Falcons fans.

Michelle said...

Of COURSE he was cool wit dat. Joe Horn loves him some Joe Horn.

Fun times up there in the Cafe. Can't wait to crash the party one day!

saintseester said...

I am bowing to your greatness here. I tried to get to the game this weekend, but it didn't work out. My connections are good, but not nuclear-good. So, we're baking cookies and cheering here in N. Alabama.

I did throw up when I tried to eat this morning. Am still trying to figure out if that's a bad thing.

Chef Who Dat said...

Seester, purging is good. Particularly before consuming greatness. Our resident cheerleader, Hogan, dry heaves at the tailgate before every game. You're in good company.