There Was An Occasional Alligator Swimming
Comfortably Along In The Canal, And An Occasional Picturesque Colored
Person On The Bank, Flinging His Statue-Rigid Reflection Upon The Still
Water And Watching For A Bite.
And by-and-bye we reached the West End, a collection of hotels of the
usual light summer-resort pattern, with broad verandas all around, and
the waves of the wide and blue Lake Pontchartrain lapping the
thresholds.
We had dinner on a ground-veranda over the water - the chief
dish the renowned fish called the pompano, delicious as the less
criminal forms of sin.
Thousands of people come by rail and carriage to West End and to Spanish
Fort every evening, and dine, listen to the bands, take strolls in the
open air under the electric lights, go sailing on the lake, and
entertain themselves in various and sundry other ways.
We had opportunities on other days and in other places to test the
pompano. Notably, at an editorial dinner at one of the clubs in the
city. He was in his last possible perfection there, and justified his
fame. In his suite was a tall pyramid of scarlet cray-fish - large ones;
as large as one's thumb - delicate, palatable, appetizing. Also deviled
whitebait; also shrimps of choice quality; and a platter of small soft-
shell crabs of a most superior breed. The other dishes were what one
might get at Delmonico's, or Buckingham Palace; those I have spoken of
can be had in similar perfection in New Orleans only, I suppose.
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