Rose ran a Tea Room on the fringes of the Garden District, within a short distance to Storyville and the French Quarter. Both neighborhoods contributed to her business success.
From mid-morning to mid-afternoon, Rose would entertain the wealthy ladies of the Garden District. Her tables were always full, partly owing to the variety of coffees and teas that Rose herself made from ancient and secretly guarded recipes, partly because of the dainty sandwiches and pastries that her cook, Queen, conjured freshly each day in the kitchen.
Queen was a tall Creole woman ... and like most women of her heritage, her age was a mystery. She held herself with the posture of dignity and youth, but in the depths of her eyes swam a maturity and knowledge which defied argument. Queen and Rose had been together for years. Rose knew that Queen was an invaluable asset and regarded her accordingly. Rose never spoke down to her, never gave her an order, and often asked for her advise. She also had the good sense to share generously in the profits of the Tea Room ... all of which compounded Queen's loyalty and affection.
They were a formidable team.
The Tea Room was painted and wallpapered in a soft, feminine pink. I found out later that this was a calculated design owing to the fact that pink was the color most flattering to women of all ages. The big front window that looked out over the street was partially covered with lace café curtains and although Rose had only 12 tables in the Team Room, they were adorned with tatted lace table clothes, linen napkins, fresh flowers, and heavy silver flatware. She never skimped on amenities, Rose knew that you couldn't serve ladies of social standing on paper plates and expect conduct a lucrative enterprise. Throughout the business hours, light classical music encouraged the ladies to linger, ordering yet another cup of tea and visiting with one friend or another they had bumped into.
Rose served her guests personally. She took particular care of her appearance, dressing smartly, hair perfectly done and her hands tipped with a sophisticated French manicure. As her business grew and her patrons came more regularly they developed a trust and familiarity with Rose and subsequently took her into their conversations.
Although attractive and bright, she was not the type of woman any of them thought could be of any threat to them ... she hadn't the upbringing, schooling, social status, or money they enjoyed. She was a safe friend ... and that in itself was a rare thing. The ladies so jealously guarded their standing that they made sure their friends could not rival them in their husband's eyes. By in large, they were a very self-centered, insecure group.
As the acquaintance between her clientele and Rose grew, they would confide in her little things. From headaches to menstrual cramps ... dull skin to constipation ... Rose would smile, pat them on the hand, and say "Let me fix you a special cup of tea." She would disappear into the kitchen and there stood before shelves filled with glass jars of rare teas and coffee beans. Other shelves held vessels of spices from all corners of the world, easily acquired in a port city like New Orleans.
On a very special shelf were her containers of herbs. The herbs were her secret ingredient. Some were acquired through foreign freighters coming into the port, some from everyday health food shops, some were purchased in the back room of a very special voodoo shop in the French Quarter, and some Rose and Queen grew themselves. The last shelf housed a collection of sugars, various honeys, and edible flower petals.
She would study her inventory, carefully pick and measure the ingredients, blend them just so with mortar and pestle, then steep in hot water. When the brew was perfect, it would be presented to the guest in a bone china cup.
It wasn't long before Rose's reputation as an apothecary surpassed the primary foundations of tea and pastries. When friends and family came to enjoy the charm of the French Quarter, a trip to The Tea Room became a must. And so it was that Rose's business grew and flourished.
As I said, I met Rose in the most improbable of circumstances. I had worked my way to New Orleans on a barge carrying grain from Davenport. I had always thought that the life of a sailor would be exciting. I had intended to sign on with a freighter heading for foreign parts when I reached New Orleans. However, the first few days on the barge quelled those ambitions almost immediately. The Irish Rovers sang a song about a young fellow going to sea that went 'The days were hard and long with no women, wine, or song, and it wasn't quite the fun I thought it'd be'. The work never ended, the food was substantial, but not very good. At the end of the day all there was to do was sleep in bunks 3 high with two other men as rough, sweaty, and foul as myself.
The docks of New Orleans bustled day and night, so when we arrived I decided to look about for work. I was young, randy, and my pockets were burning with the wages I had collected. It didn't take long for the music and laughter coming out of a wharf-side tavern to distract me. I'm afraid I drank too much, laughed too loudly, and got too familiar with one of the girls sitting at the bar. The next thing I knew, two massive fellows where whirling me out of the door like some pup who had just relieved himself on the carpet.
As I was struggling to draw air back into my lungs, I looked up and there was a dark haired vision hovering above me smiling. I pulled myself up to sitting and began to beat the dirt out of my jeans, when she said, "I bet you made the mistake of treating a woman like a whore, when you would have gotten a lot farther by treating her like a lady." As she side stepped me and continued on her journey, I pulled myself up and jogged to her side. "I don't understand", I told her. "The girls in that place were there to hook up with a guy like me."
"That", she said, "is irrelevant ... it simply does not matter. Your first mistake was to treat a woman like a whore when you should have been treating her like a lady. The second mistake most men make is to treat a woman like a lady when you should be treating her like a whore. And the third, and worst possible mistake is getting those two occasions mixed up!"
I laughed at that as I danced around to face her, "What?"
