Chronic Negress

The drive into Houston proper from Intercontinental Airport told the Negress that her 13 years of absence had made for changes. Where green fields lined US 59, there were now more strip malls, huge churches, car dealerships and all the fruits of a land use policy that doesn’t believe in zoning. She was here for a food journalism conference (if you want to read more about that go here) and to catch up with any friends she could find. The conference was great fun, especially the margarita sampling at the Last Concert Cafe. However, you could still see signs of Ike’s wrath on the city. A lot of FEMA blue roof tarps, especially south of downtown, some skyscrapers still sporting plywood scars where not all of the broken windows had been replaced. You still see the occasional pile of damp couches, tree limbs and soaked insulation in front of an apartment complex. If the radio news is any indication, much of that will be cleared away in the next two weeks. The folks at the Omni showed us the pictures of Buffalo Bayou coming up to the lobby level having inundated the pool and their pub.

When the conference ended, I moved in with my pals the Gumbies, whom I have known forever and a day. The couple were living in the bounty of the Pacific Northwest but moved back to H-Town for good work stuff. They have a FEMA roof and lost some trees and fencing, but their house is fine. They clued me into the nearest Whataburger and we drew up an eating plan to check out several local restaurants in the coming nights.

But after breakfast of cinnamon sugar deep fried biscuits and a potato onion frittata, we decided to drive down to Galveston. On Interstate 45, there are still about 30 boats resting against the shoulder barriers from being blown out of the water. Ike really lit into the island town, and the wounds are still oozing. The University of Texas Medical Branch is still running on generator power and laid off about 4,000 workers. The public housing complex is abandoned with lone pieces of kitchen furniture dotting the landscape. The Strand, Galveston’s tourist strip of Victorian-style shops and business is deserted, except for workers in ghostly jumpsuits removing debris. The seawall side of the island fared a little better but the famous Balinese Room disappeared, leaving nothing but pilings. The city still has a surprising number of Victorian homes whose owners dug in and painstakingly restored them to their Painted Lady glory. Unfortunately, much of their care was obliterated. There’s no electricity in the Strand or most of the surrounding neighborhoods, but Whataburger was open so we ate a solemn lunch on Stewart Beach, which normally with the glorious weather would have been packed with people. The city smells like generator fumes and rot, except by the water.

We ate at a Mexican restaurant in the Meyerland section of Houston that was a cheerful antidote to  Galveston’s grimness. The Negress is off today to find Project Runway Season Two winner Chloe Dao’s store and perhaps eat another Whataburger.

Galveston Victorian house post Ike

What's left of a waterfront restaurant