Elsewhere in this old city, the racket, the ruckus, is already being raised. By 3 p.m., tourists are listing along Bourbon Street, hollering just to be hollering, lost in the euphoria of their second fruity hurricane. Bands—Dixieland, zydeco, more—are tuning up, the music washing out the doors of the bars and into the fading sunlight. By 3:30 p.m., the rotating bar at Hotel Monteleone is already jammed; the din growing with every spin and every Sazerac, Southern Comfort, and brown glass of Jim Beam. Slot machines tinkle at the casino; cash registers ring at the souvenir shops on Canal.

But not here, not on Annunciation Street. Here, in this humble place with the hand-painted sign, the loudest sound you hear is the hiss and roil of the deep-fat fryer, as the ladies at Domilise's Po-Boy and Bar drop in another handful of shrimp and oysters and slather another log of crusty French bread with mayonnaise. The radio is turned low, the Allman Brothers singing about cheating women, wasted time, and moving on. The people crowded into the five small tables do not talk much. They mostly just chew, and sigh.

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