NEW ORLEANS — Most customers walk into the Old Coffee Pot restaurant in the French Quarter, read the menu and burst out laughing.
The restaurant on cobblestoned St. Peter Street has served up platters of sweet lost bread and savory jambalaya for more than a century. After Hurricane Katrina, the staff added an entree: "M.R.E.: A hurricane Katrina favorite. Please order early. FEMA needs 4-7 days to ship. $782.90."
Each time waiter Guy Wenson is asked about it, he stares at the customer and, with a twinkle in his blue eyes, replies, "For an extra $10, I'll peel back the wrapping and 'prepare' it for you at your tableside."
It's a cute one-liner, worth a smile and a wink.
Here, the gag has diners bursting into breath-stealing giggles.
In a city that mourns its dead with cheerful brass bands, where the Catholic cycle of Lenten penitence is ushered in with a drunken party, laughter has always been a part of life. Now, as a culture of gallows humor grows among storm survivors, residents are turning their misery into a punch line.
The gibes -- sometimes grim, often silly -- can be found everywhere.
Shops are selling out of refrigerator magnets in the shape of maggots, a nod to the insects that infested kitchens after Katrina. Drivers slap on bumper stickers proclaiming, "New Orleans: Proud to Swim Home." Residents smirk over T-shirts that read, "I Survived Katrina and All I Have Is This Shirt ... Really."
New Orleans' Audubon Zoo has outfitted its alligator exhibit with a mock swamp house, complete with a duct-tape-covered refrigerator, a box of military-issued Meals Ready to Eat, and a search-and-rescue sign that reads "8 Gators -- fed." (Most houses in the city still carry markings of the block-by-block rescue effort, including neon-colored messages spray-painted on roofs and doors that stated what animals were found and whether they had been fed.)
Comedy clubs throughout the Gulf Coast say business is growing. Before the storm, comedians tested their material each Wednesday night at Lucy's Retired Surfers Bar and Restaurant in the city's warehouse district to a handful of patrons.
Now, a crowd of 40 is considered a slow night.
"You have to laugh, or you'll commit suicide," said co-host Bill Dykes, who runs stand-up events at different clubs here. "People are hungry for jokes."
