On home, and how we find it

Along with six New Orleans places that meant the most to me.

This is an installment of Like Gold, a food newsletter written by Dayana Sarkisova. If you’d like to subscribe and stay a while, click the button below.

The concept of one, singular place I can refer to as home has in some ways eluded me. As an immigrant, a diasporan, and just a person with a penchant for moving around, it’s never been as simple as pointing to one place and saying, “that — that’s always been home.”

By the time I reached high school and we moved into the house my parents live in today, I was on my second country, second state and third city. I’d lived in our flat in Russia; the house we were settled into as refugees in Idaho; two apartments in Michigan; and then finally our first house, on Mapleview street in Kentwood. Our apartment in Washington, D.C. is the first time I’ve lived somewhere longer than a year since leaving for college in 2009.

Walking the streets of New Orleans a week before our departure, I was overwhelmed by how much the city felt like home. My next feeling was that I was a fraud — I realize two months does not a local make — but it was true. I’ve collected homes my entire life, and our house on Carondelet will be the latest addition.

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In my experience, a city begins to feel like home once you’ve established your “spots” — Findlay Market made Cincinnati feel like home; our neighborhood coffee shop makes D.C. feel like home. When I launched this newsletter, I was surprised to learn people wanted to hear about my favorite places. This is by no means an exhaustive list of New Orleans recommendations (message me if you’d like that, too). But these are a handful that made me feel intertwined with the city during our stay.

Mosquito Supper Club

I’ve detailed this before, but the Mosquito Supper Club cookbook was the song of my summer. The moment I got my hands on it I began cooking my way through, long before our New Orleans stay was anywhere close to reality. Once we settled in, it was natural that the book’s namesake restaurant would be our first meal dining out. Jeffrey and I weren’t eating at restaurants at this point, but we knew there were a few outdoor exceptions we’d have to make in New Orleans.

That evening, seated by ourselves in a corner of the courtyard, I had one of the best meals of my life. One that filled me with gratitude for being alive, for being at a restaurant, and for tasting Melissa M. Martin’s food.

I’m going to resist writing any more because, spoiler alert: I’m profiling the chef for The Post’s food section. The piece will be out in December and I’ll share it here in the coming weeks.

Century Girl Vintage

I stumbled upon this vintage shop by chance, after I overheard the owner describe the store to someone on Magazine Street and it piqued my curiosity. The shop is full of carefully sourced secondhand clothing and accessories at all price points. Think of a whimsical, cotton-candy-colored, Sofia Coppola-esque fairytale and you may get a sense for Century Girl Vintage.

Throughout the pandemic I’ve indulged in household purchases like plants, bedding, barware — anything that may make life a little more comfortable at home. Clothing remained a faraway concept though, something that felt silly to invest in when I wear the same joggers for days on end. But I began to treat CGV as a weekly assignment, emerging with a new treasure each time — one that reassured me, some day, there would be a world I could wear it in.

Haus of Hoodoo

I’m so grateful that we landed down the street from Haus of Hoodoo. The botánica belongs to Manbo Jessyka Winston (who you should follow on Instagram) and stocks anything the heart could desire for spiritual practices. I dropped in often for various herbs, oils and candles, and aggressively stocked up before leaving town, although she does offering international shipping.

Regardless of your beliefs I would urge anyone to stop by if they find themselves in New Orleans. From the thick fog of incense in the air to the baskets of curio, it’s the type of place that reminds us there’s much more to this existence than simply ourselves.

Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, or the “Lafayette Lap”

The catch to this entry is that Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 is actually… closed.

Signs claimed it would reopen in the summer, but that deadline came and went well before we approached it in the fall. At first I was optimistic — “maybe that means any day now!” — but eventually I caught onto local word. Allegedly families of buried loved ones pled their case to the city council, detailing the damage tourism had inflicted on the tombs. Local tour guides assume it will stay closed forever, but the city doesn’t want to advertise the fact quite yet.

Regardless, Pushkin and I loved circling the cemetery for our post-work walks, dubbing it the “Lafayette Lap.” Not only are the grounds’ borders beautiful on their own, but at each of the four walls there’s a brief look inside. This is hardly an insider tip, but if you’re looking for a scenic Garden District stroll I’d recommend it. Not only will you pass the cemetery and Commander’s Palace, but if you swing back to First Street you’ll find the Ann Rice house and the Archie Manning abode.

Molly’s Rise and Shine

Speaking of First street, the stretch from Carondelet to Magazine along First was the exact route we took every Saturday to pick up breakfast from Molly’s window.

The corner diner was named to Food & Wine’s best new restaurants list this year, which may make it the most already-well-known recommendation on my list. But the breakfast burrito with scrambled eggs, hatch chili, cactus, potatoes and crispy tortilla strips (plus an iced oat chai) saved me from more hangovers than I can count, so I’d be remiss not to include it.

Photographer David Spielman’s gallery

Wandering through the neighborhood one day, I distinctly recall deciding to walk a few extra blocks so I could take my favorite route home. That’s when I noticed David’s photography gallery, a sweet yellow house at the corner of Coliseum and Washington. Peeking through the windows I could see it was empty so I felt comfortable stepping inside, my own film camera slung over my shoulder.

I began to take in every black and white photograph that adorned the gallery’s walls. But before I got far, David emerged from his studio and greeted me, dressed head to toe in denim with a red bandana tied snugly against his face.

What followed was an hour-long conversation from separate ends of the gallery. We discussed New Orleans, Paris, film photography; he told me stories about shooting portraits of Mikhail Gorbachev and Lord Mountbatten. I purchased a print that makes my heart ache every time I look at it; he recommended a book shop down the street. I finally left the gallery with a surge of adrenaline, reminiscent of the adventures we have when we travel. It was a welcome reminder that it’s still possible to find a similar rush — not from somewhere far away, but from a place on the street you’ve walked countless times.

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Pick up my tab

This section is dedicated to sharing things I’m reading, listening to, donating to and more.

Reading: “Stay Out of New Orleans: Strange Stories,” a collection by P. Curran. New Orleans is a city that’s all too easy to romanticize. This book does quite the opposite. It’s a bleak and often macabre examination of the city’s underbelly, one that can break your heart in a new way with each tale. I picked it up at a shop in the French Quarter and inhaled it within a day of losing power from Hurricane Zeta.
Donating: Nola to Angola, which provides transportation for families between the city and Louisiana State Penitentiary.
Listening: “stepping on orange leaves so i don’t cry,” a playlist by piper — whose playlist titles hit a little too close to home these days.