Max had a long love affair with New Orleans, and he loved to initiate his friends into the city's splendors and secrets. We were beneficiaries of his generosity. It was because of "mad Max" that we enjoyed a series of winter visits to the crescent city. He was a splendid enthusiastic guide as well as a great character, with a touch of Falstaff about him: charm, flaws, girth.
For me, it was a late-onset friendship, but Lynn had known Max from the 60s, from her Baltimore days, when Max was a doctoral student in biology at Hopkins. The two of them reconnected five years ago when Max invited Lynn (and me) to stay for a month in an apartment in his rental house in the Garden District. How could we decline such an offer? His house, alas, turned out to be virtually uninhabitable, with holes in the walls and floors that let in the light, the wind and rain, and the critters. There was a pungent smell of decay and a tilted bathroom that seemed about to plunge deep into the earth. Lynn was not fazed: "I lived in Africa." Max was only mildly apologetic. We made do.
In subsequent trips to New Orleans we took the precaution of renting a BNB.
But we often visited Max at his place in an apartment house on St. Charles. Max owned two adjacent apartments. He connected them by busting through the wallboard with a sledge hammer. Two kitchens, therefore, both, shall we say, far from immaculate.
A serious and knowledgeable cinephile, Max sponsored a monthly film series in his home. His screen had to be angled sharply to find a place amidst the clutter, distributed among which was an exquisite collection of contemporary American pottery. (Max was a widower; his sometime ladyfriend was a very accomplished potter).
Max squired us about town, introducing us to both famous and out-of-the-way restaurants. He was quite a sight, squeezing his 5' 4" and 300 pound frame into a small sports car. He loved Adolfo's, right across the street from Snug, because the food was excellent and the portions were enormous.
As much as he loved his dinner, he also loved the south Louisiana vegetation; a walk with Max was a learned lecture on the local plant life.
Would we have discovered either Angelo Brocato's or the Creole Creamery without his guidance?
I don't know what eventually killed him last August. It could have been any one of his many ailments; he was not healthy and was often in pain. We'll miss him.
Max and I shared a birthday; he was exactly one year older than I. So his death is another memento mori. As if I needed another reminder.
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