It’s a time-honored truism that writers have a keen nose for sniffing out free lunches and wealthy ass. The following dispatches illustrate three refined snouts at the gilded trough, and remind us all why we love those who give us words.

From author John Biguenet’s blog, a collection of writing so valuable the New York Times charges you to read it:

 Oct. 9

We had been warned that with the refrigerator wrapped in duct tape out front, the dinner would have to be very simple, just pasta and some roasted peppers. But gathering in the kitchen while waiting for the other two guests to arrive, we were handed glasses of a vintage Pomerol. When I remarked that they'd served us an extraordinary wine for such a simple meal, one of our hosts told us that, with the power off in the house for a month and the temperature outside in the nineties every day, their whole collection of wines had overheated. It would all be vinegar in a few weeks. So they were working their way through the bottles that hadn't been submerged, drinking the oldest vintages first. After what we'd been through since the storm, we were happy to help them with their project.

The other guests arrived, and our hosts opened another old Bordeaux and served a tray of hors d'oeuvres. The new couple explained that they couldn't stay for dinner; they had to deal with their house. Flooded? I asked. No, I was told, it had exploded three days ago when the electricity was restored and a power surge had sparked a gas explosion from a ruptured line. In fact, we could see what was left of it, if we liked. It was only three houses farther down the block, and the facade was still standing. Our hosts added that it had been the oldest house in the neighborhood, having been built over 150 years ago…

After the couple had left with our sympathy, the four of us and the twins ate the simple but absolutely delicious meal with another bottle of the Pomerol. Our friends confessed that they have had the same reaction to what's happened as Marsha and I: they feel as if a whole new set of possibilities has opened up for them. They have no intention of slipping back into their old lives without making conscious decisions about what they want their future to be. Their two older sons joined us for dessert, and we opened a bottle of port, toasting that future, whatever it may be, while the twins went around the table, making wishes and blowing out the candles in front of each of us.

From “local” writer Blake Bailey’s musings on slate.com ("My Year of Hurricanes"). Bailey, it’s worth noting, had moved back to New Orleans for only three months before the storm.  Rumor has it, he  has since given the N.O. the big “PEACE” and gone on to Gainesville:

Friday, October 21

I arrived in New Orleans around 5:30 the next evening and proceeded to my friend Alfred's house in the Uptown section of the city. Alfred, a lawyer, was still at his temporary office in Baton Rouge and wouldn't be home for a couple hours. In the meantime, his domestic staff (two nannies, two maids) stood laughing on Octavia Street outside Alfred's wrought-iron security gate. As I greeted them I felt an icy gust of air blasting from the wide-open front door across the lawn; the AC compressors roared and roared. This, I suppose, was the women's way of celebrating the restoration of power to this affluent neighborhood, while their own apartments in very different parts of the city remained dark and unlivable. I paused to survey the immaculate edifice of Alfred's mansion: not a shingle missing that I could see, much less a grimy 6-foot waterline and rampant mold inside and out. Due, no doubt, to a peculiar defect in my own nature, the sight of such houses (especially when they belong to old friends) excites a certain unsavory ambivalence.

That night Alfred and I had dinner at Herbsaint on St. Charles Avenue, perhaps the swankiest of the few reopened restaurants in town. The place was packed with the intrepid gentry who'd returned to the city early and damn the torpedoes. We were all Hemingway liberating the Ritz in occupied Paris. We poured wine for each other and swapped war stories. Alfred told me he'd evacuated to his native North Carolina, preceded in a plane by his wife and three daughters; his main reason for returning to New Orleans now—there wasn't much business to conduct in Baton Rouge, truth be known—was to collect his domestic staff ("noblesse oblige"). Later we drove to a dive bar called the Saint in the Lower Garden District, where a wispy tattooed bartender kept reminding everybody of the midnight curfew and finally had to turn out the lights. It was sort of fun driving back in the cargo van—more than a little squiffy—through dark, deserted, debris-filled streets.

From a Rolling Stone article by New York journalist Matt Taibbi, who deploys capitalized euphemisms for protection of his gonzo cred as well as his Uptown patrons deployed the Mossad to keep out looters:

After a harrowing drive through darkened streets blocked by downed trees and telephone poles, we make it to our destination for the evening -- the private home of a Wealthy Local Attorney who is a friend of (handsome historian Douglas) Brinkley's.

The place is a breathtaking manse in a still-dry section of town, a veritable palace of Southern comfort and grace -- with white columns, a manicured yard and a stone wading pool obscured by lush hedges. It is an end-of-the-rainbow kind of home, a place one would fight to the death to defend, and this is exactly what the Wealthy Local Attorney is doing. He is holed up here with his own private army -- a team of four seasoned ex-military specialists, Delta Force types who smile and apologetically refuse to answer when asked what branch of the Army they graduated from. Tomorrow the Attorney will welcome six more soldiers, only these will be from Israel.

To these authors, and to all those who endured those trying days in the wake of Hurrican Katrina big-tymin', NOLAFugees.com commends you!

DID YOU SPEND YOUR DAYS IN THE WAKE BIG-TYMIN? If you've got a story of pimpin' in the Aftermath, let NOLAFugees.com know. Email editors@nolafugees.com.