Backstory: No Waterloo for Napoleon House

Conversation dips and swells to the soaring lilt of the "1812 Overture," as restaurant patrons chat amiably while waiting to be seated. French phrases swirl through clipped New York consonants and Louisiana drawls as flannel-shirted men and Chanel-suited women hunch over steaming bowls of gumbo.

This could be 1940s Paris or modern-day Manhattan. These could be paupers or princes. Time and truth have a way of getting lost here, weaving an ambiance that still enchants, even in a post-Katrina world.

Maria Impastato, who co-owns Napoleon House with her siblings, is steeped in reality. As owners of one of only 722 restaurants back up and running in New Orleans, they're struggling to deal with a crushing loss: Only two of the 32-member staff returned after the storm. The others have become part of Katrina's diaspora.

"They'd like to be here, and we'd like to have them back," Ms. Impastato says. "There's nowhere for them to live."

The Napoleon House provides a window into where New Orleans stands 16 months after hurricane Katrina. The restaurant industry, long central to the city's epicurean identity, is making strides in reopening its bouillabaisse of coffeehouses and cafes. But the city is far from the food capital it once was. Industry officials say barely a third of the area's 1,880 pre-Katrina restaurants have reopened. Sales are expected to be down at least $300 million this year.

The hardship has been particularly acute in the French Quarter, due to its proximity to the water. Many restaurants suffered heavy damage and lost a disproportionate number of employees. Affordable housing near the Quarter has been slow to return. Tom Weatherly, a vice president of the Louisiana Restaurant Association, estimates that 54,000 workers were directly involved in the Greater New Orleans restaurant industry before Katrina. Only 39,000 of those people have come back.

Chains like Burger King offered a $6,000 signing bonus after the storm. Others raised wages. Still, "help wanted" signs abound in a city in which an estimated 50,000 homes were lost, and nearly half the residents have yet to return.

For well-known restaurants like Napoleon House, the problem isn't customers as much as staffing. To cope, the restaurant has limited its menu and scaled back its hours, reducing revenue by 50 percent.

Impastato and her brother, Sal, pull double shifts Fridays through Wednesdays, arriving at 9 a.m. and often not leaving until 2 a.m. the next day. They share duties with Sal's wife, Vivian; their sister, Janie Lala; and her husband, Leonard. Four others round out the crew.

The strain is evident. It's lunchtime here, and Impastato is a one-woman dynamo, pushing through the dense crowd, arms laden with the same thick, crusty muffulettas her Uncle Joe made famous in 1920. She stops to tally a check, then hurries back to the kitchen to take another set of plates from Sal. Across the room, a young waiter narrowly avoids a collision with bartender Greg Cowman, who's squatting in a walkway, taking an order. This is a well-choreographed dance, just another day in the harsh reality of the new Big Easy.

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Erected in 1814 by Mayor Nicolas Girod, this French Quarter landmark has seduced locals and tourists for almost two centuries with a blend of romance and intrigue. According to local legend, the ornate edifice, outfitted with Carerra marble and mahogany, was intended to serve as a refuge for exiled emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, who was to be spirited away by a band of sympathizers. There's only one problem: Napoleon died in 1821 before he could ever step foot in the three-story structure.

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