The beautiful weather in New Orleans continued unabated on our third day (highs in the mild 80s accompanied by a sleepy Southern breeze), so we enjoyed a brunch at a neat place just a block away from our AirBnB, Vessel. The restaurant exists in a converted Lutheran church from 1914, and its high, vaulted ceilings are adorned with wide, sturdy, wooden joists modeled after a ship’s hull (or so their website indicates). All of the stained glass is also still intact, and so the bottles of their diverse collection of spirits and wine shimmer as the warm, kaleidoscopic sunlight filters through the windows.
We weren’t able to eat inside and marvel at the interior as only outdoor seating was available, but the outdoor pavilion was still equally inviting as was our handsome waiter, Adam. Amy began her morning with a paloma and I with a bloody mary that was nice and spicy without overpowering all the other layers of flavor, and it was garnished with the usual pickled okra. So yummy!
For our mains, I enjoyed chicken and waffles (so crispy, so flavorful, so Southern) while Amy enjoyed jumbo shrimp and grits and Aaron eggs benedict with biscuits and gravy. I had a second bloody mary while Amy enjoyed a Pimm’s cup, and our other server commented with a wink, “Gin makes you sin!” to which Amy playfully retorted, “Well, we are in a church!”
In short, Vessel was a real highlight of all the brunches we’ve had so far, and I highly recommend a visit to enjoy not only the amazing food and friendly service but also its unique procurement and reinvention of a holy space, as befits feasts that could very well be prepared for gods and not mere mortals!
We next decided to take a lazy stroll underneath the pleasantly warm New Orleanian sun towards Saint Louis Cemetery No. 3. Our walk took us through quieted, sleepy neighborhoods, northeast along Scott Street, then southeast along Dumaine, and then northeast across the Bayou St. John by way of the Magnolia Bridge, a rigidly severe structure of giant iron beams pierced with sturdy rivets and painted a playful sky blue. Where we Yankees may all it a creek or pond, a bayou is a marshy outlet of a lake or river, and as we were crossing the bridge, we encountered a man catching fish from it: “That’s a gar we saw swimming there, and they can get up to six feet long,” he remarked with a pleasantly melodic drawl as a streak of dark grey drifted delicately through the waters like a giant, slimy, gooey ribbon, “But catfish are half alligator and difficult to kill, and in the Mississippi they can get to be 120 pounds. So that’s why I’m trying to catch some perch.” We wished him luck as we departed, hopeful that his encyclopedic knowledge of fish would help him snare the perfect filet.
Not before long, we arrived at St. Louis No. 3. Outwardly, the cemeteries here appear ancient—crumbling mausoleums shimmering white lined up in long, long rows counterpointed by newer, granite columbariums standing as tall sentries amongst the dead—but many cemeteries here date from only the 1850s, and most of its residents lived in the 20th and 21st centuries. Regardless, they are still fascinating places to visit. St. Louis No 3 is a particularly long and narrow space, barely managing 400 feet wide while endlessly stretching northeast about a half mile. It also has wider alleyways than most other cemeteries here, whole motorcades able to drift comfortably within its lanes. While I did enjoy visiting this particular cemetery (and keep in mind my attention span for places like these is about 23 minutes), you may want to visit the smaller, more cramped cemeteries like St. Louis No. 1 to immerse yourself in a more intimate, claustrophobic visitation.
We next made our way past the New Orleans Museum of Art (a tall, stately building inspired by ancient Roman design) via Lelong Drive (a grand, elegant boulevard lined with what I believe were crepe myrtle trees, all overflowing with seed pods resembling acorns, while blindingly white egrets congregated in the grass) and then onwards to the Sydney and Walda Besthoff Sculpture Garden. Where Minneapolis’s own sculpture garden is an austere, uninviting graveyard devoid of its previous charm following its perplexing 2017 redesign that makes you think of the flatlands of Kansas except with some bits of red-painted metal sticking out of the ground, arranged sharply and jaggedly, the Besthoff garden is exceptionally superior: narrow, brick walkways shrouded in mysterious pines, magnolias, and oaks; elegant statues of beautifully fertile women and chiseled, athletic men tucked away in small alcoves of shrubbery; and elegant reflecting ponds, motionless and still, as smooth as polished glass. I really enjoyed visiting the Besthoff garden last time I was here, and I’m glad that we strolled through it again this time around. I highly recommend a visit, especially if you need a quiet, meditative place to reconcile the numerous sinful dinners and countless unholy drinks you no doubt will have consumed by your third day here.
We next made our way towards Cafe du Monde (the one located right near the sculpture garden). Everyone always writes home about Cafe du Monde, and I honestly don’t understand what the fuss is about. We didn’t visit one last time in 2015, and we only went this time in 2022 to just say that we went. Their coffee isn’t anything special, the servers are all annoyed and tired, and their beignets are satirical travesties of the genuine article—flat and crumpled and unimaginatively tossed into a paper bag as if disposing of shriveled corpses in a communal grave. Just don’t go and instead visit a Cafe Beignet instead (more about that on day 6).
We had a 4:30 appointment for a cocktail tour with Cajun Encounters Tour Company, specifically their Legends and Spirits Cocktail Tour, so we made our way back to the French Quarter via streetcar down Canal. We arrived at their office on Decatur Street at Saint Philip and were checked in by a lady who lived through one Minnesota winter in White Bear Lake (“Worst thing that ever happened to me!” she playfully remarked).
We soon were off with our tour guide, Jason, leading the way. Jason had a peculiar mode of speech, haltingly deadpan with a feigned tone of disinterest. It was distracting at first but then eventually just a quirk. We enjoyed four stops total on our trip, and our first stop brought us to Molly’s Irish Pub, where we learned about the Irish immigrants who moved to New Orleans from New York and brought with them their coffee. However, drinking piping hot coffee in the summer months of the sweltering New Orleans heat was uncomfortably untenable, so they invented frozen, blended coffees with a consistency resembling chocolate malts, dressed up with booze, because when in New Orleans do as the Irish do, apparently. These coffees were so amazingly delightful and so much better than the frozen monstrosities that Cafe du Monde serves up, so do stop by Molly’s without hesitation.
As we were sipping our delightful potables, we also learned from Jason that Molly’s Irish Pub was named after a kitty named Molly who visited the pub. I would like to think that Molly herself also enjoyed frozen coffees, but that might just be a little too ridiculous. The pub also had numerous uniform badges from first responders affixed to the walls, as Molly’s was one of the first bars to reopen following Hurricane Katrina and so therefore served the responders much deserved refreshments. Molly’s is also independently owned and so isn’t beholden to demands from a giant distributor, so they get to pour whatever the hell they want.
We next made our way down Bourbon Street, that infamous avenue known for its loud debauchery and its excessively intoxicated frequenters. And at about 5:00pm on a Saturday, the street lived up to its reputation, a giant block party forming right outside Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar, some of the revelers dressed in fancy pirates’ regalia, Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” blaring loudly and anachronistically. Built between 1722-1732, the structure that houses Blacksmith Shop Bar is apparently the oldest building in the United States to be used as a bar and is lit entirely and dimly by candlelight.
Since there was quite a hubbub inside and outside the Blacksmith Shop, we instead went to the neighboring Lafitte Hotel and Bar, both locations affiliated with the other. The drink we enjoyed here was the famous Hurricane, a fruity rum concoction invented during World War II. While the drink itself was created at a bar called Pat O’Brien’s, Jason told us that Blacksmith makes the best version of the drink, as they use real passion fruit juice. Jason also told us that Lafitte gets its name from real-life Jean Lafitte, a pirate from the late 18th and early 19th centuries. He was well-connected and supplied the U.S. with gun powder, flint, and troops to help defeat the British in battle in 1814 at the mouth of the Mississippi.
We next waded our way through the revelers of Bourbon Street past the reportedly oldest gay bar in the U.S., Cafe Lafitte in Exile, then off Bourbon down Dumaine where at address number 632 Jason pointed out a dilapidated house painted olive green that was used as a location in Interview with the Vampire. We also marveled at all the surrounding ornate wrought iron balconies and learned that balconies supported by equally ornate legs are actually called galleries.
Soon we were at our third stop, Pirates Alley Cafe, located on, naturally enough, Pirates Alley, where William Faulkner wrote his first novel, Soldier’s Pay. It was here where we got to enjoy real absinthe prepared as it should be: pour a modest amount of absinthe into a glass; then place a flat, slotted absinthe spoon on top of the glass followed by a sugar cube on top of that; then patiently drip water onto the sugar cube until it dissolves completely through the spoon and then serve. For the uninitiated, absinthe tastes severely of black liquorice due to the preponderance of anise. I generally strongly dislike black liquorice (it’s one of maybe three things I refuse to eat), but for some reason when the flavor is in alcohol form it is bitingly welcome and penetratingly spikey, awakening bitter demons and flighty fairies.
Our tour was concluding fast, so we made our way towards MRB past old apartments that sell for over $1 million and that are so old that the only way out onto the galleries is through the window and not a door. When we arrived at MRB, we enjoyed Pimm’s Cups amongst a rowdy crowd spectating an intensely close game of college football, the winning team dramatically breaking the tied score with a field goal with two seconds left on the clock, the entire bar erupting in primordial whoops that would make apes proud. There were also two individuals from Kent, England on our tour who had no idea what was happening during the game. Later on, we talked about our travels together but as our discussions continued, it was clear that they were grotesque supporters of the Tories and called those who wear masks “brain washed.” We tried the best we could to steer the conversation away from politics before we bid each other farewell.
While we enjoyed tasting the various cocktails on our tour with Jason and while his stories were interesting, I’m not sure if I’d recommend booking a ticket for yourself. While the tickets were modestly priced, it was only because the drinks weren’t included. Instead, cocktails weren’t even pre-made before you arrived at each stop, so you had to order and pay for your drinks at the bar when you arrived which took up too much time as we waited for everyone to get settled. That said, it was still pretty fun, just not something I can in good conscience recommend.
We eventually needed to make our way towards the Tremé neighborhood for dinner, but we had time to spare, so we explored Frenchman Street, renowned for its live music. We stopped by Favela Chic, an unassuming, open space with brightly painted murals on its walls and a raised stage capable of comfortably fitting four performers, in this case the New Orleans Rug Cutters, whose classic jazz from the early 20th century was performed with a careful delicacy but with a relaxed precision that invited the body to move smoothly and gracefully.
We decided to walk from Favela Chic to Gabrielle Restaurant, the air warm, thick, and dense with a weighted moisture. It ended up being about a 40 minute walk down Esplanade Avenue where we could marvel at fancy, grand, palatial houses with tall split pane windows and opulent fountains and then down North Rocheblave Street, a street in much disrepair, trapping sand and muck in shoes with open toes.
Gabrielle Restaurant itself was… fine? I guess? Something else I wouldn’t write home about, I suppose. Not bad, just not mind bendingly memorable. The service was inviting and friendly, the walls adorned smartly with posters of jazz festivals of years past, but the cocktails didn’t really stand out as anything new or special, and their reinvention of the jambalaya was uninspired. We also got a goat cheese salad, a shrimp pie, and a dungeness crab bisque, and I just don’t have any words to recall any memories of eating any of this. And I usually don’t have a problem with finding the right words, as this 2500 word blog post attests.
The only thing that was particularly memorable about Gabrielle Restaurant was this distracting table that had sat at it an old, white-haired man in a smart suit accompanied by three, young, beautiful women, wide eyed and smiling. Aaron’s favorite game at restaurants is to figure out everyone’s stories, and this table provided an exceptional challenge. Was the old man hiring these women for sex? Was he interviewing them as applicants to join his private sex worker operation? Were they his grandchildren? Were they trying to swindle him for money in his will before he died? We just didn’t know and couldn’t figure it out.
And so, with that, we took a Lyft back to our AirBnB in Mid City and called it a day. But we really were just getting started, as so many more adventures awaited us still.
Just one stray observation:
- On our ride on the streetcar to the cocktail tour, the streetcar operator was clearly asleep at the, er, buttons and levers as he missed two or three stops even after repeated requests from several riders and a woman in the back yelling out, “Back door! Back door!” She finally did get off, but three stops too late, and I remarked to her, “Maybe it’s his first day,” to which she replied, “I’ve known this driver for six years!” and then exasperatedly called out, “Shame on you!” as she stepped off the streetcar.