The 48 streetcar followed by a transfer to the 49 streetcar brought us to brunch on the morning of our fifth day (don’t count on any of these posts to start with anything other than what we had for the first meal of the day) to the Marigny and Bywater neighborhoods (a quieter, more artsy part of town that felt a little bit like the Northeast Arts District in Minneapolis except with no traffic and shorter buildings) at the corner of Spain and Chartres, a little place called Horn’s Eatery, and for once our meal did not include anything with alcohol as Horn’s hasn’t got any, but this didn’t at all detract from how absolutely lovely it was to have brunch at such an unassumingly humble place.
Outwardly, you might first mistake Horn’s for a simple corner coffee shop where hippies and lesbians enjoy yerba mate while they delude themselves with idiotic horoscopes and stupid crystals, but Horn’s is actually a robust restaurant with an enticing menu for breakfast and lunch (but not dinner, as they close at 2:00), and I think lesbians and hippies would probably still enjoy a visit. Ordering at the counter and reading from chalkboards, the three of us felt an intense desire to eat some salads on account of all the rich, Southern foods we so far had enjoyed. But naturally, along with our side salads, Aaron and I couldn’t resist ordering their Creole slammer (shredded hash browns and two eggs topped with étouffée) and Amy their grits and étouffée. While we didn’t order yerba mate, we did order an iced herbal tea called blue eyes as if we were hippies and lesbians, but the servers mistakenly brought us blueberry juice instead, but it was still refreshingly energizing and we didn’t really mind the mistake.
We decided to sit outside at the restaurant’s sidewalk tables, and our friendly, smiling server asked us, “Where y’all been eatin’?” When we listed all the places we’d visited so far, she said we were making very good choices, adding that she, too, can only eat so much of all this Southern Creole food, usually lasting about four days when she has guests in town. And the food at Horn’s continued to test our abilities to perpetually enjoy more, heavy, Southern fare—the étouffée appropriately slathered in an enticingly shiny brown sauce, tiny shrimp poking their little tails out of the sea of indulgence, all perfectly peppery with a nice amount of heat without shielding the other seasonings. The grits, however, weren’t the best we’d had, as they were basically plain and undressed without cheese or other seasonings, lifeless as paste and listless as boredom. That said, I’d still recommend a visit if not for Horn’s inviting atmosphere, friendly service, comforting fare, and outdoor seating (where you could marvel at a nearby lemon tree across the street that reminded Aaron of the Peter, Paul, and Mary tune) in a sleepy neighborhood complemented by a lazy Southern breeze which was in turn, however, unwelcomingly marred by some lazy man using a meaningless leaf blower, wrecking the streetside ambiance just a tad. But I digress.
After brunch we walked a short distance to Pepp’s Pub, a respectfully unpretentious bar named after the bar owner’s dog. Scattered throughout the bar’s wooden walls in a system of organization fit for a madman were polaroids of dogs who had paid Pepp’s a pop-round. And these photos were complemented by other photos except of humans who had just tried malört for the first time. Malört is a curious liqueur made famous by Jeppson’s, a self-proclaimed Chicago icon. I had never had malört, and so bizarrely—despite Amy’s past experience with the intoxicant—Amy and I ordered two shots along with our margaritas. Distractingly, malört presents an alluring bouquet of sweet flowers and the initial taste as the liqueur meets the tongue is an eclectic celebration of beguilingly herbaceous flora. However, before these pleasant sensations have any lasting hope of survival, the whole palette turns to a maliciously bitter shriek of tree bark, tennis shoes, ancient rubber tires, and sickened corpses.
However, I ironically found myself eventually starting to take to the drink, and when it was time for me to have my polaroid taken, I posed with a smile, one thumb pointing in the air, and I subtitled the photo with a black sharpie, “Resilient!” rather than with the negative descriptors others had decided (“ass” and “taint” and so forth, as you can imagine).
Since I had naturally filled up the bar’s jukebox with lots of my old favorites (The Who, Bruce Springsteen, New Order, Pet Shop Boys, Bleachers, to name a few), we obviously had to enjoy two (if not three) rounds of margaritas before we decided to take a stroll through the neighborhood to view its colorful murals along Royal Street (but not before stopping by Flora Coffee Shop, where Amy spit out the grossest coffee ever made). Royal Street is populated with a handful of dilapidated factories that have been enlivened with vibrantly colorful graffiti art: tall women with impressive afros; a young child with arms outstretched but bent at the elbows and palms raised towards the sky in adoration; vividly bold text declaring, “We’ gon’ make it rain or shine.” And some of these factories are now homes to art galleries including Jamnola and Studio BE. The galleries have limited hours and were sadly closed when we explored the neighborhood, so check ahead of time if you want to venture inside.
We continued east along Royal Street, admiring brew pubs and shotgun style houses painted in vibrant pastels standing within tiny yards lovingly overgrown with lusciously green sweet potato vines coiling themselves around wrought iron fences, vines spilling out onto the sidewalks. Our walk eventually brought us to the Country Club, a converted plantation mansion once renowned as a clothing-optional restaurant and bar. Now serving patrons whose clothes are visibly in place (although at one point a shirtless, handsome man did come inside from the pool to refresh his drink), we sat at the bar and enjoyed some old classic cocktails—salty dogs, palomas, vieux carrés—and a new invention, a Creole cocktail, a mesmerizingly tasty delight of Rittenhouse rye, Dolin sweet vermouth, China China liqueur, and benedictine.
As we admired the classically timeless architecture of the mansion interior (but now adorned with an alluring portrait of the statue of David wearing underwear), we enjoyed our conversation with the bartender who moved to New Orleans from Brooklyn, telling us tales of how it frequently rained inside the New York subway system and how she moved to New Orleans to live in a more affordable city where she can own a house and raise a child. (We did wonder if she could afford flood insurance, however.)
It seemed as though we just had our incredible brunch at Horn’s when we realized we were once again peckish, so we made our way to a barbecue joint that you simply must go to, a barbecue joint appropriately named the Joint, which is a 10 minute walk farther east along Royal Street from the Country Club.
The barbecue at the Joint is just absolutely and simply divine! It’s not the crap we have here in Minnesota, comatose meat claiming to be ribs hopelessly slathered in so-called barbecue sauce that is more corn syrup and red dye number 40 than anything resembling anything remotely edible. No, the barbecue in New Orleans and at the Joint in particular, is dry roasted to perfection, the juiciest meat willingly dropping off the bone with no effort, flavors of smokey woodfire and zesty seasonings tantalizingly teasing the nose and mouth into an impossible dream of ecstasy, no knives and no extra vinegar needed to allow the senses to envelop themselves into a celebration of shameless gluttony and sinful gratification.
While their sides of mac and cheese and potato salad were a tad too salty (sides that are too salty seem to happen a lot here), their mixed drinks were a perfect accompaniment to a magnificent meal: Moscow mules dressed with mezcal rather than vodka and a local concoction called a ruby moon (and I’m sorry, I didn’t take good enough notes to help me remember what was in it, but Amy assured me it was amazing). And if that wasn’t enough, I couldn’t resist ordering a slice of their delectable peanut butter pie to share. What a treat!
Also while at the Joint, we happened to run into the owner of Joey K’s who adored us when we dined there on our second day in town (“You were the sweetest table!” she exclaimed), and who we ran into again that same night when we were tracking down Bulldog for beers before we had dinner at Atchafalaya (“Oh! Tom L!” she called on the street, remembering my name as it appeared on the wait list), and who at the Joint cheerfully greeted us with, “Oh! Minnesota!” when she passed by our table. It was just so lovely to see her again as we talked about all the places we’ve been (“You’re really getting around!” she enthusiastically observed), and so we were determined to return to Joey K’s again during our adventures in hopes of seeing her at least one more time!
Nighttime was falling fast and the 70 degree weather was weirdly feeling a little bit nippy as the sun disappeared, but we wanted to enjoy some live music on Frenchman Street, so we began our 30 minute walk back west along Royal Street (although perhaps it took 40 minutes on account of our bulging tummies and loosened belts).
On our walk, we encountered a sobering historical site, the Press Street Railroad Yards which is the June 7, 1872 arrest site of Homer Adolph Plessy who “violated” Louisiana’s Separate Car Act and who would later lose the Supreme Court case in the despicable Plessy v. Ferguson decision, paving the way for contemptible and vile “separate but equal” laws. It’s historical moments like these that always make me wonder how our current Supreme Court does not see that they are making equally damaging and short-sighted decisions with cases like Citizens United and Dobbs and that cases like those will similarly go down in history as some of the worst Supreme Court decisions ever, forever tarnishing the court’s reputation of our current era as a court that performs incredible mental gymnastics in order to validate their old fashioned, 1950s beliefs that have no logical bearing and instead are quite simply repulsively nasty decisions with an aim to essentially just be mean to certain Americans, revealing that six of the justices have black hearts and dubious morals. It is despicable, disgusting, and horrible, and I’m not sure how John Roberts and the rest of his slimy counterparts can—quite frankly—sleep at night and wake up in the morning feeling good about their lives while causing vicious and vulgar harm to so many Americans. Like the so-called justices of the Plessy era, six morons on our current court will not be remembered kindly, and I don’t understand how they don’t see that. And since clearly they can’t, then obviously they are also just plain dumb.
Our last stop for the night, however, was anything but dumb. We arrived at 30°/-90° (the locals seemed to call it merely Thirty Ninety), a music venue and restaurant and bar so named because of its geographical position at 29.9544° latitude and -90.075° longitude. In addition to their expertly prepared cocktails, they’ve also got a spacious stage and an open table arrangement allowing for many options for unobstructed views of the performers. We caught just the end of the set for the Dapper Dandies, a group that played very Southern Dixie jazz, and I wish I could’ve heard more than just the last few minutes of their last tune.
They were followed by a group called Natural Bone Killers (they don’t seem to have a great internet presence), a larger and louder brass band group that performed an eclectic mix of covers ranging from Mark Ronson’s “Uptown Funk,” Harry Belafonte’s “Jump in the Line,” and Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” It was fascinating listening to some of these tunes reimagined with loud brass in styles we’d encountered at the second line parade on Sunday, and it was a fine way to end the evening. Although, I did find myself wondering if it is okay for Natural Bone Killers’ white male lead singer to imitate the voice of Harry Belefonte (a kind of sonic blackface, if you will), in the same way that—with each passing year—Sting’s occasional reggae style of voice becomes more and more uncomfortable to listen to whenever I tune my Apple music to the Police. I think these are valid observations and feelings that deserve more conversations.
It was hard to believe that at this point in our journeys we only had two full days left in New Orleans, and we felt that fact a little too keenly with twinges of sadness. But, our journeys weren’t over (yet), and there was still so much more to experience!
Stray observations:
- On our walk to Horns after disembarking from the streetcar, we walked past an open lot with trailers and temporary signs emblazoned with the word Hitman, indicating to us that we were walking past the filming location for an upcoming movie.
- Our bartender at Pepp’s Pub mentioned a friend he has who, like myself, enjoys malört, and he’s nicknamed Michael Two Dicks, but I can’t remember why.
- Outside of Pepp’s, don’t forget to admire their outdoor seating, barricaded in by religious iconography of the Virgin Mary defaced with a clown in place of baby Jesus and a belly cut open revealing tiny people in place of the fruit of her womb.
- While on our walk from the Joint to Frenchman street, we happened across a block party at the corner of Royal and Cluet featuring a performance by Tuba Skinny, a local musical group known for traditional jazz, jug band music, spirituals, country blues, string band music, ragtime, and New Orleans R&B. “It’s Monday night, right? And they’re having a block party? On Monday night?” we observed, eyebrows raised.
- As you admire the architecture of the homes in New Orleans, make sure to catch glimpses of ornamental grilles that help ventilate the crawl space beneath the raised platforms that houses here sit upon.
- While at 30°/-90°, they had a gentleman in the bathroom handing out paper towels. He presumably was from off the street, and the staff allowed him to make some money in tips. While I sympathized with the man’s situation, it’s very unnerving peeing while someone is right there just sitting down next to the sinks, especially for someone who already gets so pee shy in public spaces. “Please just pee! Please pee! Pee now!” I found myself saying to myself in hopeless encouragement.