How else to spend our final morning in New Orleans but at brunch, this time for one last visit at Vessel, that incredible restaurant inside a Lutheran Church from 1914. We had visited this lovely place on our third day when our travels were still fresh and new, but on this morning we found that melancholy, as usual and as expected, overwhelmed us exactly on time as we knew it would.

We had elected to make 9:00am reservations in advance just in case Vessel would be busy for brunch, but there was no need as we were the only ones arriving so strangely so early in the morning on a Thursday. We no doubt also surprised the staff when we arrived on time, as their doors opened fashionably late by about ten minutes. With a bleary expression and a voice cracking through a nighttime of disuse, our waiter remarked about their tardiness, “We almost didn’t make it,” as we explained that this was our final morning in town and that we had a noon hour flight to catch back to Minnesota.

Vessel continued to impress as we enjoyed our mimosas beneath the tall, vaulted ceilings of the old church with music playing softly in the background: “Stormy Weather” by Lena Horne, “Cabaret” by Louis Armstrong, and “I’m Gonna Live till I Die” by Sarah Vaughn. And all three of us ordered a side of grits with their eggs benedict prepared with a characteristically Southern flare: bacon wrapped boudin-stuffed pork tenderloin, poached eggs, and a mustard cream sauce, all over a bed of waffles on account of the fact that their biscuits were still in the oven needing an additional 45 minutes or so before they were ready.

And just like that, our adventures were over. And while it was all terribly sad that it was all over, we all had such an amazing time. And what times we did have! And I would have expected no less! It was exquisite! Absolutely exquisite! Visiting a town I adore with my two amazing traveling companions by my side, through and through, adventuring from seedy dive bars to classy craft cocktail joints, partaking in celebratory second line parades on the streets and listening to live transcendent jazz in iconic halls, indulging in gluttonous meals of shrimp and grits and chicken and waffles and etouffee and jambalaya to imbibing in sinful concoctions of magical sazeracs and dreamy vieux carres and endlessly bottomless mimosas, hangovers be damned!

One day we shall come back, a moment prepared for, and it won’t be a moment too soon. It is a day I can’t wait to arrive again, and I look forward to it with intense anticipation, unwavering assuredness, and an excitedly charmed imagination that shall never diminish, never ebb with the passing of time, and never fail to capture my mind and heart all over again…

Lastly, if you need a little help tracking down the source of the titles for my blog posts about our return to New Orleans, here are the answers. They were all derived from song lyrics and not song titles:

• Day 1: “Living Easy, Loving Free” – lyrics from “Highway to Hell” by AD/CD which was playing at B Macs.
• Day 2: “Fever All through the Night” – lyrics from “Fever” by the Neville Brothers; I can’t be sure if Cyril Neville actually performed this when we saw him at Tipitina’s, but—regardless—it is a tune that summed up our travels so beautifully.
• Day 3: “What I Find Is Pleasing” – lyrics from “Heart of Glass” by Blondie which we overheard from the block party outside Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar while we were on our cocktail tour.
• Day 4: “How Sweet and Wonderful Life Can Be” – lyrics from “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye, which was playing at Glady’s Bar.
• Day 5: “Living It Up in the City” – lyrics from “Uptown Funk” by Mark Ronson and which the Natural Bone Killers covered at 30°/-90°.
• Day 6: “E tutto brilla, e tutto scintilla” – lyrics from “Italove” by Emmanuelle which we heard playing at Cure.
• Day 7: “In and Out of Town” – lyrics from “Didn’t He Ramble” by J. Rosamond Johnson, James Weldon Johnson, and Bob Cole and performed at Preservation Hall.
• Day 8: “It’s Time for Celebrating” – lyrics from “Cabaret” by Louis Armstong which we heard at Vessel, obviously.

Sometimes all this frivolity catches up with you. And so it was on the morning of our last full day in New Orleans. And frustratingly so. I woke up with a slight headache and a slightly spinning head. It didn’t seem all that concerning at the time, but as the morning went on the symptoms worsened so much that I could barely drink any water. Aaron and Amy were so kind to go out to a local grocery store in walking distance to bring back yogurt, bananas, and Alka-seltzer, but it was too late. And I was out for the count, feeling embarrassed and sad and angry. And it was one of those hangovers where you spiral into shame and then convince yourself that you’re going to feel like this for the rest of your life.

I was so disappointed because we had planned to go back to Joey K’s to not only enjoy their amazing food and splendid bloody mary drinks, but to also hopefully run into the owner again who adored our table when we were last there and who we ran into by chance on two additional occasions. Admitting defeat and curled in a fetal position on the couch, I told Amy and Aaron to start their day and that I’d join them later.

Oh how I wish I could’ve joined them, as apparently when Amy and Aaron arrived at Joey K’s, our greatest fan didn’t recognize us because Amy and Aaron were a duo and not a trio. Even as they tried to jog her memory, she remarked, “Oh! There was this other group of Minnesotans…” to which Amy and Aaron said, “That was us!” and to which our fan asked, “Oh! But where’s Sweater Vest?” referring to me. It sounded like such an incredible exchange as they also asked whether she knew what a lagniappe was, and she did! And so after they finished their meal, she prepared a parting lagniappe, some bread pudding, for Amy and Aaron to enjoy.

Sadly, I was incapacitated well into the afternoon but was able to finally pull myself together by 3:00. I had discovered that Amy and Aaron had met up with their Minneapolis neighbors, Peter and Paul, who had just arrived in New Orleans, at Louis Armstrong Park, so I grabbed the closest Blue Bike in hopes that a bit of exercise might help diminish the last remaining vestiges of my now-mild and manageable hangover symptoms.

My route to the park took me mainly along a lovely bikeway called Lafitte Greenway, a 2.6 mile paved trail connecting the French Quarter all the way to City Park. It was an exhilarating ride, and I could feel my blood delivering much-needed fresh oxygen to the rest of my body with expeditious haste. I highly recommend going out of your way for a bike ride on this greenway even if you don’t need help shaking off a hangover (although this is an added perk if you do), as it takes you through some gorgeous green spaces away from busy traffic while also providing views of the city. While the trail does need to cross a few busy streets, this is a mild irritation that only slightly detracts from enjoying a carefree bike ride.

Soon, I found myself at Louis Armstrong Park, and it was lovely to see it again, having visited it with Amy last time round. The main entrance features a spectacular white arch, Louis’s last name arranged along its arc in bold typeface, spelt with tiny light bulbs, a luminous celebration. Within the park’s 31 acres stand various statues and sculptures, a memorable one appearing right as you cross the arch’s threshold, a metal sculpture of men marching in a second line parade, trumpets and trombones pointed towards the sky. A reflecting pond shaped more like a geometric river, its concrete embankments angular and pointed, provides a mirror for bridges of various architectural styles that connect pedestrians from one side to the other, a particularly classy bridge lined with elegant street lanterns.

At long last, Amy, Aaron, Peter, Paul, and I found each other (“I’ve had prouder moments,” I remarked when they asked how I was doing, my eyes still slightly sensitive to the bright New Orleans sun), and we made our way into the French Quarter, stopping at a delightfully curious place called Vampire Cafe where we all enjoyed some whimsical cocktails named after human blood types. Hoping that a little dog’s fur from the backside of an old camel’s needle (or whatever the expression is) would help to finally quash the rapidly diminishing symptoms of my hangover, I elected to enjoy a drink called B-, essentially a vodka screwdriver but with curacao that turned the drink a vibrant greenish blue hue. Following our drinks, we visited the nextdoor Boutique du Vampyre where I picked up some Vampire gourmet coffee to take back to Minnesota and where we all enjoyed sneaking peeks at their various other gifts like skull-shaped candle holders, leather bound journals, porcelain dolls, and assortments of vampire fangs and other make-up, all the while becoming dizzyingly perplexed by the heavy aromas of incense.

We next wanted to check out another drinks place called Loa located in the International House Hotel, so we made our way down Royal Street past the Louisiana Supreme Court building (a grand structure in the Beaux-Arts style counterpointed by Roman columns, dignified wooden doors, and brilliant arched windows), while a street musician performing a tune by Dr. John graced our ears. When we arrived at Loa, we were taken aback by its classic elegance reimagined with a modern twist: timelessly white walls embellished with unapologetically simple wooden moldings, comfy bar stools topped with satin seats, light bulbs encased in fixtures that reminded me of giant upside down stemless wine glasses and hanging by thick wires. The drinks menu featured six signature cocktails all requiring verbose descriptions that rivaled the length of one of my blog posts. Meanwhile, a playlist of music featuring hits that only I would have strung together permeated the space as “Wishing” by Flock of Seagulls, “Feel It All Around” by Washed Out, “Lay Your Hands” by Thompson Twins, and “Psycho Killer” by Talking Heads played through invisible speakers.

Our server was a positive delight (“I’m not a waitress! I’m a bartender!” she exclaimed as she precariously balanced our five tall drinks on a tiny tray, omens of a wobbly catastrophe averted by her delicate charm), as she told us how the International House Hotel opened 25 years ago and was the first boutique hotel in New Orleans. We also learned that Loa was the first craft cocktail bar in town, and while the hotel restaurant was lost due to COVID, they are quietly reimagining to open once again.

We enjoyed two rounds of drinks (their Joan of Arc drink particularly memorable, a rye concoction with bitters, grapefruit soda, and lavender), as we talked extensively about all our genealogies. And it seemed a moment much too soon when our time with Peter and Paul sadly and rapidly began coming to a close, as we had to depart our separate ways for our independent evening plans. But what a joy it was to hang out with them in New Orleans. I hope this wasn’t the first and only time!

By this point, I was at last feeling 100% myself and was so hungry I could’ve devoured a whole alligator in one gulp, so we made our way to NOLA Poboys located right on Bourbon Street in the French Quarter. The “poor boy” or po-boy sandwich (a submarine sandwich filled with any meat or seafood you desire, usually roast beef or fried seafood like shrimp or crawfish) is a New Orleans staple that may have gotten its name when in 1929 the Martin Brothers’ French Market Restaurant and Coffee Stand fed the sandwiches to striking streetcar workers, Benny Martin reportedly remarking, “We fed those men free of charge until the strike ended. Whenever we saw one of the striking men coming, one of us would say, ‘Here comes another poor boy’.” However, the real history may not be quite so romantically poetic, as others argue that poor boy may have been confused with pour bourre or for tips when nuns from the 1800s gave the tips of their French bread loaves to beggars. Regardless of the origin of the name of this sandwich, this no-frills meal is something you’ve got to enjoy at least once (if not hundreds of times over).

And no-frills is what you’ll get at NOLA Poboys, a hole-in-the-wall shop with uncomfortable booths; cheap, wooden walls falling apart and revealing electrics underneath; old posters glued to the ceiling and advertising musical performances from who knows what year; and an alluring menu posted above the registers and presented in striking colors of reds, blues, and yellows listing a plethora of options of po-boy sandwiches. As I was hungry enough to eat an entire alligator, I opted for a fried alligator po-boy sandwich and it was everything I hoped it would be: a 12-inch long sandwich made with a bread boasting a crispy crust and a soft inside filled with cubed alligator meat doused in a thick batter and fried to perfection, hot and spicy, dressed liberally with mayo, lettuce, tomatoes, and pickles. It may be simple, but that should never be something to apologize for, especially if simplicity yields perfection. The sandwich was perfectly spicy for me, but if Heinz ketchup is too spicy for you, you can order your sandwich “yankee” style where they’ll dial the spices down to more mild levels. But that sounds so boring I might just die instead.

Dinner was concluding fast, and we had to make our way to Preservation Hall, a live music venue in the French Quarter. The history of the hall dates to the 1950s when the hall’s location at 726 Saint Peter Street was an art gallery, Associated Artists. The gallery’s owner, Larry Borenstein, began to invite jazz musicians to perform “rehearsal sessions” at the space, since he found that running the gallery meant he was unable to attend jazz performances around town. Over time, these sessions became so frequent that Borenstein moved the gallery next door and eventually in 1960 the performances were noticed by honeymooners Allan and Sandra Jaffe. They took such a liking to the space and the music that Borenstein allowed Allan Jaffe to run the musical operations, and it became a family business. Through the 1970s and 1980s, Preservation Hall became world famous, and following Allan Jaffe’s death in 1987, the hall continues to be run by the Jaffe’s second son, Benjamin.

And what a delight it was to attend a performance at Preservation Hall! Tickets and space are limited, so make sure to buy your tickets at least a couple days in advance. It’s also important to arrive at least a half hour early (if not earlier) before your showtime, as shows are general admission, so you’ll stand (or, if you’re lucky, sit) wherever the luck of the queue allows. The space itself is ratty and frayed, dilapidated walls worn around the edges, split pane windows clouded with a film of smoke. Soon, the band struck up, an ensemble featuring a piano, two trumpets, a trombone, and a drum kit, if memory serves. We were treated to lively performances of the Gettysburg March and “There’s a Hole in My Bucket,” while the band leader was bright and energetic, smartly dressed in a suit and tie fit for a Sunday afternoon, as he told us stories of a funeral dirge they performed that preceded a lively piece called “Didn’t He Ramble,” a celebratory tune to be played to commemorate the life of whoever had just been buried, all making us recall the joyous time we had marching in the second line parade on our fourth day in town. The music was so Southern, so Dixie, so New Orleans! I can’t wait to visit the hall again!

As it was our last night in town, we wanted to listen to as much jazz as possible, so we meandered throughout the French Quarter, stopping by Fritzel’s European Jazz Club (a tightly small establishment bursting at the seams with guests, barely enough room for us to sit to enjoy a performance, the server never making it to our table for a drinks order before we left), then heading towards Frenchman Street (but not before briefly checking out Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar only to discover it, too, was overrun with guests) to check out the Spotted Cat Music Club, also overrun with loud people enjoying loud music.

Fearing we weren’t going to be able to find what we were desiring (a quiet place with few people and softer, easier jazz), we eventually discovered the Remedy Bar in the Royal Frenchman Hotel. It was a classy joint with a smart bar serving exactly the drinks we wanted (sazeracs, of course), while an intimate ensemble (presumably a group of local college kids) of a bass, a piano, some drums, and a saxophone performed delightful jazz, easy to listen to while sipping classic drinks and engaging in quieted conversations, reminiscing of the times we’ve had.

And they were times that were slipping away from us fast, as the night was waning resolutely and unapologetically, and soon we were back at our AirBnB in the Mid City neighborhood dreading the imminent departure to come so unwelcomingly the next day. But what times we did have indeed, in ways I wouldn’t have any other way!

Stray observations:

1. There are a number of candy shops in the French Quarter that specialize in pralines, and we stopped by one called the Magnolia Praline Company. When I remarked to the clerk who wrapped up my order that this was our last day in town and that we were going to miss New Orleans terribly, she exclaimed excitedly, “Well, y’all better come back again soon!”
2. As we were meandering through the French Quarter in search of more jazz following the performance at Preservation Hall, we became keenly aware of how many Irish pubs there were in the quarter, reminding us of what we learned about the Irish and New Orleans on our third day in town when we enjoyed our cocktail tour.

While there will be eight days of posts for our New Orleans trip, day six really was our penultimate day here as we were due to depart New Orleans over the noon hour on our last day. Time just seems to slip away too quickly when on vacation, having a glorious time, but that didn’t stop us from fitting in as much as we could for our final two days!

Our morning began, naturally enough, with brunch, this time at a little place just down the street from our AirBnB in the Mid City neighborhood, the restaurant with a pun, Up and Adam. The short walk to the restaurant felt a little bit chilly as temperatures took a dive overnight, and we actually had to turn the heat on in the shotgun we were staying at (low 60s in October in New Oreans feel cold when you’ve been enjoying temperatures in the 80s, whereas low 60s in October in Minneapolis would feel positively tropical).

Up and Adam is a quaint little place with minimal fuss (“Save Your Tears” by The Weekend playing in the background), and it completes a trio of places—along with Katie’s and Vessel—in the Mid City neighborhood all within walking distance of each other where you can enjoy some pretty amazing Southern Creole fare. That said, at Up and Adam, it seemed they were still figuring out a cadence to their wait staff’s workload, and I couldn’t decide if it was because they were still figuring out how to run a restaurant (they just opened in July 2021) or if they were short staffed the day we arrived. Apologetically, the host who seated us acknowledged the delay in getting a waiter to us as she admitted to seating us too soon, and then—to fix the error—they asked the bartender to wait on us instead so we didn’t have to wait any longer. It was an all-too-rare honest admission to a faulty process that made me adore this place for its sincerity and delicate care for its diners. Own up to your mistakes, apologize for them, do what you can to make things right, and then carry on. It’s really very simple.

As with Katie’s, Up and Adam also had mimosa service by the bottle, but we could choose from a variety of juices (our server was particularly excited as she listed off the possibilities), and we elected to have orange and pineapple for this brunch stand-by. For our mains, Amy had a crawfish omelet, Aaron fried catfish and grits, and a chicken biscuit for me. Everything, as you might expect, was exceptionally tasty and satisfyingly filling, my only complaint that I should’ve gotten the full chicken and waffles as the chicken biscuit was just that: fried chicken on a biscuit and nothing else. It just was a little boring. These small quibbles to trivialities aside, Up and Adam was a real delight and I highly recommend a visit.

We soon had to make our way via streetcar towards the French Quarter to Sazarac House, a whiskey tasting experience and museum that just opened in 2019 in a renovated, stately, historic building at the corner of Canal and Magazine, five stories tall and standing majestically, each floor adorned with great, elegant, split pane windows. I recommend buying your tickets ahead of time to save time standing in line when you arrive and to also ensure that they’ll fit you in for a tasting at a time that works for you. We partook in their Whiskey Grid Tasting experience, which seems to only happen on Tuesdays at 1:00.

After we checked in and having a few minutes to spare, it was quite lovely to admire the centerpiece of the wide open space of the main entrance: a soaring collection of shelves stretching three stories tall, all the shelves containing bottles of whiskey, back-lit in classic white and organized like rows of soldiers. And standing before this astonishing sight stood an impressive, open staircase with wrought iron railings, bringing guests all the way to the third floor.

Soon, we were off to start our whiskey tasting, an elevator taking us to—I believe—the fifth floor, where we were led into a tasting room. Doors closing behind us, we all sat at tables (or, in my case, right at the bar) dressed with four simple yet elegant glasses resting upon a wooden tray, each glass filled enticingly with a different variety of whiskey, each shining golden in the warm lights. The facilitator of our tasting—whimsically named Cookie, a self-professed Star Wars fan, his arms stained with dark, bold tattoos that complemented his equally dark five o’clock shadow, a voice like James Cromwell resonating deeply—guided us through each of the whiskeys, referring us to an informative tasting wheel printed on cardstock to help us describe the sensations: clove and black pepper, wheat and corn, oak and pine, prunes and blackberries, vanilla and toffee, and so many other descriptors. Whenever I attend tastings, I must admit, I always find myself rolling my eyes a bit, especially when there are people about remarking in a fake fancy accent as they taste, “Mmmm, yes, I’m getting raspberry and cinnamon at the front, butter and caramel throughout, and at the end lemon and orange,” as if they’re issuing lawful pronouncements about something deeply important, so it was refreshing when Cookie declared, impassively, “You taste what you taste. There are no wrong answers.”

One of our number in the tasting, a hopelessly irritating mansplainer by the name of Ryan, might’ve disagreed with Cookie, as his frequently loud interruptions that included pompous declarations prefaced with, “When I do tastings…” and “This master blender I met once…” revealed a man insecure in his beliefs, masked by a facade of confidence with an assurance as powerful and intimidating as a paper tiger.

Ignoring Ryan as much as we could, we made our way through each of the four whiskeys, taking turns describing what we were tasting: the Sazarak rye was spicy; the Buffalo Trace sweet and buttery; the E.H. Taylor quite woody; and the Eagle Rare delicate and spicy, a whiskey fit for a finest Christmastime hot toddy. At the end of it all, we got to have one last extra pour of our favorite whiskey (a “lagniappe,” Cookie called the extra bonus, a word he didn’t know how to spell when I asked him), and I elected to enjoy another Eagle Rare before we were off on our way to enjoy the museum.

The museum was state-of-the-art and quite expertly curated, complete with glass cases containing artifacts of bottles and serving glasses counterpointed with informative placards, drawers filled with various grains to allow us to catch whiffs of whiskey’s progenitors, and interactive screens to witness bartenders making various drinks like the sazerac itself. As I’ve remarked countless times throughout all my meandering writings about my travels, my attention span for museums is about 38 minutes or so, and so I found myself rushing to each of the three stations in the museum where we got to enjoy a tiny sampling of a cocktail: a classic sazerac (slightly sweet with black licorice remaining at bay as to not overpower the whiskey), a guillotine joe no. 2 (an autumnal concoction with flavors of pumpkin spice and orange), and a maple leaf (a syrupy sweetness tempered with a zesty lemon). It was all quite lovely and gave us all ideas of what to serve as a signature cocktail at a party.

My attention span for museums exhausted (but my eyes, nose, and mouth salivating with anticipation for more tasty sins), we next made our way to Cafe Beignet on Royal Street to correct an error from our third day in New Orleans when we inexplicably choked down beignets from Cafe du Monde if only to say we’ve been to Cafe du Monde (we very nearly didn’t survive, so enter at your own risk). Cafe Beignet, unlike its baffling competitor, knows how to make beignets superbly perfect: piping hot rectangular pastries, wide and fluffy, deep fried to a mesmerizingly golden brown, lavishly dusted in snow banks of powdered sugar. A triumph of the senses! A celebration in pastry! A positive delight for the mind and soul! Do skip Cafe du Monde, if you wouldn’t mind, and go only to Cafe Beignet, especially the one on Royal Street. You won’t be disappointed.

Our next stop brought us to Patrick’s Bar Vin, a delightful wine bar tucked away on Bienville Street, a wonderfully stylish place with leather arm chairs, exquisite floor rugs, a palette of wall colors in browns and burgundies, a place you might imagine boringly crusty and importantly dull old men from 1912 puffing on cigars, sipping whiskey, discussing the stock market and complaining about loud women. While we didn’t exactly have cigars nor gross, thick mustaches, we did enjoy sitting in the leather arm chairs enjoying a French 75 with cognac, that classic champagne cocktail normally dressed with gin, lemon juice, and simple syrup. It’s a sweeter drink and preferable for those of us who may not enjoy the more booze-forward sazerac. 

Soon it was time to make our way to dinner for the evening, and it involved a leisurely 25 minute walk down Tchoupitoulas Street (it’s pronounced CHOP-i-TOO-las). Walking through this part of town reminded me somewhat of walking through parts of Saint Paul but with traffic patterns more like those found in Minneapolis: brick buildings with flat facades, young to slightly mature trees lining sidewalks, and open parking lots fenced in with chain links, all accompanied by sudden rushes of loud traffic. We eventually arrived at Cochon, a restaurant Amy and I remembered vividly from our last trip here in 2015 and which we both simply had to visit again so Aaron could also experience its wonder. Indeed, I had written previously that Cochon would “transport you to a world of decadent Southern cuisine, mouths watering and voices mmmmmmm-ing and eyes closing in deep imagination.” What could possibly be better but to revisit such an experience!

Sadly, somehow Cochon did not impress in the way I remembered nor in a way my writings from 2015 suggested it should. We started with an order of wood fired oysters in chili garlic butter, and this was the final nail in the coffin to confirm—without a doubt—that the only way to eat oysters in New Orleans is at Katie’s: chargrilled and drenched in butter, black pepper, and garlic. The oysters at Cochon, meanwhile, were lifeless and lacking any semblance of excited Southern flare, as boring as a drip, dopey and lethargic. For our mains we all decided to order the same thing, for some reason: something called Louisiana cochon with jalapeno cheddar grits, braised collard greens, and pork jus. And, apparently, this was something we ordered, apparently. And ate. But I have no memory of it. Honestly, I don’t. I don’t know what to say except that that’s what my notes said we ordered. I’m so sorry I can’t be more helpful.

I could also write about how we ordered a chocolate chess pie and had a drink called nouveau, but the very thought of re-tracing my memory of any of this sounds so utterly boring I’m going to stop myself now before I die a slow, painful death due to my imagination suddenly lacking any ability to navigate through a sea of apathy and indifference. So let’s just carry on with something else more exciting, shall we?

We wanted to start making our way towards what would end up being our final stop for the night, the Maple Leaf Bar, but not before visiting a few places on the way. Our first diversion was to an amazing little dive called Ms Maes, which was accessible from Cochon via a short streetcar ride on the number 12 route accompanied by some more leisurely walking. Ms Maes was a lovely little treat for those of us who enjoy bars dimly lit with strings of Christmas lights, ratty old tiled ceilings that slowly are disappearing to time as they fall to pieces, paint peeling away to dry, lifeless chips of nothing, a bar stocked with third rate booze all arranged haphazardly in front of a giant mirror behind the bar, Halloween decorations strewn about with human skeletons sitting upright upon a high, wooden ledge, their legs crossed humorously. Ms Maes was the perfect place to enjoy gin and tonic drinks served with minimal fuss in plastic cups, and I would have it no other way!

Our next stop brought us ever closer to Maple Leaf, a chic, modern place called Cure, where we enjoyed seats at the bar to marvel at an impressive collection of bottles of booze arranged carefully upon long shelves extending five levels high, all the way to the ceiling while “Italove” played its incessantly repetitive electronica against the invitingly undramatic and calming vocals of singer Emmanuelle Seigner. While the atmosphere was quite memorable, I honestly don’t remember what we had to drink, but apparently we did order a plate of olives and cheese that was distractingly served with box standard saltine crackers, for some reason, taking us out of the slightly more upscale ambiance of the place.

A short Lyft ride later—our driver remarking about how much fun we’ll have at the Maple Leaf Bar, he himself telling us about all the great jazz he’s listened to there—we found ourselves at our final destination for the evening. Until I had walked through those doors, I honestly had no memory of what the place looked like from when Amy and I were there in 2015, but it all came flooding back in an instant. There was a full bar on one side of the establishment, and the other side featured a long, long hallway of a performance space: a slightly raised stage on one end; red, tin walls ornamenting an otherwise unassumingly dank place; uncomfortable church pews for seats standing starkly parallel to the walls; blue and purple lights aglow throughout.

Last time we were here, there was no live music, so make sure to plan ahead and check the bar’s performance schedule. I also recommend buying your tickets ahead of time to save time standing in line when you arrive. The music we got to enjoy this time around was incredible brass band music performed by the To Be Continued Brass Band, who also, incidentally, performed with us during the second line parade on Sunday, so it was absolutely lovely to listen to them again.

Indeed, I felt transported back to Sunday, recalling how much we enjoyed marching in the second line parade as we listened to the band play, except this time they were inside, arranged stationary on a stage, a row of trombones and trumpets blaring beautifully and loudly directly into microphones, amplifying an already loud sound into something altogether more ear-splittingly deafening, excited drums carrying the beat forward, a microphoned sousaphone in the back blasting the foundational bass, the brass players taking moments to sing, impassioned, “Glory, glory, hallelujah!” What a sound! What an ensemble! What a celebration of music and dance! What an experience to live! It was such a joy to experience the Maple Leaf Bar one more time and not for the last time, but this time with live music. I highly recommend you plan your visit accordingly so that you arrive when there’s a performance, as the evening will be memorably implanted in your mind’s eye, a moment never to forget.

And somehow, our day came to a close… just like that in an instant. But one more full day awaited us, and one more incredible musical experience was still to be had…

Stray observations:

1. While at Cochon, I had also written down that we ordered a side of sea island peas and pancetta, and we were surprised when the peas came out looking more like a plate of lentils in a thick brown sauce. We quickly googled this variety of pea to discover that they are very different from the standard green variety.
2. While at Ms Maes, there was a rather stumblingly drunk young man who had quite taken to me, calling me cute and asking me if I had a boyfriend. I merely let him dream up anything he wanted to about me, disallowing any likelihood of those dreams to become a realty. But what a sweetie he was if not a lost, wayward youth!
3. At the Maple Leaf Bar, it was still possible to buy cigarettes. From a vending machine. Yes, cigarettes. From… a vending… machine. If that doesn’t tell you anything about New Orleans then I don’t know what will.
4. Also while at Maple Leaf, I asked for a modest pour of Bulleit whiskey, sarcastically pronouncing it “bool-YAY,” as one does (or at least I do), to which the bartender exclaimed with a subtle New Orleans lilt, “Pretty sure they call it bullet in Kentucky!”

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:

1. 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.
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. 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.
5. 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.
6. 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.

On our fourth day here, the air continued to hang heavily, warm and weighted with moisture. But it wasn’t horrible as we took a short stroll through the Mid City neighborhood to Katie’s, our choice for the morning’s brunch.

Where Joey K’s atmosphere—upon first walking in—was immediately defined by a playful aesthetic with its bright, colorful signs that predicted an equally colorful and zesty meal, Katie’s initially presented an impression that we were in for some standard pub fare, unimpressive chairs and tables matched by equally drab walls, with only a brilliantly silver tin ceiling suggesting any semblance of a glimpse towards the amazing meal we were about to have.

Positive glimpses of the future remained elusive as we ordered their mimosa service: a standard bottle of bubbles served with orange juice in a disposable cup, accompanied by three empty plastic glasses for us to mix our drinks. However, looks—as with book covers—can be deceiving, and soon drinking mimosas out of substandard plastic revealed an alluring charm that pointed towards something altogether different, and Katie’s was soon to become a favorite place of all the places we’ll have dined at in New Orleans.

By the time our chargrilled oysters arrived—shells piping hot, having just been removed from the oven seconds beforehand, upon which rested a mollusk drowning in butter, black pepper, and garlic, all served with a thickly sliced baguette to soak up all the guilty sins—it occurred to us that this is how oysters from the gulf are to be served: completely drenched in a ridiculous display of fat and flavor, chargrilled to perfection. If you have time only for one thing at Katie’s, then do get their chargrilled oysters. Absolute heaven!

We finished off our decadent brunch with soft shell benedict and crawfish beignets—the crab deep fried in a thick batter, legs gracefully curled beneath poached eggs that were untidily but joyfully immersed in a bright yellow hollandaise (“Doesn’t even need any tabasco,” we observed)—and felt thereafter immediately satiated and overwhelmingly and pleasantly satisfied, and so it was time to head to our next stop, Sportsman Corner Bar on Dryades Street in the Faubourg Delassize neighborhood (“This used to be a rough neighborhood,” our Lyft driver remarked).

This was the location of the start of the second line parade that we were about to partake in, and how much I can’t overstate how unbelievably amazing an experience it was to—once again—participate in this incredible New Orleans tradition, having first experienced it in 2015 the first time Amy and I visited. Revelers were already congregating in the streets well before the 1:00pm commencement, participants dressed mainly in street clothes while dotted throughout were the royalty of the parade, ladies and gentlemen dressed in vibrantly red, fancy dresses and blindingly white, trimmed suits, and they in turn were accompanied by the so-called “Mardi Gras Indians,” dancers decorated with tall, feathery adornments, as a brass band blared cheery music to glorify a celebration of intense happiness.

According to the second line link I referenced above: “Historically, the African-American community began second lines as neighborhood celebrations. The neighborhood organizations offered social aid to freed slaves, such as loans and insurance, and used the second-lines [sic] as a form of advertising. Second lines were also used to honor members who died in their community, which launched the idea of second lines at funerals.” Additionally, this resource elaborates: “The term ‘second line parade’ refers to those who join in the rolling excitement. The people who are part of the hosting organization are the ‘first line’ of the parade while those who follow it along, dancing and often singing as they go, form what is known as the ‘second line’.”

Before the parade got underway, however, we naturally had to refill our empty hands with cups of booze, so we discovered a woman selling liquor and accompanying mixers out of the back of her faded red Chrystler. Aaron asked, “Could we have margaritas made with mezcal?” pointing towards some bottles with a golden liquor. “What’d y’all call that? Where y’all from?” the lady cheerfully inquired with a hefty laugh. “Er… Minnesota,” we sheepishly admitted and then quickly realized only tequila was available and not its cousin. Regardless, she served us up some drinks for the road and not before long we were under way.

Our hosts for this week’s second line (they usually occur on Sunday afternoons, this one from 1:00 to 5:00pm) were the Men of Class, one of the many social aid and pleasure clubs that organize the weekly second line. We were all accompanied by the brass bands Da Truth and To Be Continued, both performing gloriously vibrant music noisily and powerfully with trumpets, trombones, sousaphones, cowbells, washboards, drums, and cymbals struck by screwdrivers. Meanwhile, the royalty dressed in their blazing red and shocking white rode on floats while long lines of Mardi Gras Indians—wearing regalia embellished with bejeweled lobsters and headdresses adorned with tall plumes of red, blue, and pink feathers radiating outwards in an arc —danced in the streets to the cheerful music.

These parades are nothing short of a test of stamina for the musicians and the dancers, sweat bleeding through polyester suits, embouchures of infinite endurance producing music that never faded from anything short of uncountable decibels, trumpets blasting the highest notes of catchy, syncopated, repetitive tunes. We marched with the second line for a good two hours before we felt the need to have a sit-down (and we weren’t even expending that much energy compared to the other revelers), so we departed as the second liners continued on northwest up Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard at South Claiborne Avenue until they eventually would circle all the way back to the Sportsman Corner Bar. What an experience! What a celebration! What a tradition! What joy! What happiness! What bliss! If it isn’t obvious, this is me telling you that you must seek out a Sunday second line parade. It is uniquely New Orleansian and an incredible cultural gem that will live longer than time!

The parade slowly faded from view and the music became an indelible memory as we headed southeast down the central, grassy boulevard of Martin Luther King Jr., and we stumbled across Glady’s Bar. When we tried the front street entrance of the tiny establishment painted a bold red, a lady told us to go around to the side. So we did and we entered the bar, Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On,” playing on the jukebox, to discover we were the only white people in the whole place. We had surmised that this was going to be the case before we entered, so it wasn’t surprising at all when our assumption was validated.

While we enjoyed our drinks—the bartender gracefully serving us margaritas and observantly checking in with us when our glasses ran dry—so many questions and observations entered my mind. Was it okay for us to be here? Should we not have come inside? Were we invading a Black space that should be allowed to be completely Black? At the same time, I was so grateful for this experience so that I could see that Black folks do have Black spaces that are uniquely theirs, I just remain slightly apologetic if we disrupted a sacred space unnecessarily by simply being there.

Moving on from Glady’s, we hopped from bar to bar down Saint Charles Avenue (but not before waiting underneath an awning of a First Horizon bank while a sudden and brief downpour deluged the city). Our first stop was Lucky’s—a 24 hour bar in a converted house with elegant woodwork and a dark, ornate, tiled, copper-hued ceiling where the bartender asked us, “Is well vodka okay?” which is Southern speak for rail vodka—and then onwards to Bayou Bar within Pontchartrain Hotel—a fancier establishment compared to Lucky’s but with interminably slow service even at the slightly more lackadaisical pace to expect in the South, our manhattan drinks arriving after several ages, a lady standing at the bar for several minutes before eventually just giving up and going elsewhere, annoying people from a wedding just milling about and taking up space, our snack of fried calamari pale and lifeless and soggy, something I’d expect to eat at a Red Lobster—before we landed on our last stop before dinner, heading upstairs to the hotel’s rooftop bar, Hot Tin.

Hot Tin was my favorite of the bars we visited on Saint Charles, as not only were the cocktails expertly prepared (one drink with a Star Wars name, Young Padawan, and prepared on time, no less), but also because its location on the 12th story (of the two elevators in the lobby, the one on the right seeming to have access to the correct floor) offered gorgeously panoramic and openair views of New Orleans. If you are someone who—like me— experiences intrusive thoughts where you feel you might lose control of your senses and just throw yourself off over the edge, you’ll definitely experience that here. There was a pair of two old lesbians nearby also enjoying cocktails, and I was eyeing a section of roofing sitting slightly lower and adjacent to our rooftop platform, and I jokingly exclaimed, “I just gotta jump!” I didn’t, of course. It was really a remarkable view atop Hot Tin, and I highly recommend a visit so you can admire not only an incredible view of the city but also of the wide, grand Mississippi River.

Soon it was time for our dinner for the evening at a place called Lula—a more modern establishment with tall, drafty ceilings that belonged to an austere factory rather than a restaurant, and the air conditioning was set to a temperature much too cold, and the restaurant served food that was impossible to remember. The only part of the meal I do remember distinctly was the tomato stack we ordered, served over a hot garlic shrimp boil with fries. All I recall was that the fries were damp and soggy and the whole dish tasted strongly of vinegar and nothing else, the acetic acid burning holes through all other flavors and preventing anything else from mingling into any semblance of a sensible palette to be desired. I also wrote a note to myself that I had the pork osso buco, but I don’t have any memory of eating it or what it tasted like. That said, it’s quite an accomplishment for a place to leave a clear, lasting impression, but one of easily forgettable ephemera drifting off into the voids of fickle human memory.

We also might’ve just been so incredibly tired after all the excitement of the day, the second line parade a real highlight of not only this day but of our whole week. Indeed, it was precisely 8:21 when we left Lula to head home, old and drunk, feeling the aches and pains of middle age. And while we felt we ended the day on a dud, this was not a portent of doom to come as tomorrow we were to have quite a memorable day indeed!

Stray observations:

1. While we were on the second line, we happened to spot Steven, the resident heartthrob from Verret’s Bar who we met on day 2, also partaking in the festivities.
2. We also got to witness a small second line parade celebrating a wedding while atop Hotel Pontchartrain at Hot Tin, reminding us that second lines can happen anywhere and at any time and practically for any reason.

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:

1. 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.

We wanted to explore more parts of the city outside of the French Quarter, so we made our way via streetcar to Joey K’s, a Creole restaurant in the Garden District. While the streetcars generally are a joy to ride, the schedules aren’t necessarily always very reliable. We needed to connect with the number 12 near the French Quarter after riding the 47, but the 12 never came, so we elected to hire a Lyft instead, and so we were treated to a wonderful ride with a gentleman called Mauricio who was from São Paulo, and we all bonded over our love of travel and how it really does broaden the mind and help you appreciate this giant human family and all our traditions, languages, and cultures.

When we arrived at Joey K’s, we immediately felt we hit gold, so do go out of your way to enjoy this place. Outwardly, it’s an unassuming place that you might just walk by, painted in a forgettable green that’s more light-brown than anything, lined outside with modest wooden tables and red umbrellas, but upon arriving inside you’re at once greeted by the most friendliest staff, everyone delightfully cheerful, a reflection of the various colorful signs posted throughout, one reading in a bold white, “Joey K’s Red Beans and Rice,” against a vibrant red background adorned with white stars and green circles.

Seated outside, we started with an order of fried green tomatoes, because—of course—”When in Rome, do as the New Orleanians do,” as I think they say. There are certain foods that are only done properly in the South, and fried green tomatoes is one of them: here they were delectably zesty and lightly breaded and fried to a delicate and pleasing chestnut hue. We also enjoyed with our tomatoes some bloody mary drinks and Pimm’s cups, the former served complete with pickled okra.

We also ordered some deep fried oysters as well, as we surmised that the heavier, mealier variety down South might taste better when prepared that way. And while this mode of preparation did help (don’t forget to smother it in lemon juice or horseradish), hints of the oily, abused waters of the gulf still imbued the experience with a depressed reminder of how horrible humans can be.

Later on as our mains arrived (fried catfish for Aaron and me and Joey K’s combo of a shrimp and beef po boy with red beans and rice and jambalaya for Amy, all expertly prepared with that Southern flare of seasoned charm, peppery beauty, and savory elegance), we remarked to our server how lovely the weather was, and she observed, “This is actually pretty temperate. Normally it’s much warmer, so we’re quite lucky right now.” So, we decided to take advantage of the mild, 80-degree weather by riding around on some Blue Bikes, a bike share program around town where you can unlock publicly parked electric bikes with an app on your phone.

I frequently remark, even when not traveling, that there’s nothing like feeling more connected to a city and its neighborhoods than when exploring it on bike or foot. And that remains true here. While I can’t remember our route exactly, we rode our bikes through the 11th Ward, the Lower Garden District, and Fausbourg Delassize, while tracing the boundaries of the Warehouse District and Central City. Some of these areas were quiet and sleepy as we rode past iconic New Orleans shotgun style houses with tall windows and functional shutters, while other areas closer to St. Charles Avenue were alive and bustling, heavy with traffic and ornamented with the resonating bell chimes of the streetcars.

Feeling a bit thirsty, we decided to visit a local bar called Verret’s Lounge, a place hazily lit with dingy red lights and staffed by an impossibly smiley bartender named Kieth who had a missing tooth and wore a six inch knife in his belt and who had a bachelor’s degree in culinary arts. The lounge’s walls were adorned with memorabilia including a wooden sign that read, “Happiness is ‘sex’ and ‘a hole in one’ and ‘Coor’s Beer’,” which kept us wondering why three of the items in the list were on quotations. Everyone who came to the bar seemed to already know everyone’s names, and if they didn’t, names were quickly established. There was also one gentleman who came in, sheepishly asked for a water, but a customer at the bar offered to buy him a beer. Later on, the water orderer began playing John Lennon’s “Imagine” at an out-of-tune upright piano, adding more intimacy to an already personable ambiance.

There was also an overabundance of trust and care amongst the customers at the bar, many of them frequently walking right behind the bar to grab a beer themselves. Keith described one such of the regulars, Steven, as “the resident heartthrob”: inconceivably thick and long chestnut hair pulled back in a pony tail down to the middle of this back, complete with gorgeous streaks of natural highlights from much time spent in the sun; high and chiseled cheekbones that you could sharpen daggers on; dreamy blue eyes that pierced and mesmerized souls with every glance.

For a small bar with only a handful of people, one might’ve also guessed from the outside that it was packed to the brim with baseball fans, whooping and cheering, as everyone was enjoying a match between Atlanta and Philadelphia, where the score (three to eight in Philadelphia’s favor), was quite an exciting set of numbers indeed! There also was one moment where three “home runs,” I believe they are called, were accomplished by Philadelpiha in under five minutes, to much boisterous and deafening jubilations, from those inclined to understand the rare significance of such events.

While we were enjoying ourselves immensely at Verret’s, dousing ourselves in such vibrantly energetic flavors of the local culture found off the beaten track, we decided to start heading towards the Magazine Street area where we were to have dinner at Atchafalaya. We wanted to have pre-dinner drinks, so we walked to the Bulldog, an invitingly friendly place with an improbably long list of beers on tap, valves of beers lined up behind the bar, tidily erect, as orderly sailors in a long row before they’ve been released on shore leave. I enjoyed a refreshingly bright pilsner from Great Raft Brewing, a local company located in Shreveport, while Amy had a fruity saison from Second Line Brewing, a company located right here in New Orleans. It was quite nice to mix up our drinks with beers, as so much so far had been derived from spirits, which is not a criticism in the slightest!

Not before long, we arrived at Atchafalaya, a restaurant with a history dating to 1924 when it was opened under the family name Petrossi, by husband and wife, Sam and Mary. It stayed with the family until 1985 when Iler Pope purchased the space, renamed it Cafe Atchafalaya, and jumped on a trend that was happening in the 1980s: reinvigorating traditional New Orleans cuisine with a contemporary spin. Today, now called simply Atchafalaya, it is owned by Rachael Jaffe and Tony Tocco, where the restaurant continues to draw from traditional New Orleans fare while reinventing its flavors with modern twists.

As you might guess, Atchafalaya is a place you simply must enjoy while you’re here. It’s one of those places that’s classy but not too classy, it takes itself just seriously enough, is staffed by elegantly fashionable servers who give new meaning to thoughtful niceties, and that serves up delectably savory and flavorfully enticing dishes found only here in the South. We sat outside at the top of stair steps leading to a no-longer-used front door, as if sitting upon a dais for royalty, and I enjoyed shrimp and grits prepared with the whole body intact, eyes staring forlornly back at you. But don’t let the brainless corpses persuade you towards guilt but rather towards guiltless pleasure as you bite into the juicy flesh, expertly seasoned with layers upon layers of flavor with an alluring and lingering peppery heat. I found myself eating the legs and eyes as well, which added a welcomingly crunchy texture to an otherwise effortlessly tender dish.

Meanwhile Amy enjoyed gumbo and Aaron the duck confit (“A tad salty,” was Aaron’s only complaint), and we all, as if it needs saying, imbibed in more libations, enjoying their Atchafalaya cocktail: Rittenhouse rye, Denizen Merchant rum, Benedictine, Peychaud’s aperitivo, absinthe, bitters; a triumph for the senses, the taste of black licorice very much forward and center stage, lit up as the star of a cast of delicately crafted flavors. Our server, Heather Dawn (“Call me HD,” she requested), was also attentively watchful of our every need, never once straying from her genuine desire to serve up the most amazingly stunning meal with a charm and grace found only here in New Orleans.

We concluded our decadent evening with tres leches bread pudding (a celebration of sticky, syrupy benevolence), and I had a chocolate martini, whisking me away to a world of tasty sensations that conjured harmless thoughts of innocent gluttony and sinless happiness. As if I need to say it again, do go to Atchafalaya. Because if you don’t, I shall be quite angry.

Our final stop for the evening brought us to Tipitina’s, a live music venue as iconic as Minneapolis’s First Avenue. We were treated to an incredible birthday celebration for the one and only Cyril Neville. A man with a long and varied career as a performer in R&B, blues, and funk, at 73 years old and on his birthday, he brought a lively and infectious energy to his performance that matched his blazingly red suit. While I must admit to not being terribly familiar with his music, this did not matter, as the performance was of a calibur that was unimaginably awesome while peppered with a modestly humble appreciation for all his adoring fans as they danced and whooped and sang, crescendoing the entire space towards an immeasurably joyous festival honoring and celebrating the music and life of an incredible man. I feel so grateful that we were in town to celebrate Cyril’s birthday with him, and what a treat it was to be a part of such an amazing experience. Thank you Cryil and happy birthday!

It’s hard to believe that this was only our second day in New Orleans, and we’ve already seen and experienced so much. Naturally, of course, our adventures will continue, incessantly unabated and tenaciously forward…

Stray observations:

1. Joey K’s is located right on Magazine Street, which is a delightful avenue seasoned with coffee shops, antique stores, and other charming boutiques. It was quite lovely exploring this area on foot.
2. While at Verret’s, there was a curious mason jar behind the bar and it was filled with a murky liquid containing what looked like the head of a fish. We simply had to ask Keith, our bartender, what it was, and he said it was atomic warhead candies soaking in vodka.
3. Keith was also filled with many other memorable quotes. Now sober, he gushed about how much he enjoyed a specific beverage: “Snapple Apple actually tastes like mother f*cking apples! I’m a b*tch for that!” (Amy tried the Snapple and she also concurred but perhaps with less colorful language.) And then later Keith remarked, “I got a great boss because not only is he not racist but I also slept with his ex wife!” He also enjoyed pridefully talking about his degree in culinary arts (as he should), but at one point he disparagingly remarked how he has a knack to create tasty feasts out of anyone’s poorly stocked kitchen, comparing himself to a specific animal that I won’t repeat here but you no doubt might be able to guess.
4. While we were tracking down the Bulldog for beers, three servers from Joey K’s spotted us and excitedly exclaimed, “Oh! Tom L!” (I had put my name down as Tom L because I noticed another Tom on the list of diners waiting to be seated.) “You were the sweetest table! Have a great night!” It just made us all beam that we were so memorable and that we also, in turn, made their days!

There are very few places in the world that captivatingly and resoundingly entrance me, enrapturing my mind and body in an eclectic celebration of the senses, enveloping my whole enjoyment of life in feasts of music and art and performances of food and drink, all while surrounded by a gorgeously colorful city and a warmly amicable people who are all just so terribly friendly to each other, in charming flavors and subtle nuances that exist only here in the South, in New Orleans, to be precise.

I first visited New Orleans nearly eight years ago with my best friend Amy, and we are both so excited to return, bringing along with us Amy’s partner, Aaron. What adventures we all will have together! We haven’t a moment to lose, so let’s dive right in!

We arrived in New Orleans by plane shortly before 11:30 in the morning, took a taxi into town (our Haitian driver tuning his radio to a talk station all in French, driving past the Greenwood and Metairie cemeteries on our way, both iconically cluttered with above-ground, stately vaults) to our AirBnB on Bienville Street in the Mid-City neighborhood, a quieter area of town located to the northwest of the famous French Quarter, a short streetcar jaunt on Canal Street seamlessly connecting the neighborhoods in classic New Orleans fashion.

Famished due to a mostly liquid breakfast, we decided to explore the area surrounding our temporary home away from home for some local fare. Google reviews highly recommended a place called Mandina’s, a charming place that began as a grocery store in 1898, opened by Sebastian Mandina, a native of Palermo, Italy, and is now an Italian and Creole restaurant.

I can best describe our experience at Mandina’s as one marked by promises fulfilled and expectations dashed. While the menus laminated in plastic felt like a portent of a disappointed future, the staff were nonetheless all terribly friendly and the bartender graciously attentive as he prepared our sazeracs and old fashioneds. Before long we were seated and our first course of turtle soup arrived, and it was delectably savory, its roux base satisfyingly thick and its flavors a perfect re-introduction to the zest and comfort of Southern cuisine. Our mains, however (calf liver for me and fried fish for Amy and Aaron) left much to be desired. Aaron described the peas on my plate best, “They look like they come from a school cafeteria,” lacking in any lively green freshness and instead appearing listlessly lifeless as parodies of peas, miniaturized and shriveled, while Amy and Aaron’s dishes wouldn’t look out of place at a fish and chips shop in London, except that it was all smothered in a brown gravy, depressing the fried batter into a soggy mass of pessimism and gloom. All of this said, the staff at Mandina’s was quite lovely, addressing us endearingly as y’all, and we remained hopeful that better fare was in our future.

We next jumped on the Canal Street streetcar to make our way to the French Quarter. I highly recommend you download the Le Pass app on your phone so you can buy your transit tickets in the palm of your hand. For $15, you can enjoy unlimited rides on all transit for a whole week (there are also daily, 3-day, and monthly passes). You also should just go out of your way to ride the streetcar anyway, even if you don’t need to, as the experience embodies a quaint charm of a bygone age.

Our next stop on our food and drinks tour brought us to Mr. B’s Bistro, a more upscale, fancier restaurant with smartly dressed bartenders and importantly suited men. However, the elegant aesthetics were betrayed by gruff service (which also betrayed my observation of Southern charm permeating the behaviors of all the locals) and a fully stocked bar that appeared disheveled and cluttered with disorganized wine glasses and bits of bric-a-brac strewn about in chaotic turmoil. Upon the recommendation of a friend, we were told to order a drink call the la louisiane, and when we did, the bartender bluntly retorted, abandoning any semblance of Southern hospitality, “Who told you that? We don’t have that.” So he angrily made us some vieux carre drinks (like the sazarac, another classic New Orleans imbibement).

We quickly retreated from Mr. B’s and made our way to the nearby Felix’s Restaurant and Oyster Bar. When I reviewed my writings of New Orleans from 2015, I raved and raved about the oysters here, but Amy’s memory was that gulf oysters were drearily disappointing, so we wanted to set the record straight.

I generally found the ambiance of Felix’s to be much more welcoming and charming than the misleading facade of Mr. B’s. Felix’s was decked with a sturdy bar of bricks painted white with a long row of classic, chrome bar stools. The service was also immeasurably better: “Wait outside, baby, and we’ll come get you,” “How y’all doing my darlings?” and “What can I get you my sweeties?” are sentences and questions you can expect to hear. Naturally, we ordered twelve oysters and three Pimm’s cups. “You’re making this easy for me! I’ll try to not mix your order up! But you never know, I might!” our server, Lynda, exclaimed, a lady long in her years who lived a colorfully full life, a wrinkled face that beamed with genuine sincerity and graceful joy.

Through no fault of Felix’s, however, the oysters confirmed Amy’s diagnosis. “Polluted with oil,” she remarked. Normally I enjoy oysters all by themselves, but I found myself needing to drown them in horseradish and lemon juice to hide the shades and hints of the abused waters of the gulf. The oysters down here also are thicker and mealier, resting on fatter shells, and requiring more chews than normal. So maybe we’ll skip oysters from here on out after all.

We decided to make two more stops before dinnertime, and I desperately wanted to visit Kingfish, a bar and restaurant I had fond memories of that served incredible Pimm’s cups. I felt I needed to be reminded of what I thought was spectacular last time around having struck out twice at Mandina’s and Mr. B’s, and Kingfish did not disappoint. It remained a classier joint—but not too classy—all the servers and bartenders dressed smartly in blacks slacks, white button-up shirts, and black suspenders. We took advantage of their happy hour and ordered two rounds of sazaracs, both rounds expertly prepared, the second order placed in at 5:01 (“We’ll fit it in just right under the wire,” our bartender mischievously whispered). We were also given some good suggestions for where to go next.

And our next stop was a little dive called B Macs, a place where you might be laughed out the door if you do order sazaracs. “Do you have a house speciality?” Amy asked the bartender. “No,” she responded deadpan, and we all laughed. So we ordered vodka tonics and gin and tonics and enjoyed them out on their large patio, decked out in gaudy but delightful Halloween decorations: fairy lights shaped like spiders in colors of orange and green, fake cobwebs, plastic skulls. They also played some really fun music (AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell,” Bow Wow Wow’s cover of “I Want Candy,” and “Time Warp” from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, to name a few), while another party next to us played a giant version of Connect Four while one of their friends snoozed, sitting straight up, undisturbed by all the commotion.

Evening was approaching fast, and it was time to enjoy a dinner, so we made our way to Gumbo Shop, an always busy establishment serving up not only gumbo but a variety of other Creole cuisine. I highly recommend ordering their complete Creole dinner, where you get to select dishes from four courses, and I elected to start with their seafood okra gumbo followed by macque choux corn, and then their combination platter of shrimp creole, jambalaya, and red beans and rice, and culminating in a celebration of the senses with warm bread pudding in whiskey sauce. Everything was just simply divine as our server brought out our meals and more sazaracs, all served up with characteristic exclamations of, “Thank you, my darlings!”

A long day under our belts (and belts the probably needed loosening following all our feasts), we made our way back to Mid-City to our Air BnB by way of the lovely streetcar that traces Canal Street. So much in one day, and so much more to come!

Stray observations:

1. Also while at Mr. B. Bistro, there was this suspicious old man next to us eating spring rolls who asked if he could also have ice cream. And the frustratingly surly bartender remarked, “Only with cookies,” to which I would’ve sarcastically responded, “Er, I’ll have a cookie and ice cream, then, but hold the cookie.”
2. On the way from B Macs to Gumbo Shop, we happened across two second line parades making their way through the French Quarter, complete with blazingly loud brass bands and impossibly spirited marchers throwing out Mardi Gras beads. Second lines generally happen on Sundays, but they can also happen spontaneously around town on other days of the week, usually to celebrate something special like a wedding.
3. I usually try to find some gimmick to titling my blog posts, so feel free to try to guess what it is this time! Once you’ve figured out the theme of how I’m titling, then try to figure out the source of the whatever-it-is I’m drawing from.