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:
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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!