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:
- 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!”
- 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.