52.73 Hours In New Orleans
- The After Action Report
- 3 days ago
- 9 min read
When I last visited the Big Easy five years ago, COVID shut the place down the day before St. Patrick's Day. And I don't know about you, but I like to finish what I start.
Friday
6:30 pm
Boarded the E1 bus at MSY arrivals. I thought it would be a real and economical way to get to know New Orleans. It turned out to allow for a gritty yet opaque view of life outside of the French Quarter. The fact that it required a connecting bus that connected in a very strange and ill-lit neighborhood increased the realness and the grittiness . . . perhaps a little too much.
9:00 pm
Like the last time I visited, I wanted to make a real effort to see what exists outside the Quarter. After checking out the WWOZ.com website that lists all the live music in New Orleans on any given night, I selected blues guitarist Little Freddie King who was playing at BJ's Lounge in the Bywater neighborhood. He's not a smaller version of Freddie King but a smaller version of John Lee Hooker.
Fred was supposed to hit the stage at 9:00 pm, but he was a little late, and I have a feelin' he was unconcerned as I'm pretty sure he never punched a clock in his life. In the meantime, I ordered a Bywater Breeze . . . it sounded local, though as it's gin, Aperol, passionfruit, lemon juice, and club soda, I'm not so sure. Either way, it was all a little innocuous, though it did come in an official BJ's Bayou plastic cup.
After sippin' my Breeze, I was startin' to get a little worried about the authenticity of it all after noticing two very large flat-screen TVs that were respectively channeling TCM and Black Panther: Wakanda Forever. So I focused my attention on Dr. Strangelove until . . .
9:32 pm
Little Freddie King hit the stage wearing blue & white two-toned shoes, maroon slacks, a white fedora, and a pink tie, all brought together by a complimentary floral pink jacket that I could easily see myself wearing. He had a sideman blowing harp who looked like he was suffering from tuberculosis or a heroin addiction and wasn't so much blowing notes but a little bit of his soul.
After my first "cocktail," I decided to go with a beer and went with a Michelob Ultra as I was watching my caloric intake, and some guy named David from Australia bought an extra one by accident and offered it to me. The crowd was decidedly monochromatic, which reminded me of a Dave Chapelle sketch.
BTW, Little Freddie was outstanding!
10:30 pm
Ducked out of BJs a little early as I was starving. Then headed down the street to the Bar Redux for an Abita Amber, some freakiness, and red beans and rice. The owner who served me my feast looked (and dressed) like Sid Viscous which when compared to my bartender wasn't all that shocking . . .
11:15 pm
Walked back to my lodgings via Frenchman's Street, stopping in here and there to listen to an eclectic mix of jazz, funk, and blues. Then soon after I headed back to the ranch as it was getting late, I had some busy days ahead, and needed to pace myself.
Saturday
9:30 am
The plan was to meet up with my lucky subscriber/co-conspirator at Cafe Beignet for a . . . beignet. I had previously visited Cafe Du Monde and felt this was the next best thing. Unfortunately, it was also everyone else's plan. So a piping hot "Just a Cup" was taken nearby at French Truck Coffee. And as far as I'm concerned, "beignet . . . done that."
10:26 am
At $36, admission to the National WWII Museum seemed a little steep, but then again, it was the deadliest conflict in history. Some excellent displays but not enough artifacts. Solid, though not as good as the Imperial War Museum in London, and the crowds didn't help. However, it made me realize the significant effect that a cult of personality can have upon history.
And maybe it's just me, but the contributions of US Submariners to victory in the Pacific were underemphasized.
3:03 pm
Not getting a beignet may not have been for the best, as I was now starving, and a slice was the perfect antidote. Not just any though, as the Greatest Generation would have demanded the greatest pizza. According to Dave Portnoy, in New Orleans, it is tossed by Forbidden Pizza, which was conveniently located only blocks away.
The two ordered slices required a 20-minute wait, which made me realize that this pizza is forbidden because the pizza oven is ridiculously small. I have a feeling that Portnoy's visit has increased business to such an extent that the place has trouble keeping up. In a woefully inadequate effort to increase pizza throughput, they've added a second pizza oven that looks like something out of the Easy-Bake line. Thankfully, there is an adjoining bar where, over an Abita Amber, we could study Admiral Nimitz's strategy at the Battle of Midway.
Dave's review was spot on: "awesome . . . great undercarriage . . . texture . . . spectacular . . . 8.3." Though in the end, I'd give it an 8.4.
4:34 pm
The Carousel Bar inside the historic Hotel Monteleone was stopped by for some additional refreshment. It was packed, as it appeared that the crowd from Cafe Beignet had now filled all the seats at the rotating bar. And if I can't rotate, what's the point? So . . .
4:41 PM
I had dined at Mr. B's Bistro the first time I ever visited New Orleans, sometime in the last century. I decided to stop in and see how the place was holding up and noticed that the bar had a few empty seats.
After immediately settling in and enjoying a Flackhattan, the gent to my left engaged me in conversation. Now normally, that's an upside of sitting at a bar in a strange city, but in this case, I noticed there were two good-looking young ladies to his left, and I became a little suspicious. This was confirmed when it quickly became apparent that Steve was a holy roller whose politics lean just a little bit in one direction. We good-naturedly sparred about the "word of God," until he said that my problem was that "you don't love your country." Now this might have made me a just a little upset, and realize that my time at Mr. B's had come to a conclusion until Steve said something that made it all good . . . "Let me buy you a Sazerac."
Now, for those who are unfamiliar, a Sazerac is the New Orleans cocktail. Traditionally a combination of rye whiskey, absinthe, Peychaud's Bitters, and sugar, though Herbsaint is sometimes substituted for the absinthe. Some claim it is the oldest known American cocktail. I've always found it interesting due to its licorice flavor and that it is served in a rocks glass without rocks.
I had one, partially to help keep the peace ("Can't we all just get along?").
Soon after, Steve tried to enlighten me by asking if I knew when society first started to crumble. I topically mentioned "the beginning of WWII?" to which he replied, "No, when they allowed gays to marry."¹ I was thankfully finishing up my drink, and after parrying his offer to attend church with him the following day, I was off to . . .
5:52 pm
A subscriber mentioned that I should dine at Irene's as it's his "all-time favorite." So I did,
starting with Oysters Irene ("Baked with pancetta, pimento & pecorino romano"), then followed by a Caesar Salad ("Crisp hearts of romaine, herbed crouton & shaved parmigiano"), and San Francisco style Cioppino ("Shrimp, scallops, fish, crabmeat, clams, mussels simmered in a spicy, saffron scented tomato fennel broth"). Highly recommended.
7:30 pm
The Gerald French Trio playing some jazz standards at Mahogany Jazz Hall.
9:15 pm
Walked back to my lodgings via Frenchman's Street, stopping off here and there to listen to an eclectic mix of jazz, funk, and blues.
Sunday
9:30 am
When I asked the subscriber who was accompanying me on this adventure if there was anything he specifically wanted to do in New Orleans, he replied, "Find a church service on Sunday," and I thought that "Maybe I'm visiting New Orleans with the wrong subscriber!" However, in the end, it was a real score.
That's because the service at Our Lady of Guadalupe Church was a jazz mass with a real jazz band and two incredible vocalists - I mean, when was the last time you heard a saxophone in a Catholic church?
I'm glad I wore a dress shirt to pray for Steve's immortal soul, as the ushers were all nicely turned out, wearing a bright red blazer that Little Freddie King would have been proud to slip into.
If you feel the need for some jazz invocations, and New Orleans isn't in the offing, don't worry as mass is live-streamed every Sunday morning. Can I get an amen, brother?
11:45 am
The Mississippi River plays a key role in New Orleans' history, from the founding of the city in 1718, to the Battle of New Orleans, to Katrina, to the oysters in my Oysters Irene. So spending a little time on it couldn't be a bad thing. While some might choose a faux steamboat, for $3.75 I chose the real Canal Street Ferry to cross the river to Algiers and a different perspective on the New Orleans skyline.
12:30 pm
Coffee at Congregation Coffee Roasters.
1:07 pm
A pint down at The Crown and Anchor English Pub, where the barman entertained us with yo-yo tricks.
12:45 pm
Ferry back to Canal Street.
1:15 pm
Executive time.
6:00 pm
While the meal provided by Irene's was outstanding, it wasn't nearly as good as Cochon, which is one of those places where after eating each dish you turn to your fellow diner amazed and say "What the fuck is in this?" The Chili dusted cracklin's with Steen’s cane syrup is a perfect example. By itself, the Steen's cane syrup is too sweet, but when you dip in the cracklins . . . it all becomes a little magical.
The fried alligator with chili garlic mayonnaise was equally delicious. And because we were sitting at the kitchen bar, I was able to discuss with one of the chefs its preparation and determine that the subtle crunch came from thinly sliced onions. Then next door to . . .
7:00 pm
Cochon Butcher, which, if you "parlay vous" just a little, will know focuses on butchering hogs. They also made us a superior version of that quintessential New Orleans sandwich, a muffuletta, except their version brings three welcome refinements: a little less spice, a little less bread, and a little less wet.
8:00 pm
The world famous Corporation Bar & Grill for a world famous Rolling Rock beer.
8:45 pm
NOLA Taphouse is one of those places with chairs, tables, and supplies stacked in the back of the place, that is a little devoid of personality and therefore looks like it's always under new management. It threw off a TGI Friday's vibe. We stopped in because it was nearby to Cachon and we were thirsty. The beer was cold.
9:37 pm
Strolled Bourbon Street to soak in some of the atmosphere and then stopped into Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop Bar to enjoy the piano bar, the history and to take a whiz.
Started Monday (St. Patrick's Day) at St. Pat's Coffee House, and then spent the balance of the day strolling the Quarter having a pint (or two) at the Erin Rose, Fahy's Irish Pub, Finnegan’s, Molly's Irish Pub, Finnegan’s (corned beef and cabbage), finishing at the mother of all Irish pubs (MOAIP), Pat O’Brien’s and then catching the parade on the way back to me "wee humble cottage."
This marks at least the eighth time I've been to New Orleans, and I'm thinking that should be enough for a lifetime . . . though if a subscriber wanted to meet for a drink this fall . . . I'm down.
Lodgings
Balcony Guest House is located in the Marigny, about a 10-minute walk from Frenchman Street ($200/night, tax included). As it was St. Patrick's Day weekend, everything was a little pricey. The place got a 7.9 on Booking.com, and that's about right. The check-in email required me to locate a cross street, a restaurant, a mural, a door with a code, then another door, and finally, a third door with a second code.
My only complaint was that a bleached-out and tattered US flag was flown above door number one, which is something I could not abide. If you feel you need to fly the flag to prove your patriotism bona fides, then so be it. But it needs to be treated with respect. During the course of my stay, I removed it for proper disposal.
Endnotes: I wanted to provide some very specific details that, while vaguely interesting, did not contribute to the overall narrative. Perhaps just wait until the end to enjoy.
¹ Steve was pushing 30 and single, which, when combined with his homophobia and complete disregard for the adjoining young ladies, made me think, "The lady doth protest too much."
You live an amazing life, Mike! I applaud you and I enjoy reading these reports. We also have a rockin Catholic mass at 7:00 p.m. at St Mary's Student Parish, or some of the finest musicians you'd ever want to hear play the music. We have seven masses on the weekend and they're all great but I got to say the 7:00 on Sunday is really something.