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A Crescent City sojourn
Submitted by Michael Fielding on Thu, 02/05/2009 - 6:02pm.
August 17, 2008
This is a city that I fell in love with the first time I met it. With its zydeco bands wailing music from the clubs at all hours to its lush tropical courtyards hidden among quaint and unassuming buildings. Flickering gas lamps, timeless streets, chicory coffee, beignets, muffulettas and po-boys, jambalaya, alligator gumbo, paddleboat cruises. Everything. I love the place, and I am excited to return for the third time in as many years.
I'm in town for an industry trade show (one of the perks of the job), and I intend to balance work with a little sightseeing.
I'm off to a decent start: I bought a ticket to the Saints exhibition game against the Texans in the Superdome, whose ghosts have all but disappeared in the years since Hurricane Katrina and its subsequent flooding drowned the city in more ways than one. But there remained an eerie atmosphere in that packed stadium, which just three years ago was home to the displaced and the distraught, those left behind in the wake of the flood. But today Drew Brees and Reggie Bush were sharing the same surface that the nameless thousands once slept on in cots.
* * * * *
I returned to the Marigny (the quiet, funky neighborhood that borders the French Quarter to the east) for some of the best po' boys in the city at La Peniche: a cozy corner restaurant where oldies play on the radio and the locals come - and stay - for cheap but memorable eats.
Afterward I walked down the street to Snug Harbor jazz club, where Charmaine Neville and Ellis Marsalis (yeah, those Marsalises) have performed. I avoided the high cover charge and instead opted to listen to the band from the bar, which was just as well.
The Marigny is gorgeous and decrepit, at once lively and hauntingly desolate: The uneven brick sidewalks are barely illuminated; skinny raggedy locals bum cigarettes from tourists; and hipsters bounce from one club to the next. Everywhere there’s movement among the shadows: a slow ceiling fan on a second-floor, flickering gas lamps; and sounds, too: it’s hauntingly serene. There’s a clip-clop of someone’s footfalls followed by the hum of an a.c. unit, the mumblings among a small crowd on a ghost tour, a garbage truck, the low din from a half-empty bar. It’s all hauntingly serene.
I did the unofficial jazz tour:
Snug Harbor, with its low ceilings and cool vibe and Fritzel’s European Jazz Pub (a hodgepodge of exposed brick, shingles, Christmas lights, German beer signs and a vintage Uncle Sam poster).
Fritzel’s is the place for a beer (or Jagermeister, which is said to have been introduced to the States here). It’s a German jazz bar – yeah, you read that right. But it works. There’s a portrait of Field Marshal Rommel overlooking the amazingly hot jazz combo that plays there almost nightly. The walls are adorned with crooked picture frames, and half a dozen wood benches are pressed against the walls to accommodate the regulars who come here for some of the hottest jazz in the city. Paint peels from the ceiling. It’s a refreshing and (sort of) refined break from the din of Bourbon Street. It’s a place where the music that emanates from the grungy, well-worn stage is always two notches louder than the noise carried in by the gentle Crescent City breeze.
I had to hit my favorite bar in New Orleans – Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, arguably the darkest bar in the country that is home to a lively piano bar, dark woods and a stone fireplace; it’s very popular with the locals. Very popular among the locals, Lafitte’s is an atmospheric bar in a rustic 18th-century cottage. Regulars often sing along around the pianist, but the small outdoor patio is also appealing. You don’t feel like you’re on Bourbon Street here, where the uninhibited land after a night of bar-hopping.
It’s said to be the oldest existing building in the entire Mississippi Valley, and this dark, cozy hole-in-the-wall never disappoints.
I picked up the one-man party a bit afterward, when my alias, Mickey Peaches, made an appearance at the boisterous Cat’s Meow, the messy karaoke club that always reeks of alcohol but that also lays claim to a famous appearance by the one and only Britney Spears. Surprisingly, my version of “Sweet Caroline” bombed, and the quickly thinning crowd barely gave me a golf clap.
Disheartened, Mickey Peaches and I made our way back to the hotel to call it a night.
* * * * *
New Orleans, Louisiana
August 19, 2008
Before the conference I stopped at Mother’s for breakfast. It’s an experience (albeit a bit touristy) that shouldn’t be missed. The black ham, mushroom and green onion omelet (termed Mae’s Omelet) is perfect … especially when paired with a side of grits, biscuits and chicory coffee. The place is always packed, and although servers bring the food to you, you gotta order it yourself at the counter. It’s all New Orleans.
My boss and I stumbled upon the Ugly Dog Saloon in the afternoon. One pulled pork sandwich, a bunch of Abita (the local brew), and three hours later, the sun was setting on this spacious out-of-the-way bar that – despite its proximity to the convention center – caters largely to locals (always a good thing…think about it, have you ever said to your buddies, “Hey, let’s eat at Ed Debevic’s tonight!”).
I stopped at the Chart Room, which has lots of regulars, cheap drinks and is almost always quiet enough to eavesdrop on the hushed conversation the next table over. Located on the corner of Chartres and Bienville, right in the heart of the Quarter, it’s another respite from the craziness that is Bourbon Street. It’s characterized, I think, by three things: lots of dark wood, bare brick walls and the dimmest lanterns that have ever lit up a joint.
Down the way is Jean Lafitte’s, which offers one of the more competent Ramos fizzes in town and offers the biggest fireplace on Bourbon Street. If it were two blocks south – minus the vintage pro football helmets suspended from the ceiling – it likely would be a candidate for one of America’s best bars.
For a bite to eat before late-night cocktails, I munched on some pistolettos at Pierre Maspero’s, where dual brick arches separate the small but cozy (and lively) dining area. Its copper-topped tables and gas lamps give the place plenty of character (as if it needs it: the blues playing in the background and its location on a quiet corner away from Bourbon Street are reason enough to stop by this place after a cocktail at the Napoleon House across the street).
The cozy, funky, full-of-character Abbey on Decatur Street was my next stop. It, too, is a favorite among locals for those looking to flee the crowds.
But when I stepped into the Carousel Bar in the Monteleone Hotel, I didn’t mind being part of the businessman-tourist mix. The jaw-dropping centerpiece is an authentic working carousel at the center of the bar – with bar stools revolving around the service area. This is another piano bar, and on busy nights, prepare to sing along as the crowd pours into the adjacent piano bar room late into the evening.
I imagined one of the more famous regulars, Tennessee Williams, musing over a sazerac as the dim sconces barely illuminated the deep green walls above. The marble-top bar is classy and classic. It is the place to order a classic New Orleans cocktail like a sazerac, Ramos fizz or Pimm’s cup.
* * * * *
New Orleans, Louisiana
August 20, 2008
After a decent breakfasts at Johnny’s Po-Boy (eggs, grits and a biscuit with fried catfish and coffee) off St. Peter Street in the southern edge of the Quarter, I stuffed myself again for the flight home at the Acme Oyster House.
Since 1910 this place has been dishing up traditional New Orleans seafood favorites (raw oysters and fried seafood among included). Hooters be damned: A glass of Abita and a plate of raw oysters at Acme cannot be outdone. I don’t care how the wait staff compares.
It’s been said that New Orleans is one of the few cities in America where you don’t feel like you’re in America. From the lacy ironwork that wraps the buildings of the French Quarter to the eclectic – and genuine – musical vibe on Frenchman Street in the Marigny to the stately old homes of the Garden District to the little white marble cities of tombstones they call cemeteries here, it’s a city that is entirely sensual and wholly self-aware. And I have enjoyed every minute of it, going all the way back to the weekend my wife and I were engaged here:
I’ve squatted on the floor of a tightly packed Preservation Hall to hear true jazz at one of the nation’s time-honored jazz institutions.
I’ve nursed a Pimm’s cup at Napoleon House, a dark, quiet place that has hosted artists and writers looking to go anywhere but Bourbon Street.
I’ve enjoyed a high-priced cocktail at Bombay Club, whose paneled interior and refined ambiance recall the heady days of the British Empire (only it’s at the equally chic Prince Conti Hotel).
I’ve nibbled on crab cakes and sipped a sazerac at Arnaud’s.
I’ve squinted through the near-darkness over suffused candlelight at my wife during our first visit to my favorite New Orleans bar, Lafitte’s Blacksmith’s Shop.
I’ve enjoyed a Ramos fizz at the Old Absinthe House.
I’ve eaten eggs Benedict and bananas foster at Brennan’s, whose signature meal is breakfast and which occupies a grand French Quarter building that is more than 210 years old and housed the first bank to be chartered in New Orleans.
I’ve slurped turtle soup and sipped a sazerac at Tujague’s, which opened more than 150 years ago.
I’ve taken a journey down the Mississippi River to the site of the 1815 Battle of New Orleans on the Creole Queen paddle wheeler and learned about how Andrew Jackson defeated the British at Chalmette Battlefield.
This wasn’t my first trip, and it won’t be the last.
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