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There are two New Orleans-es: (1) the one I saw, which is Cajun-themed Las Vegas; and (2) the real one.
Can anyone confirm?
One of my new theories is that New Orleans is the only city you could visit and say, “All I did was eat,” and no one would think you were a lazy slob.
Au contraire, they’d say you did a great job as a tourist. “Well you should take advantage of the food,” these imaginary people would say. “Good for you.”
I ate at these restaurants and loved them: Sylvain’s, Emeril’s, Domenica, Cochon (technically I ate at its sandwich wing, Cochon), Jacques-Imo’s, and Cafe du Monde.
I was so excited for these beignets that I almost forgot to take a picture for you.
However, just because you are excited to try something doesn’t mean you should.
I was also looking forward to my first hurricane.
Now that I’ve done that, I do not recommend that route unless you love cough syrup and headaches.
(Sazerac, that’s a different story.)
I went to Nola because Tracey turned 30 and a group of friends arranged a party there. I know these ladies from my brief, brief stint in the mailroom of a talent agency about 10 years ago.
I was not destined for that job: on good days, I accidentally hung up on clients because the phone system was confusing; on bad days, I ruined my boss’s life.
Or so I was told.
These ladies stuck it out, did well, and a few are producers now. Something else I learned:
Taking a trip with producers is a great experience because they spend their professional lives doing two things: (1) organizing and (2) entertaining.
There is no reason to post this photo. I just liked the idea of anyone, even a cat, napping blissfully in the French Quarter:
Winning!
The point is that we were there to celebrate.
Which, I learned, is basically the reason everyone goes New Orleans.
Or at least, the French Quarter.
Or at least, the New Orleans I saw.
I don’t want to be presumptuous here.
It’s all I’ve ever heard about Vegas and more. Every sixth lady is wearing a plastic tiara. Or a plastic penis-shaped-something. Bars don’t close. There’s music everywhere. What happens in Nola stays in Nola. Or at least it probably should.
It makes the Lower East Side, which I always thought was wild, seem tame. All those shirt-wearing New Yorkers with their clothing, walking in the streets without alcohol, and going to bed around 3am.
And I wasn’t even there for Mardi Gras or JazzFest. (I can only imagine what those weekends are like, and I give up now.)
The first night in town we went to a restaurant called Jacques-Imo’s. Next to us was a bachelorette party of 24. Early in the dinner, they all ran outside….
Turns out the bride was doing body shots off the owner. Duh.
It was not a coincidence that happened my first night in New Orleans!!! I suspect this is quite typical!!!
I’m embarrassed that Bradley—who really knows Nola, like “Treme-times-10-knows-Nola”—might see this. So I’m just going to lean into that fear, jiujitsu style, and tag him. And Miss B.
I love your city. I really laiss-ayed the bon temps rouler.
I just needed 9 days to recover from it.
(For every day in New Orleans add 2-3 days recovery.)
