New Orleans (Part 2)

We still had an entire weekend left in New Orleans, and the city threw everything it had at us. Voodoo queens! Po’ Boys! Hurricanes (the kind that go into your mouth sugary sweet and boozy)! Parades chock full of straight (maybe?) dudes in dresses! Beignettes! Holy monkeys, there’s a lot to cover.

New Orleans did take southern hospitality one step too far the Saturday we were there. Some muckity-muck in the city(or parish?) apparently decided that we wouldn’t feel at home without a little northwestern chill. The day started in the low 40s and dropped into the 30s by the afternoon. ON THE GULF OF FREAKING MEXICO. North American French influenced cities where this is acceptable: Montreal, Quebec City. North American French influenced cities where this is unacceptable: I don’t even need to finish this sentence.

We bundled up to prepare for a cemetery tour (Haunted History Tours) we had reservations for. Cursing palm trees for their mockery (exuded just by existing while our teeth chattered), we made our way to the meeting spot, noting very readily the distinct lack of coffee shops in our part of the quarter. Of course, coffee is a poor substitute for the warming effects of hard alcohol at ten in the morning, and there were plenty of bars open willing to convince us of that.

Our tour guide was the ever affable Ernest, who gave us so many belly laughs, we warmed up quicker than anticipated. Although the focal point of the tour was the oldest existing cemetery in the city (St. Louis #1, established in 1789), half of the trip consisted of walking to the site through the Quarter, so much was learned along the way.

Per Wikipedia, which can do no wrong, St. Louis #1 is home to 100,000 buried in a footprint the size of a city block. Popular legend for the above ground tombs derives from the simple fact that much of the city is below sea level. However, tombs have a long French and Spanish lineage, so the origin is rather muddy (hardy har). How do so many of the dead fit into one spot? After a specified internment period, tombs can be reused, with the previous occupant’s remains (respectfully, we’re told) placed into a bag (is there a respectable way of shoving remains into a bag?), occupying a fraction of the space they once did. Because of this method, there is actually still space available to be buried in this Manhattan of cemeteries, over two centuries later.

 

 

I guess the big draw is the Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau, who is supposedly buried here (this is debatable). As much as I usually thrill to having the hair on my neck stand up in response to supernatural stuff, this was kind of a yawn for me. Her famed longevity is explained by her daughter assuming her role, and her mystical powers of knowledge were likely due to the  fact that she was a hairdresser (ladies, think about what you tell your hairdressers in the utmost of confidence). But, the presumed tomb is quite the attraction, with folks constantly leaving offerings of every sort and marking upon it:

Per Ernest, this is a rather tame set of offerings, as contributions have consisted of beheaded animals in the past, and sometimes are so plentiful they need to be waded through to get past the tomb. You will note that there are beads laying on the ground here, and I fought every animalistic urge to claim them my own. Marie Leveau would probably not approve, and would quickly make her presence known. Still, I’m not scared. If you want scary, scroll to the bottom of this post. Now that’s effed up.

By the way, the markings on the tomb in triplicate are made by folks hoping the Voodoo Queen will grant them a wish and are not advertisements for adult entertainment. Granted, it is New Orleans, and it’s possible they serve both purposes.

After the tour, we met back up with Brandon and Miles so that Brandon could lead us to another local institution – Mother’s. As evidenced by the photo below, this is a hot spot to grab lunch – specifically po’ boy sandwiches.

Yes, the line was long, but with near military precision, customers roll through the ordering process and a table is not hard to find in this high-turnover joint. Keeping the machine running is a group of magnificently sassy, no-nonsense counter ladies that are not afraid to dress you down loudly if you take too long or otherwise offend their sensibilities. The service credo here is reversed: the customer is (most likely) always wrong, providing entertainment for the rest of us when an offender gets the smack down. 

Below, Mike enjoys the shrimp po’ boy that we split, along with the “Ralph” po’ boy which has turkey, choice of ham or roast beef, cheese and “debris”, a savory melange of drippings, broth and beef that Mother roasts.

Brandon and Miles below the iconic sign. Brandon refuses to acknowledge the reality of the weather. Dammit, he’s in New Orleans and there shall be no coat!

 

Mike and I take our turn. 

 

From here, it was back to the hotel for a membership meeting of the organization. While dull, raffle prizes were handed out and I scored myself a sweet little wine bottle tote complete with opener and bottle stopper. Since Mike is not a wine drinker, I’ll plan on treating Brutus to a picnic soon enough where we’ll share a bottle.

Oh look, he’s already picked one out. His look kind of says “Screw the picnic, open this sucker NOW.”

More than mitigating the dull meeting, we were about to encounter another priceless and musical New Orleans moment. As we stood in the hotel lobby, we noticed the sound of a band growing ever louder outside. Poking our heads out the doors, we saw a giant procession marching toward us. I was happy just to have the opportunity to see this random spectacle pass, but they then actually began to march into the hotel!

Turns out this was what’s called a “second line” for a wedding party. If you click the link, you’ll get the more traditional definition of the second line, but it’s now more loosely used for these types of processions as well. The lobby quickly filled with dozens of band members, wedding guests and of course, in the middle of it all, the dancing bride and groom. My camera was, regrettably, upstairs with the battery charging, but our buddy Justin captured this clip (thanks again!):

 

It wasn’t long before we were getting changed for the large group dinner at the Palace Cafe, which advertises its “contemporary Creole” food.

Mike, in the hotel lobby beforehand – doesn’t he look like he’s preparing to narrate some educational documentary?

The menu we were presented – très promising!

Unfortunately, just about everything was très disappointing. Perhaps their regular dinner service is fine, but they did not appear to handle a large group event well at all. Every single course took an unreasonable amount of time to serve and nearly everything missed the mark. After having such good gumbo the day before at Eat, this came across as a too-thick comparatively tasteless paste (certainly, gumbo is one of those dishes where thickness is more a matter of taste … but again, this assumes there is taste involved at all). Salad: meh. Entree: I had the chicken dish, which turned out much better than everything else. I don’t know that you can go wrong with what is essentially a hash of potatoes, chicken, ham and veggies. Unfortunately, the catfish gained nothing from the colorful assortment of modifiers listed in the menu – fresh, touched, fire cracker, popcorn – these are all very exciting words which apparently translate to Filet O’ Soggy-Crusted Fish. And damn, if that dessert description didn’t sound like it could save the entire meal. Yet, once more, we faced disappointment (amplified by a poor coffee service, which, as we’ve covered in previous blogs, failed Mike’s mandate that coffee MUST be in the cups BEFORE the dessert arrives).

Most disappointing was that the slow service made us miss one of the events of the night – the Krewe du Vieux parade, one of the first parades before Mardis Gras season fully kicks in. We were informed by multiple sources that it had already passed through the Quarter by the time we were finished with dinner.

However, Marie Laveau smiled upon me for not taking her beads, and as we made our way back to the hospitality suite balcony, we saw the tail end of the parade go through. This is mysterious to me, since upon entering the hotel there had been no parade in sight. For all we know, this was just a merry band of rabble rousers, dancing through the streets as a splinter group from the main parade:

 

On the list next was a trip to Pat O’Brien’s for their Hurricane drink. They say it is world famous and I can’t refute that since we were told many, many times to try one before the trip. And who are we to ignore the suggestions of our friends?

I like sweet drinks, but this was sweet on the order of liquid cotton candy and I’m just glad Mike and I decided to split one.

As you see, “one” is like having two drinks anyway (okay, there is a lot of ice). Yes, we brought the glass home because we are tourist chumps like that. Although, if my hazy memory serves me correctly, this drink and vessel may have been bought for us (uh…to whichever fine friend that may have been, thanks!), so I think that makes us opportunistic tourist chumps.

Brandon and Miles did NOT split one and Brandon appears wary of Miles’ rapid progress through his:

Pat O’Brien’s featured at least two fountains of water and fire:

Because, yes, people need to be confronted with illusions of fire and water mingling while they’re soused out of their minds.

Capping this night off was a trip to the Oz Bar for yet more dancing and general merriment. Consider it a theme.

Part three, which will wrap this up with lots of photos, is to come. Thanks for reading!