Hot Dog Wasted

I haven’t quite figured New Orleans out. The housing market is ridiculously high, including our rent. And don’t dare try to go out to eat without a chunk of change in your pocket. Just to go to around the corner to Mahony’s and get a regular poboy, fries, and an Abita will set you back $15.00 – 20.00. But the city if full of free and cheap entertainment. I’ve seen Galactic, Trombone Shorty, and Rebirth at Wednesday at the Square. For free. I’ve eaten free red beans and rice with Kermit Ruffins at Vaughn’s. I’ve watched a seemingly endless amount of free prescreening of new movies this year, including a surprise spotting of Chip in Hot Tub Time Machine. I’ve poured countless free NOLA beers, and stumbled my way through free Abita pub crawls, not to mention the debauchery disguised as a free tour of the Abita brewery. I’ve been to numerous free festivals, including the world’s largest free festival. From second lines and “concerts”, to just walking around with a Budweiser tall boy from Sidney’s in hand and people (bum) watching , I’ve spent an entire day in the French Quarter and never had to pay for entertainment. Hell, even Mardi Gras is completely free. If you take into account the $2,300 worth of throws you take home, I guess you technically get paid to take part in the greatest 2 weeks on earth. Free Hornets games. Free crawfish on Frenchmen. Summer dinner specials. 75 cent Miller High Life and PBR. $1 baseball games. $1 dollar hot dogs.

It was the usual baseball weather (hotter-n-hell) when we arrived at Zephyr Field with our $1 tickets in hand a few wadded up dollar bills in our pocket. Even at a AAA game, I thought the $1 ticket would put us somewhere in the nosebleeds. We followed the section, row, and seat numbers like Google Maps and looked up to find that we were 3 rows away from being in the umpire’s back pocket.
Now that we had found our seats, I had one thing on my mind- $1 hot dogs. Tonight I was getting hot dog wasted (kind of like these guys).
Nothing says baseball like a hot dog.

Or making Coach Broome have to hold his head out the window on the 4 hour rides on the yellow dog in high school. Or getting in a game of flip or pepper during pregame. Or coming up with ridiculous rain delay entertainment.

Or Culkin baseball field. Me and my two brothers spent 2/3 of our childhood there. Seriously. If we weren’t playing, we were still there 6 days a week perving the dish like Squints, playing the biggest game of wall ball in Mississippi history, eating those unbelievable ballfield cheeseburgers, running the bases like we just strapped on a new pair of PF Flyers and were going to try and pickle The Beast, chasing down foul balls for a free coke, and treating Big League Chew like Big Chief.

Or the Mississippi Braves. How can a kid that grew up watching David Justice, Ryan Klesko, Chipper Jones, Tom Glavine, and Mark Lemke on TBS not like the Braves? The smaller stadium atmosphere, and the fact that they play in our own back yard make the Mississippi Braves special. Before the wife and I got married, we spent many a muggy night in dirty Pearl catching games, and sneaking in overflowing flasks of Jager. We got to see guys like Brian McCann, Martin Pardo, and Yunel Escobar, but missed a coach’s performance that should have won him an Oscar.

But back to those $1 hot dogs. I entered the night thinking my hot dog tolerance was pretty high, kind of like when I tried to take on The Gauntlet at Up Your Alley. I resisted Erin’s usual temptation of cotton candy, but I collapsed under the pressure of nachos. I made it through the jalapeno smothered, canned cheese coverd chips and 3 hot dogs before I realized that I was a hot dog lightweight. My HAC was twice the legal limit but I still went in for last call- a double shot of the Pecan Pie Blizzard from Dairy Queen.

Tales of the Cocktail

New Orleans is yet again playing host of the Annual Tales of the Cocktail. This festival of spirits (not the ghost kind- I haven’t done ghosts or anything scary since I threw up during the Exorcism of Emily Rose) has been bringing bartenders, chefs, and alcoholics from around the country to the birthplace of the cocktail for 8 years. The weeklong event is centered around seminars, demonstrations, and tastings, and is highlighted by Spirited Dinners. The cocktail centered dinners feature 5 to 6 courses, each paired with a different specialty cocktail. At $85.00 – $100.00 a piece, the dinners are not very affordable for a young married couple with enough student loans to fund the next season of Power Rangers. Instead of completely scrapping the idea, we decided to have our own cocktail and food inspired week.

It started with a tasting of a cask conditioned Vanilla Turbodog Thursday at the Bulldog on Magazine Street. Apparently everybody else in New Orleans wanted to try a pint of this limited release beer. The tasting started at 6:30, and at 6:28 I found myself standing in line for another 20 minutes just to get a pint. It was definitely worth the wait. The beer was a little sweeter and was also a little smoother, partly from the vanilla, and partly from the lower carbonation from the cask conditioning, than the original Turbodog. In the spirit of the Spirited Dinner, we felt we had to pair this with something. And how can you go to a dingy bar, and not get some kind of greasy bar food?

Thank God for chili cheese waffle fries. But it almost caused a repeat of the Vicksburg City Hall Incident of 1998.

This weekend was apparently West Bank Weekend, too. We made 3 trips to the “best bank” over the span of 48 hours. To this day, I’m still not sure how this part of metro New Orleans got its nickname. We were there Saturday to try some pho and banh mi at Pho Tau Bay with a friend who writes for Saveur. Set in a sketchy shopping center off the Westbank Expressway, this joint serves up some of the city’s best Vietnamese soups and sandwiches. Since it was a late lunch and I was so hungry, I could ride a horse, I ordered more than I could stomach. The Pho Nam Bo Vien (a soup with scallions, thin, tender slices of beef, and a hearty broth) and chicken spring rolls were good, but the highlight of the lunch was the liver banh mi. The Vietnamese version of the New Orleans poboy (both are French influenced) was stuffed with crispy cucumbers, pickled carrots and daikon, cilantro, house made mayonnaise, and a velvety smooth chicken liver pate.

We continued the Asian theme throughout the afternoon with a trip to Hong Kong market. Most of my assumptions and expectations were met, except for the fact that there wasn’t a City Wall. The Super K-Mart sized Asian market had just about every foul thing imaginable. Fruit that smells like dirty diapers. Containers of pig blood. And my personal favorite, fermented duck eggs. I can feel the Emily Rose effect coming again.

Sunday, we developed our own grill-inspired beer dinner, which paired 3 courses with 3 different beers. Usually “grill time” starts off with huge bowl of cheese dip and a cold Budweiser. This time we started off with char grilled jalapenos stuffed with shrimp and cream cheese and wrapped in bacon, and paired it with Abita’s SOS Pilsner. The crisp Pilsner subdued the heat of the first course, as well as the humidity on the porch, and also aids in the Gulf recovery efforts.
The second course paired Bayou Teche’s LA 31 Bière Pâle with a ½ pound hamburger and hand cut Belgian fries. Once I got through the crispy bacon, the grilled avocado exploded like molten lava and mixed with the mayonnaise, and melted provolone to form a mass of gooey deliciousness. The crispy, twice fried fries were accompanied by a house made wasabi aioli and red pepper barbeque sauce. The slight bitterness of the hops in the pale ale adequately complimented the spiciness of the sauces, and the charred beef of the burger.

Remaining consistent with the grilling of the previous courses, we decided to try a grilled dessert. The final course consisted of grilled peaches, glazed with rum, butter, and brown sugar, and topped with crème fraiche. The robust chocolate malty characteristic of Rogue Mocha Porter counterbalanced the sweetness of the peaches.

The sweet ending to the beer dinner capped off our affordable version of our personal Tales of The Cocktail weekend. At least this way, Power Rangers can continue filming, and Gatlin can get in on the eating and drinking, too. New Orleans even makes dogs want to eat some good groceries, and enjoy more than just the occasional cocktail.

Hopitoulas and Hand Grenades

For the past few months, The Inn on Bourbon has been offering a free tasting featuring NOLA Brewing Company beers every third Thursday. Last night, we decided we’d take advantage of this deal. I mean, how can a beer drinkin’ fool pass up free beer, in New Orleans I might add. Much to my dismay, the Lemon Basil Blueberry Wheat failed to make an appearance (just found out it will be on tap tonight at The Avenue Pub). It didn’t really matter much though. Hopitoulas IPA gladly picked up the slack and quickly subdued my frustration.

The hop-heavy libation flooded my mouth (and nose), with its somewhat floral and citrusy bitterness, and was a welcome sign to my stomach, which has been suffering from Natty Light Gut Rot for the past 3 weeks. Thank you Amurrica.

My senses continued to be overwhelmed. The house brass band, I think Local Rebels, went from one of my Rebirth favorites, “Do Whacha Wanna”, to a personal rendition of “This Little Light of Mine”. In any other place in the world, alcohol and a Sunday School song would never be found within 300 feet of each other, and definitely not in a hotel bar on Bourbon Street. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I’ve seen people walk straight out of church and straight into The Bulldog. Even the décor of St. Joe’s is enough to make even a Catholic priest blush. There’s nothing like toasting Mary with St. Joe’s Blueberry Mojito, or shooting pool and drinking Dark and Stormy's with Jesus.

Before I knew it, the wife and I had devoured all of the mini muffulattas from the hotel’s kitchen and were the only people in the crowd not related to the band. We had our fill of NOLA, if that’s even possible, and decided to run over to the new Tropical Isle, which seems to be on every block of Bourbon Street now. We got a couple of Hand Grenades, and took one for the road. Next thing I know, I wake up at my desk at work with a bale of cotton in my mouth, and a headache straight from the devil himself.

Wetlands and Elastic Waistbands

I’m not sure what it is about a buffet, but I can’t resist one. It doesn’t matter if it’s the local Chinese buffet , Ryan’s, or a KFC (I wish I knew of a Mexican buffet), I somehow find myself scarfing down massive amounts of fried and gravy laden goodness. At first I feel as though I am Erik the Red, pillaging some small European village. 8 minutes and 4 pounds later, I have to loosen my belt, Bobby Hill style, and tell myself that I’ll never do something like that again. Why does having an indisposable amount of stale macaroni, greasy sweet and sour chicken, instant mashed potatoes, butter soaked rolls and self serve chocolate swirl ice cream (WAIT, why do all buffets have this?) trigger the gene that expresses barbarian-like traits, and cause men to treat food with lawlessness. Remember what happened when Tony Perkis left Camp Hope.

Today. Well, today, I did it again. After a day of working in the wetlands between Chauvin and Cocodrie, I was headed back to New Orleans via Houma, and what do I see? A sign- just like Ace of Base said I would- that read “Sicily’s Ultimate Italian Buffet”. Come on, I couldn’t pass this up. Even though I was a one-man wolf pack, and my wolf pack had NO chance of growing by one, I decided to delve into the world of Italian buffets by myself. Holy hell. A make-your-own-pasta-bar complete with nonBP shrimp. Muffuletta pizza. Lasagna. Smore’s Pizza. Why haven’t I known about this? I thought these kinds of buffets were only found in lore and passed down through oral history, like the mythical Popeye’s buffet in Baton Rouge. Before I knew it, I had passed the Erik the Red and the Bobby Hill stage (including the time he got gout) before Round 1 was complete. Hell, I got to the point where I knew Scorpion was going to pop up from behind the sneeze guard and finish me, “Get over here!” (<--, <--, A). Coming just a few bites short of killing over like the guy on Seven, I had a revelation- next time I go in the field for work, I’m wearing elastic waistband jeans... and bringing a roll of toilet paper.