Perpetual Po-boys

It's definitely not November, and we didn’t get anywhere remotely close to the newly renovated Oak Street corridor, but we somehow managed to subconsciously create our own personal Po-boy Festival. If you include the hot sausage po-boys we made Thursday night, the count of these iconic New Orleans sandwiches escalated to a copious amount for the weekend. Some were accidental. Some were planned. All were unbelievably delicious.

Following a night of shenanigans and swashbuckling at the oldest bar in America, we were in no shape to make it to the New Orleans Road Food Festival’s cutting of the longest oyster po-boy in the world. We were, however, able to rustle ourselves up enough to make it downtown to try some of the festival’s offerings. After making our way down 4 blocks of the vendor lined Royal Street and grabbing a few Covington Brewhouse Strawberries and LA31 Grenade (not the kind you see on Jersey Shore), each of us finally decided on our regional hangover cure and reviver mechanism. On their first leg of the Gulf South road trip from Missouri, Nate and Whitney jumped all over the alligator and grits, crawfish enchiladas, and a grilled shrimp and fried green tomato remoulade po-boy. Erin decided on the smothered chicken po-boy from Café Reconcile, and, even if unknowingly, possibly helped keep someone out of jail. I decided to go with a po-boy that was has become one of the signature dishes at a local landmark- an Oyster Foch po-boy from Antoine’s.

The po-boy, named for Ferdinand Foch, a Marshal of the French Army, serves as a World War I reenactment right there in your hands. A smear of foie gras on the French loaf represents the mud Foch trudged through during his campaigns, and the Colbert sauce (hollandaise with Worcestershire, tomato sauce, and sherry) symbolizes the blood of his lost soldiers (fried cornmeal crusted oysters). Don’t let the name or the coagulated-blood-like sauce atop the fried oysters fool you- this po-boy happened to be my personal favorite of this food festival, and was much more fulfilling than the turtle soup I passed on earlier in the day.

Since we missed parts of the French Quarter the night before, we made our rounds to the important daytime attractions of New Orleans' most historic neighborhood-the $1.50 Abita Strawberry and a $0.10 cups at Sidney’s, the free hidden bathrooms along Decatur and Chartres, and the ridiculously good daiquiris from Organic Banana at the ever-so-touristy French Market. All this eating and drinking and walking and more eating made us even more hungry (don’t ask how), so we decided to hop back on the Magazine bus (hoping that the crazy old lady that pushes me around like Nitro wasn’t on there again). As usual, our go-to spot for casual, semi-cheap food had an hour wait. Hunger was reaching an all time high, so we decided to skip the wait and headed a few blocks down to Tracey’s. If you have been keeping up, you should already know what was on my mind as we rounded 3rd Street.

The thick, rib sticking gravy cheese fries coupled with our rough morning made us decide to stay in for the night for a condensed Laurel Street porch session.

With Nate and Whitney well rested on Sunday morning and ready to head out for their second leg of their Gulf Coast tour, they decided they wanted a quick lunch. Since quick and lunch and Sunday don’t go together in New Orleans, I racked my brain for what seemed like an eternity. Amidst the foggy haze from within my head, something clicked. Freret Street Po-Boy and Donut Shop. Yes, the “Donut Shop” does belong there, and yes it is exactly as good as it sounds. We entered the corner shop as the smell of warm icing and fried seafood hit us harder than the window unit directly above the door. As the guy behind the counter finished up freshly breading Nate's oysters and dropping Whitney's shrimp into the vat of hot oil, I panicked and went with one of the specials written on the dry erase board adjacent to the counter.

The Eggplant Napoleon was constructed in the exact same fashion as its namesake. Deep fried slices of eggplant were layered between a thick creamy sauce studded with plump crawfish tails, and dressed the way all good po-boys should be. Once my elbows flared out into devour mode, I only surfaced to catch a quick breath before diving back into the basket. I didn't even realize that I forgot to offer anyone else a sample of this delicious sandwich until one of the always extremely polite staff took my empty tray away. All that remained from our weekend of po-boys was a glazed twist and a few crumbs of crusty Leidenheimer bread.

Brooklyn Local 2 and Mississippi Boll Weevils

I’ve been on a hot streak. Through the magic of Twitter and Facebook (I think Mad Madam Mim has something to do with it), I have been racking up on more free stuff than the bearded guy on the corner of Tchoupitoulas and Jackson. From free drinks and Starlight Racing passes to tickets to see Dirty Dozen, the power of social networks has gotten to the point of ridiculousness. Within a few hours of on Rebecca Black's favorite day, I pulled down tickets for the North Mississippi Allstars show at Tipitina's and 2 VIP tickets to the Top of The Hops Beer Festival in addition to the 2 I had won in a previous Twitter competition.

We started what I had dubbed “the greatest free day ever” early Saturday morning at the greatest beer bar in New Orleans and quite possibly the South. Avenue Pub teamed up with Draft Magazine and Unibroue to organize a bus that would take folks from the south shore over to Mandeville for Top of the Hops. We arrived around 10:30 (and no, not PM) to find that my streak was still going strong. Along with the free tickets and bus passes, the prize pack included a round of Unibroue Blanche de Chambly mimosas.

With the bus pulling up on St. Charles to take us to the holy land of the Northshore, I took advantage of New Orleans’ greatest law and got a few Abita Black IPAs to go. I figured the road beer would ease our Christmas-morning-like anticipation, and would make the trip across the lake somewhat bearable. The only thing the beer did was help me give the on board bathroom an official and proper breaking in. Our anxiousness had almost reached its boiling point as the road running through Fountainbleau State Park opened up near the lake front. Our chariot pulled over and dumped us out near the entrance to this beer drinkers’ paradise.

In its second year, Top of the Hops was very accessible to all types of beer drinkers. For $35, the guy who only knows beer as Miller Lite, Blue Moon, and “dark” beer could sample just as many 2 ounce glasses of Duvel as the pompous beer geek guy, the resident hop head, and the Local Skanks (the band, not the girls over at Larry Flynt's).


From the mainstream Shocktops and Amberbocks, to the local NOLAs, Lazy Magnolias, Abitas, and LA 31s, to the not-so-micro Stones, Rogues, and Brooklyns, all the usual suspects were here. In addition to all the well known American crafts, the number of Belgian breweries represented at this outdoor festival was fairly impressive. Sampling all of these new and sometimes strange beers caused hunger to start to set in.

We rolled into the VIP area like Boosie to find that Zea was tasked with providing grub. And did they ever provide. Making our way down the buffet line, we piled our plates high with shrimp pasta, roasted garlic hummus, roasted corn grits, and Thai ribs. While Erin was trying to perform some type of circus-like balancing act with her plate, something caught my eye over by the ribs.

Yep. That, my friend, is a Budweiser. I was quickly reminded me that beer doesn’t have to be pretentious. Even at a festival that thrives on the craft beer craze, folks are going to drink what folks like. Cicerones are a brilliant concept and double chocolate raspberry stouts aged in bourbon barrels are delicious, but when the humidity of summer kicks in, I’ll be enjoying the hell out of a tall boy Bud Light or PBR (which reminds me, I need to check my hipster trap in the Marigny). Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, back to the beer at hand and another pleasant surprise. The VIP tickets also included a booth with exclusive tastings including one of my festival favorites- Chocolate Southern Pecan. As complex as it sounds, the guys over in Kiln simply brewed their normal Southern Pecan recipe with Ghirardelli. Also sampled at this exclusive tasting tent: an excellent representation of a rye pale ale by Sam Adams, Brooklyn Local 2, and a blueberry wheat by NOLA that I’ve been trying to track down for months.

From Rouse’s green onion sausage braised in Sam Adams to boudin stuffed pork chops with an IPA reduction, the focus of the festival was evident even in the beer-centric cooking demonstrations that directly abutted the VIP tents.

The festival ran on for over 5 hours, but the mix of those cooking demos, the endless supply of beer, and the warm gulf breeze off of Lake Pontchartrain made the festival fly by. Before we knew it, we were corralled back onto the bus and shipped back to Avenue Pub like beer fed Kobe beef.

Relying on a second wind from those sloppy, nasty (not that kind of nasty) roast beef poboys and cheese fries from Tracey's (bought with Groupon, of course), a personal encore was called from within.


An old fashioned hill country revue with our fellow Mississippi bretheren was in order. We entered the hallowed doors of Tipitina's, with our free tickets to some seriously sacred tunes billowing from the North Mississippi Allstars on stage and a crowd that seemed to be wearing moon shoes.

A stripped down, acoustic heavy R.L. Burnside cover was followed by a set with a four-stringed cigar box guitar. A somewhat spiritual and certainly appropriate ending to a ridiculously awesome and cheap day, Luther and Cody Dickinson, along with big boy bassist Chris Chew, rocked the big-ass-moon night away with more blues covers for four straight hours, as well as some of their original southern rock-esque catalogue, including one of my personal favorites- Mississippi Boll Weevil.

Irish Power Bombs and Corned Beef

Today is a day of hatred if you had an asshole kid in 4th grade World History. You’d waltz into class like any other Thursday. You were probably talking about how you went to Grenada Lake for Spring Break while your buddy was bragging about how awesome his park hopper pass was at Disney World. While trying to avoid conversation with the weird guy who chronically smelled like Chili Cheese Fritos like he was a leper, you slip a note to the girl that sits behind you in Mississippi Studies. The day seemed normal until you realized that Bully McTrashiness, with his trailer park demonic eyes, was waiting right inside the door for you. Oh crap (yes, crap, because you know you can’t cuss at Bovina Elementary), you forgot to wear a certain hue located between blue and yellow on Mr. Brantley’s color wheel poster.

It’s St. Patrick’s Day. Break out your early ‘90s horror films and the framed four leaf clover your brother “found” in 2nd grade.

Pound a Guinness in between your mandated 15 minute break and your not-so-mandatory online viewing of the early college basketball games today. Be sure to wear your green so you don’t get pinched by a modern day Mr. McTrashiness- this will also prevent a serious body slamming which is sure to ensue.

Eat some corned beef and cabbage. Fake a stomach virus at work around noon, and head on down to the block party of all block parties to see if you can catch a glimpse of the elusive leprechaun.

With the folks from Parasol’s kitchen, as well as a few bartenders, running up one block to the new Tracey’s, this year’s St. Patrick’s Day celebration on 3rd Street will likely be one of the largest block parties New Orleans' Irish Channel has experienced. If the crowd swells to the point of exploding into the rest of the Garden District, and you can’t snag a NOLA Irish Channel Stout or one of those roast beef poboys and gravy-cheese fries from Tracey’s, just do the The Bernie down to The Bulldog for their Porter Fries (chili cheese fries that do serious work). No, I won’t be partaking in the festive green beer flowing from the bar’s infinite Irish taps. Can you imagine what Friday would hold after green food coloring and chili cheese fries.

Somewhere Between Cox and the NOFD

Nine days ago, I had no idea what this Carnival season had in store. Sure, this was only my second Mardi Gras as a New Orleans resident, but I thought I had more of a clue about the ins and outs of the week of revelry leading up to Fat Tuesday. By noon on Mardi Gras Day, my body was reeling from my boozy diet, and my mind was caught between passing out and doing the Safety Dance. Aside from the awesome cheese fondue and assortment of steaks and duck we had while catching Druids on our perch atop The Melting Pot, my body ran off the fumes of purple, green, and gold jello shots, a keg of Miller, Sam’s Choice brand energy drinks, red beans, and deer sausage for the remainder of the week.

While spending all of Thursday night trying to catch one of those coveted shoes from the largest all-female parading krewe (Muses), I realized that this was going to be no ordinary Mardi Gras.

The craze had stricken me. Beads were no longer meaningful. I suddenly felt above the peasants who were struggling to snatch cheap, plastic beads out of the air as if they were emulating redneck tourists on Bourbon Street who purchased a “ticket” to Mardi Gras off of StubHub. Instead, I found myself fighting for 5 cent throws and doubloons, and jumping out of the gym for semi-disposable cups and huggies (no, I didn’t mean to say koozies). Weary from the workout we just received from the parade (don’t judge, stealing Museuzelas from 8 year olds is hard work), we decided a quick post-parade beer was sufficient and packed it in.

Equipped with a fresh keg of Miller, a disco ball, glowsticks, a mullet, and a DVD of the first two seasons of ALF, the ‘80s dance party that proceeded the Friday night parades lived up to its billing. After reeling in a few innocent Hermes and Krewe d'etat parade goers with Burge’s blaring ‘80s tunes and Patrick’s bandito break dances (or should I say sporadic convulsions), all the talking heads at this burning-down-the-house-dance-party forwent the obvious Journey and witnessed possibly the greatest rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody of all time.

The night could have ended there in that 6th Street duplex and it would have gone down as one of the great nights of Mardi Gras. Rebirth had different plans for us. Clothed in our ‘80s drab, we second lined down to the almost-always-empty Prytania Cafe donning Member’s Only jackets and glowing beads. With the crowd overflowing into the street, we fought our way to a satellite bar they had set up on the side. With inhibitions at an all time low and decision making skills drastically degrading, we made the mistake of taking and then quickly devouring a whole bowl of cherries that the bartender had been drowning in moonshine (hey, they were free, and, after all, it was Mardi Gras). The toxic mash of moonshine, jello shots, and High Life brewed up enough courage to muscle our way through the crowd to the point where we were essentially sharing the stage and with Rebirth during "Feel Like Funkin' It Up".

The next thing I know, I woke up in my bed unable to hear anything out of my left ear, a weird itch deep in my scalp (hopefully from the mullet), and faintly remembering sending a bicycle search party out for Erin as she made her late night mad dash to McDonald’s. As much as I hate to admit it, I was glad that the heavy rain had hindered the Saturday parades, which allowed my legs to recover from those totally awesome ‘80s dance moves from the night before. Being tremendously lazy, we didn’t get up and moving until the rain stopped and the sun set. Once up, all of the ailments were cured with what may become my favorite hangover cure- a pint of PBR, a scallop taco, and an order of the jerk pork nachos from The Rum House.

The downpours from Saturday moved Endymion from its Mid-City route to the traditional Uptown route following Bacchus on Sunday. Endymion , Bacchus, Thoth, Mid-City. Three super krewes following one of the more traditional parading krewes- all rolling a mere 100 feet from our 6th Street Mardi Gras Headquarters. Hell yeah. Starting at 10:00 (in the A.M.) with a gallon of homemade French 75s, 13 hours on the parade route was interspersed with brief porch sessions, more of those dreaded jello shots, smoked deer sausage, boudin, and pots of red beans and gumbo. With so much attention focused on drinking hand grenades with the Girls Gone Wild participants on Bourbon Street, the relaxed, tailgate/block party atmosphere along the 5 mile long route on the St. Charles Avenue neutral ground proved to be both family friendly and drunkard friendly. Kids intermingling with smashed adults was the theme of the day, even for us. A nine year old begged me and Burge to put her on her shoulders so she could catch more throws. We both hesitated, thinking that her drunken dad would mistake us for Herb the Perv if he spotted her on our shoulders. After an hour of pleading she ran off and returned with her dad, who gave the okay, stating “that means I don’t have to do it”. And so began our day long friendship. She hovered near us until the end of Endymion, even posing with Burge’s locally infamous astronaut mask.

We sat out the Lundi Gras festivities at the Riverfront, but reconvened at our parade post for the oldest active parade in New Orleans, Proteus. As the NOFD truck signaled the end of Proteus, and the Cox Communications truck led the way for the upcoming Orpheus parade, hunger struck. With our brains still not operating at full capacity, we somehow forgot that our route to Slice near Whole foods was impeded by the prolonged Orpheus parade. We quickly recovered from our mishap by snagging two sidewalk tables at Theo’s where we happened to catch a scene that could have appeared on an action sequence of Treme- a four wheeler being chased by an unmarked, untagged Cadillac (remember, at this point we were right smack in the middle of Magazine Street). Although it wasn’t Slice, and as much as I hate to admit it, the vegetable pizza with huge chunks of spicy tomatoes, olives, and squash turned out to be a pretty damn tasty pizza. Washing down the slices with a few festive pints of Jockamo IPA also washed away the rest of the night.

And then came the day of all days- Mardi Gras Day. As we walked up Jackson Avenue from Laurel to St. Charles, the sights and sounds of Mardi Gras were already greeting us before we even crossed Camp. Brass bands echoed around the taller buildings and hotels between Lee Circle and Jackson Avenue. Ribs were on smokers, chickens were on grills, crawfish were in 50 gallon pots, and the smoke formed a hazy cloud over the already overcast St. Charles Avenue. Cramped, hungry, and wet, we decided that a Zulu coconut from a rider of borrowed floats wasn’t in our near future.

We set up shop at our usual spot as the parade of all parades began. As usual, the parades never arrive on time. A tractor breaks down. A fire truck blows a tire. A Chalmette High School band member passes out from overdosing on trashiness. While waiting for the great Mardi Gras day parade to arrive, Burge just so happened to catch a glimpse of a feather headdress just a few blocks away. We ran, literally (just ask Erin), to catch a glimpse of the elusive and seemingly rare Mardi Gras Indians. As we approached Barronne we realized that the chief, spy boy, and sign boy were all at the corner of 6th.

The Wild Red Flames eventually traveled on to find an opposing tribe. As they departed, the bells of Christ Church Cathedral finally began to toll. They weren’t ringing for the hour or half hour. After a week of festivities and days of torturing our bodies with Zapp’s and Natty Lights, our wait was now over. The climax of the entire carnival season was here- the passing of the King of Carnival, Rex. Mardi Gras was officially here, and, at the same time, the revelry of yet another successful Mardi Gras was dangerously close to ending and giving way to Lent and a Charlie Sheen-esque rehab.