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.

Meat Week

Somewhere between veganism and the organic food movement, tree huggers have lost their “got-dang mind”. There’s nothing wrong with spending a month’s paycheck at Whole Foods- even Strickland Propane endorses an organic co-op. I’ve been known to scope out the local produce at the Tuesday farmer’s market at Uptown Square, but last week I decided it was time for Cro-Magnon like action. And so began the Inaugural Officially Unofficial Meat Week. Even though I was the lone observer of this holiday, I’m hoping more folks will jump on the band wagon next year- kind of like they did with the 2009 Saints.

The first leg of the carnivorous challenge happened almost by chance. In a long and drawn out training class in the CBD last week, my mind had plenty of time to wander. Much like the daydreams of Ms. Pace’s 4th grade Mississippi Studies class, both somehow culminated with a pork phantasm (don’t ask). The lunch locale was almost too easy- Cochon Butcher.

As the name implies, Cochon Butcher is the full service butcher for Donald Link’s flagship restaurant, Cochon. This “swine bar” also doubles as a sandwich shop specializing in all things pig. After quickly glancing over at the case of homemade condiments like Abita creole mustard and a sweet potato habanero hot sauce, I couldn’t help but stop and stare at the case filled with house-cured meats ranging from boudin and pork rilettes to duck pastrami and hog’s head cheese. Now salivating about as bad as one of Pavlov’s dog, I focused my attention to the menu overhead. The Cuban and the pork belly sandwich looked tempting, but I decided to go with the sandwich with a true southern twist- a buckboard bacon and collard green melt.

The hand cut fries were a perfect non-meat filler, but (I really don’t want to do this) Cochon Butcher’s mini king cake craze (here it comes) took the cake (wow, that sounded much better in my head).

It’s funny how, at least to me, the Abita Brewery tour and Cochon somehow arrive in pairs. It’s also funny that everything you say you’ll never do when you get married, you end up doing. Fortunately we have both learned the marital art (not martial art) of trade-offs. Just like trading your rookie Alex Rodriguez card for your buddy’s Mark Lemke just because you like the Braves, sometimes someone gets screwed. Fortunately, I was looking out for number one and it wasn’t me this time. I traded her big day at Hobby Lobby in Covington for my 5th tour of the Abita Brewery. Don’t judge me, at least it wasn’t Bed Bath and Beyond.

We showed up before most of the workers had even arrived, drank a few of the Imperial Stouts, and answered a few questions about the tour before I realized that I wasn’t fulfilling my Meat Week pledge. We snagged a few of the S.O.S and Restoration Ale sales flyers, and headed down Highway 36 back towards Covington. Coupon in hand, we pulled up a stool at the bar at the Columbia Street Tap Room in Covington. With 30-40 beers on tap and exponentially more bottles in the cooler, I assumed that kitchen in the back would put out the normal bar & grille fare. I was about as wrong Amber Portwood’s pregnancy test. I’m not sure you can consider a bar that has a bouillabase, and black drum as their daily special normal. Anyway, I passed on the specials and went straight to the good ole All-American ½ pound hamburger to satisfy my daily Meat Week allocation of beef. Before finishing the last bite, my mind fast forwarded to our dinner destination- Capdeville.

I held up my part of the deal and we made our way back across the Causeway with enough trinkets and nic nacs to buy Manhattan. Taking the sketchy Magazine Street bus, we pulled into the CBD, and hopped off at the restaurant’s namesake street (I wonder why Mayor Capdeville only got a ½ block named after him). Upon entering the British-style gastropub, the glowing jukebox in front of a backdrop of white and red wallpaper that resembles my grandpaw’s Navy tattoo was the first thing to demand our attention. Because of an ongoing private party we seated ourselves at the grayish colored, granite-topped bar. When I saw the house infusions hiding behind the well stocked bar, I regretted my decision of prematurely ordering a NOLA Blonde. Eventually, small talk with the bartender led to a sample of the exceptionally delicous house infused blackberry Jack Daniels and lemonade. While running through the menu, it was evident that these were no plain burgers. I reluctantly passed up the duck confit club, and a burger with garlic aioli and an au poivre sauce for the Manchego la Mancha. This burger, topped with manchego and a fried egg and then slathered with a sweet and tangy green tomato jam, exceeded the pleasures of my first Coke as a kid.

Suffering from an excruciating fullness, I didn’t hesitate to try a bite of Erin’s truffled mac and cheese. Filled with pancetta and topped with thin strips of shaved parmesan and fried sage, this rich and ridiculously good, non-traditional macaroni dish sent me over the meat driven edge of sanity.

Erin rolled me to the bus stop, which just so happened to also be serving as the night’s homeless hot spot. As full as we were, Erin started her usual “I want ice cream” fit as soon as we escaped the crazies and boarded the Audubon Park bound bus. Although I shot down her dreams of ice cream rather swiftly, I did agree that we needed something sweet to cut the richness of my manchego burger and her adult mac and cheese. While passing 6th Street, I snatched the line for the bell. The bus came to a screeching halt directly in front of Sucre as we tucked and rolled into the front door of the sweet boutique. The shop was crawling with a bunch of teens suffering from what seemed like Bieber Fever, so we snagged a single dessert to share at home.

I can’t remember the name of the desert or what it even was, but it did signal the end to my first Meat Week.

Bourbon House

Finally, a weekend that didn’t involve driving to the far reaches of south Louisiana and Mississippi or opening up Hôtel le Gordon. I could finally take advantage of the free time and do what I do best- eat and watch football.

If you know me, then you know that I sniff out coupons like Tyrone Biggums sniffs out the white stuff. When the email reminder for Groupon came through a few weeks ago with Bourbon House as the deal of the day, I quickly snatched it up. Bourbon House is part of Dickie Brennan’s family of restaurants- a family who really knows how to treat their diners especially well, not to mention the good food that comes out of their kitchen. With its vast windows and interior balconies in the expansive dining room, Bourbon House also shows off the Brennan’s uncanny ability to design incredible dining rooms. Since we were practically dining half off, and we had gotten the seafood platters on our previous trips, we decided to break the monotony and share a few of Bourbon House’s small plates. We started off the mild Friday night with a plate of okra and eggplant “fries”. The fresh eggplant and whole okra were flawlessly fried, and were paired with a Creole Ranch sauce.

For the next course, we went with the Crystal Alligator. The alligator, usually a tough meat, was extremely tender and doused in a Crystal hot wing sauce. This slightly spicy sauce was subdued by the accompanying blue cheese.

Being that we were in a seafood-centered restaurant, we figured we would be doing the restaurant an injustice if we didn’t order some sort of seafood. The first of the seafood dishes was a Crawfish Fried Rice. The Asian-inspired dish, chocked full of Louisiana crawfish tails and topped with a sunny side up egg, was quickly inhaled like the Tennessee Titans' mascot inhales cheerleaders.

The final dish of the night showed off Bourbon House’s ability to locate the best and freshest seafood, even outside of Louisiana. The tuna tasting paired three unique tuna dishes on one plate- seared, Carpaccio, and tartare. The tuna, in both its raw and slightly cooked form, was both simple and delicious.

Once we had handily finished off the tuna, we made our way out of the restaurant just in time. A few West Virginia fans, presumably in town for the LSU-West Virginia game, were seated at our neighboring table. When one of the Mountaineer diners failed miserably at putting words and sentences together, we knew Bourbon Street had claimed yet another victim, and we knew that we didn’t want to stick around for the side show our waiter was about to witness.