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.