Singing on Sunday

December 27 

Aimless day today, but in a cool place that’s damned good. 

We had some oatmeal in the hotel and set out for adventure.

First stop was 11 o’clock mass at St. Louis Cathedral. The music was fantastic. For the Christmas season there is a small band and choir in the loft at the back of the nave. I gather that’s not always the case.

Hymns included “Come, Oh, Come, Emmanuel” and “Angels We Have Heard on High.” Very familiar, very moving, and very singable. 

The funny moment was when I gave myself away as an Episcopalian. The church was packed with regulars and visitors like Joanna and me. I was the only one who stood when the ushers brought the oblations up.

At the end of the service, the priest welcomed all the outlanders to New Orleans, where, as he put it, “you can buy a beverage on every corner.”

After Sunday School, we sort of ambled down toward Cafe du Monde without much expectation of getting in. We weren’t disappointed in that. The take-out line for beignets looked to be an hour long. Forget the line for tables, so we did.

We crossed the street to a place called River’s Edge. Instead of waiting for a table, we headed straight to the bar. We weren’t there to eat anything anyhow. Oatmeal sticks to your ribs. Besides, after all that General’s chicken the night before, I was never going to be hungry again.

I asked for a mimosa, which is after all only a spritzer with bubbles. Besides, the orange juice is nourishing. It came in a plastic cup that easily held 12 ounces. 

Some people came through the door from the street, and the bartender said they had to be seated before he could serve them. Whoops. I had cut the line. So, as you’re allowed to do here, I carried the drink to the park, and we walked along the river.

It has been a rainy weekend, but our luck has been holding and the rain holding off when we have been outside. The weather laid a thick haze on the water, but you could see the far bank and the freighters tied up. 

We stopped at Landry’s on the corner of Conti and North St. Peter’s. I needed another mimosa and the use of the men’s room. Joanna looked at the menu and asked me what dirty rice is. I tried to explain, but remembered that I had forgotten. All I knew about it, anyway, came from James Lee Burke novels.

So we ordered some along with a couple of vegetable side dishes—nothing to heavy, because, remember, like Scarlett O’Hara, I was never going to be hungry again. We asked the bartender what is in dirty rice and she said it is made with chicken and pork. When the meat browns, it looks like flecks of dirt.

We meandered uphill toward Bourbon Street.

On the way, not having been able to get into Cafe du Monde, we stopped at Cafe Beignet on Royal Street. The line was only 15 minutes long there. (Joanna timed it.) Beignet, at least at this cafe, are square fried cakes with the same flavor and texture as the zeppole sold at Italian street fairs.

Bourbon Street always seems to be lit up, in all senses of the term. Guys were out in force with “huge ass beer” signs and menus. This time the drag queens were drumming up business at one club, and handed us a brochure for a show. 

People were strolling along with strangely shaped containers with a bulbous base and a long fluted top. They held drinks called hand grenades.

We were heading in the direction of Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, which is known for its hurricane, a drink with three kinds of rum, including a 151 proof,  and I got an idea. I hadn’t had a single drink on Saturday. And I was on mimosas so far on Sunday. 

So I told Joanna that I was going to Lafitte’s to get a hurricane to go. We could walk back in the direction of the hotel to see if I could get all the way there before I fell down.

“What if you fall down?” Joanna asked.

“You keep walking to the hotel. I’ll get up sooner or later.”

I made it just fine, but needed a nap.

There was drizzle too light to notice when we went out for dinner. We went back to Remoulade, the bar with the great oysters, and had a Taste of New Orleans combination plate. This started with gumbo, and then came a plate with red beans and rice and a crab cake served in a crab shell. The taps are limited at Remoulade. I had a NOLA blond ale and Abita amber. The NOLA had more flavor but was nowhere near hoppy or malty enough to make me truly happy.

The rain had picked up a little, so we hustled, staying under the protection of the galleries as much as possible, to Ole Saint on Royal Street. That’s where we had dessert. We ordered the apple crisp, but they were out of that. So we had the bread pudding. 

I ordered a local IPA, but they were out of it. The bartender recommended Terrapin Hopsecutioner, an IPA made in Georgia, so I had that instead.

The funny thing is the surprising way this all worked out. I have never had a pairing of beer and dessert that was so near perfect. The bitter hops, the sweet syrup on the pudding were perfect together. This was literally comfort food.

And it wasn’t all in my imagination. Joanna was eating pudding and drinking the beer, too.

In any event, it was a great way to end the day.

The photo of the day is Joanna in a Hurricane. That pint-size container was full, mostly with rum, when I started. She tried a couple of sips, and added a new drink to her done-that list. Red wine, IPA, mimosa, Campari and soda, and now a hurricane. My karma as a bad influence is adding up.

Here’s wishing good karma and better desserts to everyone.

Harry

Dec. 29

The secret to dirty rice is liver.

Larry