We’d had a busy day: New Orleans Glassworks (http://www.neworleansglassworks.org/) in the Arts District and the riverfront Southern Food and Beverage Museum (http://www.southernfood.org/) in the morning; la petite Absinthe Museum of America (http://www.absinthemuseumofamerica.com/) on the Rue Royale in the afternoon, lots of walking in between. 
I wanted to get back to the Dauphine and hit the pool before succumbing to a couple of frosty Hurricanes in the cool darkness of May Baily’s.We perched on a couple of red deco barstools at the counter. Apologetically, the cook said the A/C wasn’t working. (What did it matter at that point? I thought. Just bring us our Co-Colas.)
The guy two seats over from me could’ve been Vince Vaughn, circa 20 years ago. Except for the fact that he was plugged into his iDistraction, watching something, oblivious to my appraisal, we could have tripped backwards in time a little bit.
I’m succumbing to the sultry stickiness, mind adrift, as we sip our icy Cokes and take in our surroundings, a languorous French Quarter late afternoon. We watch the hubcap sizzle on the hot griddle, our little burger steaming away under there, betting it’s going to kick Port of Call’s chunky ass.
Yep. I’m afraid it did, Port of Call fans. It was thin but substantial, perfectly cooked and manageable—it didn’t fall apart in our hands. Between that, the Coke, and the hot oily, salty fries, we found ourselves in a little corner of greasy spoon heaven.
