NOLA when She Sizzles

The best way to navigate the French Quarter in the smothering heat of summer is to stay hydrated, for goodness’ sake—and keep your blood sugar up with multiple small meals!

The first place Melificent and I headed was Port of Call, a dive joint on Esplanade favored by the locals. In addition to Neptune’s Monsoon—a large and unremarkable rum/fruit juice concoction, we launched into smackdown mode and tried one of their burgers—this trip, it was Port of Call versus Clover Grill.

“Better be a good burger,” Mel said, noting the $9.50 price tag.

The patty, capped off with a handful of shredded cheese, was so thick, it basically deconstructed into wads of meat as we attempted to eat the thing.

Next stop: Fiorella’s—home of the best fried chicken in the Quarter. We were still buzzing on our bucket of rum/juice, so we kept it light and ordered two big spicy, crunchy breasts of heavenly goodness. Fan-effing-tastic. Enough said.

The next day, we needed a snack before entering the shrine to all that is tasty: the Southern Food & Beverage Museum at Riverwalk. I was beyond delighted to find Messina’s in the food court—purveyors of Cajun Spicy Potatoes, which I had missed, all these long years without. (I have cooked up several batches of these sinful spuds since returning home: little red potatoes simmered in Zatarain’s cayenne-laced seafood boil, smothered with Tony Chachere’s seasoning-flecked sour cream and shredded cheddar, sprinkled with chopped green onions. Simple and oh-so-good.)

SoFAB and its Museum of the American Cocktail made us thirsty and hungry, duh, so we wandered through cool, dark Harrah’s casino, emerging into blazing sunlight on the other side at Loew’s hotel, with Café Adelaide and the Swizzle Stick Bar nestled in its lobby.

The airy lounge is adorned with some of Adelaide’s massive cocktail shaker collection. She was a Brennan, of the famed NOLA restaurant clan, and liked the hooch so much she wore a gold swizzle stick charm around her neck. Would have loved to meet her!
Drink special: The Adelaide Swizzle. Perfect for a hot afternoon. A tall glass filled with New Orleans Dark Rum, Peychaud’s Bitters, soda, lime juice and a “secret ingredient” which Michael, our first rate absolutely amazing bartender (for reasons I will reveal in my next post), refused to tell us outright but let us discover on our own. (Mel’s getting a bottle of the secret ingredient for Christmas! That’s all I have to say.)

What do you get when you spear a big fat shrimp, dip it in a cornmeal-shredded tasso batter, fry it up, swirl it in a Crystal hot sauce reduction, and showcase it on a plate atop a clear pool of pepper-flecked jelly, garnished with slivers of pickled okra? Paradise on a bamboo skewer, my friend.

The Swizzle Stick Bar did not disappoint and it only got better from there…

UP NEXT: Why I love Michael...

Flashback, Last Summer: It all started with the Drunken Pony

St. Augustine, rainy Monday afternoon, end of June.

My sister and I had just managed to duck into the Lightner Museum before the deluge struck. After feasting our eyes on so many beautiful things and imagining the glittering parties that were held in the former Hotel Alcazar’s heyday, we were famished.

As I flipped through a visitors guide, a coupon caught my eye. Free Drunken Pony? Hell yeah. Whatever it was, we were intrigued. We zigzagged across the wide boulevard, dodging raindrops until we found the cozy pub, McKnight’s, purveyor of the inebriated equine beverage, and also allegedly famous for fried green tomatoes. Oh yeah. We christened our visit to the Oldest City with a kick: a half Woodchuck cider-half champagne sparkler and a few decadently cheesy snacks.

Thus fortified, we set off in search of our next spirited adventure. Having a cocktail on the verandah of the white-columned confection known as the Casablanca Inn is a glamorous way to spend some time. This elegant 1914 Mediterranean Revival mansion overlooks Matanzas Bay with a front porch perfect for watching the cavalcade of humanity amble past.

We chose a couple of knock-your-socks-off-potent concoctions. I had a Kiss on the Lips—I don’t remember what was in it but it sure was good, ‘cause it made my lips tingle! (It’s hard for me to refuse a kiss like that!) Mel had a Tahiti Tini, fruity and delicious.

After that, we found more substantial fare at the Columbia, an offshoot of Ybor City’s original, occupying an old building in the heart of the historic district. Crusty hot and buttered Cuban bread and 1905 salads. We opted for mojitos—or in this case, little more than minty Sprites. The dining room was cool and dimly lit, with brick walls and arches, wood floors and handsome waiters. In short, a perfect little repast.

We window shopped our way to the piece de resistance: Casa Monica’s Cobalt Lounge. A majestic120-year-old edifice with Moorish-Spanish flair, the Casa Monica took us into another world with its sumptuous interior glittering with mirrors, fountains, exotic lanterns and metalwork, richly upholstered furnishings and dark mystery.

At the bar, we ordered our drinks—mine a classic French 75, and Mel’s a Blueberry Martini. As we sipped, we soaked in the luxurious ambience and imagined other lifetimes while the pianist at the baby grand provided the soundtrack.

If you’re going to visit St. Augustine, don’t just look at the history. Drink it.