Every August, Mrs. OtherDamnCook and I jump in the car and head to New Orleans, my spiritual home, to take stock of our existence and reset for another year. She has her rituals in the Quarter, and I have mine. For me, it’s a pilgrimage—a journey from restaurant to restaurant, from experience to experience. We follow a regular route but always make room for new adventures, sometimes letting go of old ones. If memory serves, this blog started during our last trip, though I could be mistaken. My recollections aren’t as reliable as I’d like—too much clutter in my head, and no way to defrag or purge the temp files.

One reason I love New Orleans’ French Quarter is that it’s so unlike me. It’s the antithesis of how I live my life. I’m a morning person with legendary impatience, a love for silence, and a need for control. Loving a place like the Quarter, with its chaos, dirt, noise, and occasional melancholy, is a challenge for someone like me. But when I’m there, I’m forced to step out of myself and just be. It’s therapeutic—like an old sanitarium where people went to recover from whatever ailed them, except here, you can carry around copious amounts of alcohol in a go-cup.

We almost didn’t make it this year, which I think would have been bad for both of us. We’re still dealing with the aftermath of Hurricane Beryl: physically, emotionally, and financially. If not for the Offspring taking care of the house and the dog, we probably wouldn’t have gone. Oh, and full disclosure: I messed up when booking the hotel and made a non-refundable reservation for a better rate, thinking, “There’s no reason we wouldn’t go to New Orleans as usual.” I won’t be doing that again—failure is always an option.

The nice thing about being forced to deal with stuff you normally can’t is that you have time to reflect. You have no choice. Normally, it takes me a while to get in the right mindset. This year was awful, and I was concerned. When we arrived on Thursday, I had a hard time shaking off real life. To be fair, I left a lot of plates spinning, and it felt like the gravitational pull from the big ball of suck that is my life could yank us back at any second. The Wife said it was like being pecked to death by a carnivorous chicken. By Friday morning, though, I had finally shed the “lifestank.” It was as easy as slipping into a warm bath.

Now, with that out of the way, it’s time for a recap.

We arrived on Thursday, and honestly, I was pissed off for no real reason. It’s this thing I do when I’m trying to accomplish a goal. The goal was to get to Café Pontalba on Jackson Square and have multiple fruity tourist beverages with the Wife. It’s a tradition and marks the start of the holiday for us. Accomplishing that goal felt like one of those irritating video games with endless side quests—none of them optional, fun, or free. The lesson the Universe keeps throwing at me—or how I interpret it—is, “Shit happens, but life goes on, so relax.” I also have another interpretation: “If you want it, you’re going to have to fight for it. If you’re not willing to fight for it, do you really want it?” That’s the scarier lesson, and probably the correct one, given the ramifications. It ties into everything else I’ve been going through in the last couple of years. I’m tired of fighting, and because of that fatigue, I’ve realized how little I’m willing to fight for—or rather, what’s important enough to fight for. You can only possess what you can keep.

As I’ve watched the pieces of “my” life stripped away, I’ve had to put “my” in quotation marks. Those pieces weren’t mine; I was just led to believe they were because it suited others. This has been a recurring theme in my life, and I can’t believe I’m just now realizing it. I wonder how many times I’ve realized it before, only to forget.

I often refer to our existence as a semi-sentient animating force driving around in a meat suit. Hell, even the meat suit is a loaner. There’s no keeping it. The point is the “semi-sentient” part. I call it that because it’s only halfway engaged in existence. It has bright flashes of awareness at times, but for the most part, it lets the meat suit do the driving. That’s why I keep having to relearn things— such a waste of time.

One day, I hope to write something without infusing it with my bullshit. But if my bullshit can help even one other person move beyond similar struggles, then so be it.

Moving on…

We checked into the Bourbon Orleans, our usual spot. We always get a loft suite because the Wife and I have radically different sleeping styles and schedules—not that it matters much in New Orleans, where sleep is a rare commodity. We were stuck in room 151 again. I hate room 151. It shares an exterior wall with the alley between the hotel and the Saint Ann Cottages, where dumpsters are emptied very loudly and very slowly around 4:00 AM every morning. I get up at 5:00. The wall perpendicular to it faces Saint Ann, including the sidewalk. The bottom floor of Suite 151 is at street level. The suite itself is fantastic for conference access—no elevators to deal with, quick egress/ingress as needed.

The suite is two stories, with the bathroom upstairs. Annoying. The whole thing is decorated in black granite, dark colors, and dim lighting—great if you’re filming a Goth travelogue, but I’m night-blind and in a perpetual state of near terror of breaking my toes or stepping on something when I walk around. I didn’t bring any black T-shirts this year because past experiences taught me that if one falls on the floor, it’s lost to me.

The shower is also illustrative of where I am in my life—black granite with one of those ridiculous rain-style shower heads designed to deceive people into thinking they aren’t low-flow by being all fancy. That’s the takeaway from the shower: it’s a lie. People know it’s a lie, but because it’s trendy, they go along with it. I’d rather have effective, directional water pressure. I want to be clean, not hung up on aesthetics. If you can pull off both, great, but if not, give me utility or I’d rather do without.

Now, it sounds like I’m bitching, and I suppose I am, but I had a great trip. Yes, there were tedious bits that drove me to a blind rage, but I expected them. Part of the trip for me is getting over myself in order to enjoy myself. You may take from that what you wish. Remember, I apparently have to fight for the things that are important to me. Having a good time was important, and the only way to fight was to give in to what it was.

I’ll wrap up on the Bourbon Orleans here. I used to enjoy it—it was brilliant in the past. But Covid and a subsequent change in ownership have altered the experience. That’s not fair; it wasn’t really all that stellar in years past, but I’ve become somewhat jaded about pretense. It’s a beautiful hotel if you don’t look too closely. The loft suites are very nice but not really designed for people. It’s not quiet. It’s expensive. But if you’re attending a conference there, you’ll need a room key to use the restroom. For me, it’s a reliable home base. Again, not ideal, but I know what to expect. That sounded terrible, didn’t it? Sorry about that. I should mention that the staff are wonderful—very courteous and attentive. But I really need to return to the narrative.

We checked in, I parked the car in a garage a couple of blocks away as usual, then collected the Wife and headed to Café Pontalba. We like it there—great for people-watching and for the Voodoo Juice and Cajun Cooler, two of my favorite fruity tourist beverages. When we arrived, we were warned that there had been an issue in the Quarter with the water pumping station, apparently caused by a mylar balloon hitting something electrified. Bottom line: the tap water was potentially unsafe to drink. The Wife got a frozen Pina Colada, which wasn’t made with tap water. I, on the other hand, was on a mission to have my fruity tourist beverages and opted to risk it. As I always tell myself, that’s what spicy food is for, and being the Darwinist I am, if the critters can survive in my digestive tract, they deserve to.

I didn’t get sick. Sure, I was a bit uncomfortable the next day, but all’s well that ends well, right?

By my second hurricane and third drink in half an hour, I noticed a certain lack of buzz. I had an empty stomach and was expecting to feel not sideways, but at least really comfortable, and it didn’t happen. The drinks were also “off.” I ordered them easy on the ice—I hate overly iced beverages—and assumed that threw off the flavor. I also looked at the itemized bill, something I never used to do, and saw how expensive my fruit juice with a hint of alcohol was. This changed the trip a little for me as I resolved to skip the mixed drinks and go with pre-bottled beverages. A very good decision. I like beer anyway. Also, honest cocktails—the ones with two or three ingredients, like liquor and juice. Keep it simple. Another theme that ties into the shower—keep it honest, keep it real.

We ate. She had fried shrimp; I had shrimp and grits. Sorry, no photos. Pontalba’s food is okay for “tourist Creole,” but not overly noteworthy. That being said, the shrimp—both hers and mine—were freakishly fresh, simply prepared, and wonderful. The grits were flavorless and watery. Apparently, I’m a grits snob. I had no idea. But I feel like I’ve earned it.

After lunch (it was around 4:30 or so, but New Orleans time is different), we headed to Hex, a local occult shop run by serial entrepreneur and self-identified Warlock Christian Day and his husband, Brian Cain, to pick up our beads for Hexfest, our annual excuse to be in New Orleans. We then went back to the suite to be bloated and whatnot. Around 10 or so, I got hungry again and headed out to my honest-to-God favorite place in the Quarter, the Clover Grill, to grab some takeout. I wanted a burger; she decided on a corn dog. They don’t serve the usual tourist fare in any way. They’re just a 24-hour diner, and as such, simple, ancient, unpretentious and perfect.

They were a little “weeded out” when I ordered, and our food was dragging, so I popped across the street to Lafitte’s to grab a beer and use the restroom while I waited. Abita Amber is a decent brew, I must say. I had several more on Saturday and Sunday.

Back across Bourbon Street, I finished my beer, watched the crowd—I love people-watching—and noticed one of the presenters at the conference ambling down the middle of the street. He seemed “lost in thought,” so I didn’t approach. I collected my food, went back to the hotel, and learned it’s impossible for me to eat a proper hamburger while propped up in bed. Naturally, this didn’t stop me. The corn dog was also delightful (I got an extra in case she wanted more).

After a fitful night on the bed, I went down to the couch downstairs to watch TV and hopefully doze off. I did a little, but not much. The next morning, after staying in those suites six or seven times total, I discovered the couch is actually a hide-a-bed. I never did unfold it. I’m a couch sleeper—it’s what I do.

Around 6:00 AM, I began my usual walk around the Quarter looking for coffee. Rouse’s wasn’t open yet, Café du Monde was, but they only take cash. I found a 24-hour ATM on Chartres, but it was behind padlocked doors. The sign is accurate—the ATM is indeed on 24 hours a day, but if it’s behind locked doors, is it really a 24-hour ATM? Discuss.

I resolved to wait for Rouse’s to open at 7:00 to get bottled coffee products and some cornstarch for my nethers. Humidity + morbid obesity + walking = a sudden need for cornstarch.

I sat in front of St. Louis Cathedral with my current book, “White Trash: The 400-Year Untold History of Class in America”, passing the time. Fascinating book. Every book like this I enjoy is fascinating; all the others never get mentioned. It wasn’t quite dawn yet, and the Tarot readers and such were setting up their pitches. Homeless people slept on the church steps. That’s not a commentary—it just is. But it was quiet, cool, and peaceful. Would have been better with coffee. I headed over to Rouse’s, acquired my desires, and returned to the room, looking forward to my breakfast.

I turned the TV to CNN. It was all “Yay, Kamala! The Second Coming of Obama.” No real analysis, just feel-good rhetoric. Fox News was all, “Buy our .9999 pure gold-clad crazy man pillows with the American flag embossed all the way through!” between bits where they sneered at the left and parsed words to tease out hidden meanings while praising the military and police. I hate left/right politics. No matter who wins, we all lose.

The Wife awoke. My coffee kicked in. “Two people sharing a bathroom” hijinks ensued. Once that was sorted, she stated apologetically that she had no agenda for the day. I smiled and told her how perfect that sounded to me. I had a secret agenda—breakfast at Stanley of New Orleans. I was intrigued by their menu; she wanted pancakes, and they were close by. Very clean, very efficient, very tasty.

We had the same waitress as last year. The food was superlative. I had the eggs Benedict with fried oysters. They named it something unmemorable, no idea what. Dish names. I hate coming up with names for dishes—it’s just so douchey. I do remember being intrigued by the term “Creole Hollandaise,” though. What the fuck does that even mean? Oh, well.

The oysters were fresh and perfectly prepared. The house-cured ham, hidden by everything else, should be mentioned. The eggs were poached perfectly. The hollandaise was hollandaise—though maybe a bit lighter than I like, and not perceptibly “Creole” in any way. The Wife enjoyed her pancakes. Everything was good.

Simple, non-pretentious, and expertly executed—that’s honestly all I ask for.

After breakfast, we headed back to the room, stopping by the Boutique du Vampire, which we’d never been to, oddly enough, and picked up a Dracula rubber ducky for my son. It’s just fun. All 33-year-old men need a tiny Dracula rubber ducky. We hung out in the room a bit, and I talked about the book I’m reading and the insights I’ve gained—once researched to confirm veracity. I’m like that—I take very little at face value. Everything is so agendized these days.

I think she took a nap while I fiddled with my laptop pointlessly. I never did do any writing. Upon waking, she suggested we perch in the lobby and people-watch. I nursed an overpriced Bloody Mary made with Smirnoff and too much ice while we sat. Bored by the lack of people performing for our amusement, we bounced and wandered about some more, accosted by the Middle Easterners selling soap and miracle “stem cell” de-agers. For the record, making something with ground-up grape stems is not the same thing as stem cell therapy. I still keep hearing “It’s got Sony guts!” in my head. Still, it’s all part of the experience. They chase you down, pelting you with crinkle cut soap samples to drive you into the shop. It’s amusing at times, annoying at others. I started by saying “No,” politely, and finished by announcing we are French and do not bathe. Sorry, people of France—I’d had a piss-squirt of vodka and don’t deal well with the hard sell.

Enough time passed that the dinner bell was ringing. I like the food and the service at the Vampire Café. I really do. I hate the atmosphere, though. It’s always too crowded. The food is also way overpriced, and for me, the novelty of the beverage in a blood bag has worn off. They do a mean duck, however. I'll ignore a lot of for decent duck.

Having had all the stuff on their menu I don’t normally get at home, this time I went with the shrimp and grits for the second time on this trip. The Wife went for the 8-ounce filet with grilled asparagus and garlic mash, topped with truffle butter.

There’s a genetic component to both truffles and asparagus that should be addressed. Only 50% of the population can taste truffles—I’m one of them, she is not. There’s also a percentage of the population who have issues with asparagus and their urinary system. I’m not one of those, but she is. Nonetheless, she ordered what she ordered. The sides were wonderful.

It’s worth noting that because I lack the asparagus issue, I can’t relate to it. She assures me it’s horrifying. I once did some web work for a dominatrix who had the same issues as the Wife. She used it to her advantage for “golden showers” scenes. A silver lining for every cloud, I always say.

Everything was going well enough, the braised pork belly, while not as good as previous occasions, was acceptable. When the food came, we had a snafu over the doneness of Mrs. AnotherDamnCook’s steak, which is always awkward for me.

I’ve been a line cook. I’ve been a grill cook. I’ve run a kitchen. Sending back steak is never a good thing for anyone involved, particularly the patron. After two tries, landing with me throwing down my, “Oh, by the way, I’m a Cordon Bleu chef,” the waitress just re-rang the order as a different table to avoid “kitchen repercussions.” She did well. Very well.

I really didn’t want to throw down my creds—it’s obnoxious and frankly embarrassing, like walking into someone else’s house and criticizing their lifestyle—but at the same time, the place is not cheap, food cost being roughly no more than a generous $10 on a $39 plate, so I broke down and did what was once unthinkable for me.

Viva the Personal Revolution! I’m certain I’ll write about that at some point.

They normally do a great job there, but this was not one of those times. It’s cool. We all have off days, and being the Vampire Café, the Giant Mouth tends to demand rare meat, so I get medium-rare being an issue. But this filet was blue. I had to say something. I had to be “that guy.”

Unless you’ve worked in a restaurant or served the general public, you can’t understand what it’s like for a service worker. You may think you’re a nice person. You may believe you fart rainbows and lollipops while sprinkling the world with joy and love and light. You may even intentionally try to live that way. I promise you, somewhere out there, a server, line cook, grocery check-out clerk, bagger, or bank teller remembers that time you weren’t—and will testify under oath in so much excruciating detail that if you were on the jury, you’d vote to have yourself hanged, drawn, and quartered. You are remembered, and you are hated.

Sorry.

I bring that up only to illustrate how horrified I was to send the steak back. I have nothing but respect for restaurant workers, but at the same time, I had to earn that money, in 30-minute increments, being systematically dehumanized. The only thing that makes that reality tolerable is knowing that I chose that labor to afford my annual trip to New Orleans and support myself while I pursue this.

Now that bit of nastiness is over, I need to address the shrimp and grits. I make a pretty mean shrimp and grits, but to be frank, it’s really just awesome grits with run-of-the-mill shrimp Creole on top. The shrimp and grits at the Vampire Café are beyond amazing. The grits are well-flavored, creamy, not overly cheesy like mine.

Mine are meant to surprise you that grits can be that good, and the smoked gouda, heavy cream, and stone-ground grits accomplish this very well. Theirs are more subtle but well-executed. It’s a good thing because the shrimp and sauce, with little bits of andouille for a nice textural counterpoint, are the star of the show.

I tend to judge food by how much I regret being done eating it. I was filled with regret.

It was the sauce—semi-sweet with what I assume was a red wine base, almost like a Marchand de Vin (I’m not certain, but I’ll try to recreate it, so we’ll see). It elevated the shrimp, the andouille, and the grits much higher than my simple shrimp Creole on amazing grits. I dare say their shrimp on top of my grits could bring about world peace.

It’s also worth noting that I never would have thought about serving shrimp in a red wine sauce if that’s what it is. Why? Tradition. Red wine and shrimp? So that was another important lesson of this trip: Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people who lacked imagination.

Onward and upward.

The next day, the first day of the conference, we blew off breakfast and decided to just have lunch. The trouble is, the annual New Orleans Red Dress Run is on that same day, and lunch at the Clover is not an option. I’ve only managed to pull it off once in the entire time we’ve been going. But Stanley lets you pre-order takeout. She went with the BLT and fries. I had their gumbo, which had a very nice flavor but no okra. It was good, though, and I enjoyed it. I also had a Reuben, which was delightful. Their onion rings were also noteworthy but made me wish we had time for dine-in before the next session.

Lack of sleep was catching up with me, and I really needed a nap, so I went back to the room while my wife, Mrs. Columbo, went to that session. Lucky for me, it was canceled, so I didn’t miss one of our favorites. I got a slight nap and woke up refreshed. We went to the next session and then off to our mutual favorite, Orleans Grapevine, right across the street from the hotel.

They never, ever disappoint. I was all set for the lamb chops, but the special risotto with scallops and eggplant sounded so good I went for it. She went with a really nice arugula salad with strawberries, toasted almonds, asiago, and honey balsamic vinaigrette, followed by seared beef tenderloin medallions in a Marsala mushroom cream sauce, served with seasoned wedge potatoes. She’s a steak-and-taters gal—nothing wrong with that. She also doesn’t like mushrooms as a rule, but these were so good she made it a point to get my attention while consuming them.

The steak was cooked perfectly, by the way.

After dinner, she ordered a crème brûlée, her favorite not involving chocolate, and I ordered the goat cheese and honey cheesecake. I’ve had their crème brûlée before, so I knew what it was like. Their kitchen is very consistent. The cheesecake was a new experience for me. It was a New York-style cheesecake, my favorite, with goat cheese and honey. It was as tart as I expected, but the honey and whipped cream with strawberries mitigated that nicely. Again, simple and perfect.

We headed back to Rouse’s to pick up coffee for the next day and a six-pack of Abita Amber. I was searching for Turbo Dog since I gave up on fruity tourist beverages, but they had none, so I settled. She also wanted some cranberry juice, so we collected that and headed back to the hotel. As we came back down Royal, much to my surprise and thrill, there was Tuba Skinny, my new favorite Dixieland Jazz band, playing that sweet mess I love right in front of Rodrigue Studios. I didn’t get to hear as much as I wanted, but at least I got to see them away from YouTube.

We returned to the room, me basking and bloated, to hang out and talk about the day’s sessions. It was a very good day, indeed.

Sunday began with no breakfast again, but without the Red Dress Run, visiting the Clover Grill was back on the table for the lunch break.

I still remember the first time we went there, sitting a couple of tables away from a quartet of the people we were there to see, just eating and being. As one of that party is now beyond the veil, it’s a very special memory for me. He was a good man and one of the nicest humans I ever met.

We did manage to beat the crowd to the Clover and got in and out. Once again, we were served by the same overstressed fellow as in previous years. I love the continuity. Over my perfectly executed, greasy-ass breakfast burger, just beyond my wife’s shoulders, I could still see that quartet sitting there, just a couple of tables down. Stuck in that moment, 10 years prior.

We talked about going back for dinner, and I would have, but I really wanted to try the Gumbo Shop to see how their corn maque choux compared to mine. I like “mine” better. It’s not really mine, per se—I learned how to make it in cooking school, but since I cook it from memory, it’s mine enough.

The Gumbo Shop wasn’t great but wasn’t terrible. We were both still reeling a bit from a highly charged panel discussion in the last session. The gumbo was more or less acceptable. There was okra this time. A little ropey from the filé. It was close to the end of the day, and the two blue crab sections in it were shriveled and not worth picking at—they rarely are. The Wife had red beans and rice, which was spot on and delicious. There wasn’t enough cream to notice in the creamed spinach. But I did have a couple of glasses of Turbo Dog, finally, so that was nice. We got the vanilla ice cream with praline sauce for dessert and both enjoyed it.

And that was New Orleans this year. Totally worth the fight to get there, totally worth the fight to stay there mentally. Lessons were learned. Food was consumed. Ideas were presented. Conclusions were considered.

I really had a wonderful time.