Let’s get one thing straight right out the gate: New Orleans should not exist. Geographically speaking, it is a deeply ill-advised city. It was built on a mosquito-infested swamp, below sea level, in the path of hurricanes, on land that is actively trying to sink itself into the Gulf of Mexico like a drunk ghost giving up on existence. And yet. It is one of the most magical, chaotic, delicious, music-saturated, joy-soaked places in the world. It’s like someone dared the universe to create a city that feels like jazz sounds—and somehow, it worked. In the Beginning, There Was Water
Tag: New Orleans
An Open Letter to New Orleans
Dear New Orleans, You saucy little minx. I came for your jazz, your beignets, and your legendary laissez-faire attitude. I stayed because I couldn’t find the strength to leave. I’m convinced you’ve enchanted me with some unholy concoction of powdered sugar and humidity. Or maybe it was the sazerac. Either way, I’m onto you. Let’s start with the obvious: you’re absurdly good-looking. I’ve never walked down streets so simultaneously dignified and debauched. It’s as though your architecture got dressed for Sunday service, but Bourbon Street borrowed its eyeliner and never came home. I don’t even know how to process the
Le Pavillon: The Hotel That Understood the Assignment
I simply cannot talk about my New Orleans adventures without giving Le Pavillon the love letter it deserves. This hotel was GORGEOUS—like, absurdly so. Statues? Everywhere. Lush greenery? Check. A lobby that looks like it was yanked straight out of an 18th-century French chateau? Oui, oui, mon amour. And unlike so many hotels that have been stripped of their personality in the name of “modernization” (cough corporate beige hellscapes cough), Le Pavillon has character. You walk in, and you feel something. In my case, that feeling was a mix of awe, delight, and the sneaking suspicion that a powdered-wig-wearing aristocrat might saunter by at any moment. The Rooms: Small, Cozy, and
Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop: Where Pirates, Ghosts, and Hurricanes Collide
If you’ve ever thought, Wow, I wish I could drink something that tastes like Hawaiian Punch but could legally power a lawnmower, then boy, do I have a drink for you. But first, let’s talk about Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop because the history of this place is wilder than a Florida Man on meth riding an alligator. Lafitte’s is allegedly the oldest bar in America, and it looks like it. The building is so old, it makes your grandma’s creaky knees look futuristic. Founded in the 1700s, it was supposedly a cover for Jean Lafitte—a pirate, smuggler, and general bad boy with a
I Went to Café du Monde, and Now I’m Addicted to Beignets (and Powdered Sugar)
Here’s the thing about New Orleans: It’s a city built on poor decisions. And when I say poor decisions, I mean of the delicious, deep-fried, definitely-not-calorie-conscious variety. Enter Café du Monde, the OG beignet capital of the world. It’s a tourist trap, yes. But unlike most tourist traps (looking at you, chain restaurants in Times Square), this one is 100% worth the hype and the powdered sugar lung damage. First Impressions: Powdered Sugar Enthusiast Paradise The man and I approached Café du Monde with the determination of people who’ve just Googled “New Orleans must-eats” and believe in following the will of the
I’m Still Not Over Emeril’s Fried Chicken and Mac & Cheese, And You Shouldn’t Be Either
Hello, beloved readers, and welcome to today’s episode of “Things I Have Yet to Forgive,” starring none other than Emeril Lagasse and his apparently heartless decision to deprive us of his most glorious menu item. Let’s get one thing straight. I’m usually a pretty chill girl. I can let things go. I’ve forgiven high-waisted jeans for being uncomfortable. I’ve forgiven Blockbuster for its decades-long monopoly on movie rentals. I’ve even forgiven Disney for the live-action Lion King (well, I’m trying). But taking off Emeril’s fried chicken and mac and cheese? Oh no. Not in this lifetime, sweetie. The Entree of My Dreams
The National WWII Museum in New Orleans: A Masterclass in History and Humanity
Let’s be clear: if you find yourself in New Orleans, skipping the National WWII Museum is not an option. I don’t care if you came for the beignets, the booze, or to commune with the ghost of Marie Laveau. Take a break from getting your palm read in the French Quarter and step into this world-class museum, because it’s going to take you on a journey through history that will leave you shaken, educated, and—let’s be honest—more than a little entertained. The museum does not half-ass its job of explaining one of the most complex and devastating events in modern history. It is sprawling—five
Coop’s Place Review: Where the Smoked Duck Quesadilla Is Perfect, and the Drinks Are Trying to Kill You
So, let’s talk about and review Coop’s Place in New Orleans, a joint that has the vibe of “We’ve been here forever, and we are never, ever changing for you or anyone else.” Which, frankly, is the energy I want from any establishment in the French Quarter. You want polished service and sparkling glassware? No. You get exposed brick, slightly sticky tables, and bartenders who serve drinks with warnings attached. And we love them for it. First up: The Smoked Duck Quesadillas So, let’s talk about the duck quesadillas. On paper, they seem simple: shredded duck, cheese, and tortillas. You think, “Oh, I’ve had
Palm Readings in New Orleans
Ahhh, New Orleans—the city of jazz, ghosts, and enough fried food to make your arteries weep for mercy. It had been on my bucket list forever, and I finally made it! A city that wraps its sticky, humid arms around history and haunts, where Bourbon Street smells like the desperate aftermath of one-too-many-bad-decisions, and honestly? I was here for it. I went full-on tourist mode and I am not sorry about it. We’re talking graveyard strolls, overpriced bus tours, and gorging on beignets like I’d never seen powdered sugar before. I partied hard on Bourbon Street, made some spectacularly poor decisions (read: paid way
An Open Letter to New Orleans, Louisiana
Dear New Orleans, It’s been two years since I’ve been to visit you, and I want to go back so badly it hurts. I want to walk down Bourbon Street, step into a night club, and maybe eat some beignets. Oh, and definitely get some fried chicken because for some reason, it tastes like magic in your city. Unfortunately, Mardi Gras, spring break and COVID-19 have taken it’s toll on your city and it breaks my heart to pieces. Your city isn’t made for social distancing. It’s made for get togethers, jazz shows in small venues… and beignets. Let’s not