Last month, as a belated Christmas present, Jackson and I stayed three nights in New Orleans, at the Pontchartrain Hotel. We’d both been to the city before, which meant there was less pressure to See Things and more allowance to do what we wanted: eat, drink, walk, look at art, sleep, and see a friend or two. We ate so well. I kept notes, because I didn’t want to forget. Consider them less recommendation than recollection—and happy Mardi Gras, I guess.
Wednesday
Woke up at 4 a.m. New York time. At Laguardia we got breakfast burritos from Dos Toros, a chain that always makes me think, without much fondness, about office lunches at One World Trade. I waited to eat mine until halfway through the flight, while watching Drop Dead Gorgeous, and the steamed tortilla had cooled to a paste-like consistency.
Dropped our bags and went to Molly’s Rise and Shine, an easy walk. It was sunny; it had just rained; it was not New York; we were happy. I got the collard greens and grits with salsa macha, poached eggs, and a confetti-like cilantro and peanut salad. Not heavy, but savory, satisfying, texture, heat. Jackson got the breakfast biscuit, and I squealed at how perfectly, aggressively salty the biscuit was. And the pickled peppers, which showed an understanding of how to make something rich and heavy sing and snap.
We walked for at least two hours, in a daze; our room wasn’t ready yet, might as well tire ourselves out en route to lunch at Dooky Chase’s. I immediately ordered a French 75, which added to the dreamlike quality of the sleep-deprived afternoon, and we drank and ate long strips of garlic bread while admiring the stained glass paneling in the room, googling stained glass history church? and looking at old pictures of roman glass cups. We ordered red beans and rice with fried chicken (not battered, perfectly crisp), and Cajun chicken: it is thrilling to me when a chicken breast is described as “succulent” and then ends up being succulent. A few bits of okra and shrimp in there; I am always wishing for more okra. The service was languid enough to require a second drink, which shifted my sleepless delirium towards and ecstatic, woozy peace.
A deep nap at the hotel: Jackson had to drag me out of sleep; like I was being pulled from some primordial goo1. He found us a restaurant for dinner: Palm & Pine, just what I needed. Nothing fancy, but well considered. I had some sort of fizzy, rich cocktail that echoed and then freed me from nap-land: mezcal, bourbon, amaro, ginger beer. Rib tips, a little salad of fried catfish that reminded me of the fried chicken laab at Thai Diner. A salad that used shaved gouda like parm on a caesar. Enormous gulf shrimp.
Thursday
Molly’s again. I got the crispy rice salad, almost saucy with Thai vinaigrette. Jackson got a chicken biscuit the size of your head. He couldn’t stop talking about how we’d eaten four perfect meals in 24 hours. I had shed any shame of repeatedly eating at a restaurant that was, in many ways, pandering directly to me. I am fine with being predictable if it results in pleasure.
Beignets for lunch. Fuel for me to see the small, lovely Baldwin Lee exhibit at the Ogden, a museum I am always happy to breeze through. Met up with Jackson at Anna’s, where he fed me furtive bites of a muffaletta from his backpack. Anna’s serves a perfect vermouth and soda. I always imagine this is what they were going for when they made the first coca-cola.
Went for a glass of wine at Jami’s lovely new house, then met up with Caro at Bar Pomona: mortadella on grilled focaccia that had been slathered with marmalade (MAKE THIS AT HOME! DO NOT FORGET!!); dilly meatballs. Caro told me to get the fig leaf martini, and she was right—it has joined the Superiority Burger bird’s beak chile martini in my personal martini pantheon.
We should have stayed at Bar Pomona, really, but had a reservation at Acamaya, a new “coastal Mexican” restaurant in the bywater. Plates too small, room too sceney, food too forgettable; a shockingly underseasoned carrot salad…luckily I was with two people I love so we still had an amazing time. The Contramar-esque hamachi pastor tostada was nice! And the wine was good.
Friday
Listen, as I said before, I love being pandered to. We went to Turkey and the Wolf at like 11:15, just before the lunch rush. I got a spritz and a collard melt, and the wedge, and I was very very happy. The collard melt is a cousin of (broken record here) the Superiority Burger collard melt, not too related but not strangers either. I love smushy greens!
I was taking Jackson out for a belated birthday dinner, so we went to the Pontchartrain’s rooftop bar for a few cocktails and a view of the sunset. This is, somewhat famously, where Tennessee Williams did a bunch of writing? Good for him. For dinner we went to Cochon. Ooooooh, baby!!!!!!!!!! Grilled oysters in a specially designed plate, with pockets for the spiced butter they swam in. Their wrinkly bodies reminded me—humor me here—of a passage of Moby-Dick we’d just read at Bennington. On the appearance of a baby whale:
“One of those little infants, that from certain queer tokens seemed hardly a day old, might have measured some fourteen feet in length, and some six feet in girth. […] The delicate side-fins, and the palms of his flukes, still freshly retained the plaited crumpled appearance of a baby’s ears newly arrived from foreign parts.”
Anyways the oysters were delicious. And a plate of head cheese, a (properly seasoned!!!) carrot salad, the titular cochon: a crisp patty of pulled pork. What thrilled me the most was the rabbit and dumplings, warm and tender, in a cast iron skillet.
Saturday
A few lazy hours at Bacchanal. Cheese, wine, patatas sort of bravas, more shrimp, live music, the last of the warm sun before we boarded a plane. The less said about our airport meal, the better. We kept joking about gout—what if? Extra kale in Sunday’s breakfast smoothie, and I was right as rain.
Normally in this state my solution is to eat ice cream: the cold and the sugar wake you up, and remind you that there are benefits to consciousness. This time, in lieu of ice cream, I ate half of a caramac macadamia nut caramel bar—it did the trick.
you made my ever present background nola heart ache jump to the fore. and hungry in bed with nothing to eat hahaha
Last time we were there we walked past Molly's Rise & Shine but only after it closed :( Need to go back and try.
I usually have similar skepticism re: Dos Toros but one of their bowls really just saved my whole day at the airport on Friday so credit where credit is due (and their hot salsa is REALLY hot, like nose runningly so, which I appreciate).