A Night in New Orleans

In the interest of being adventurous, we ordered the alligator. And we didn't stop there. We ordered pork cheeks, too, despite not being able to say with a high degree of certainty exactly which cheeks we were getting. And to round it all out, cucumber salad and a spicy sausage with grits. We did, however, draw the line at rabbit livers, although I don't doubt they were delicious. As were all the small plates we ordered. On a hot tip from Kitchenplay we had made the reservation ahead of time, and we were not disappointed.

As the waiter cleared our plates, CameraMan and I dove for the last piece of alligator as I made a crack to the waiter about not letting any of it go to waste. It's funny, he said. Alligator isn't really a great meat. It can be tough and flavorless. But ours is so good. It's partly because of the way it's cooked, but it's mainly because…we only use baby alligators.

I'm picturing them looking something like this. Except, you know, with big Disney eyelashes.

And I should probably mention, this somewhat stomach-turning revelation did not stop us from both ordering dessert. Or drinks.

***

There was a line to get into the piano bar at Pat O'Brien's. While CameraMan held my place in line, I went to the restroom and made a new friend. She was in a stall talking slurring loudly on her cellphone. Eavesdropping on ladies' room conversations in bars is always entertaining, but, like most things bachelorette-party themed, it's even better in New Orleans.

I don't know what to do. Thank goodness I'm wearing cute underwear. Pause. Oh, it's pink and white striped. And not a thong, so that's good. She stumbled out of the stall, a girl about my age, and caught my eye as I washed my hands. Look! And she turned around to show me where her pants had ripped, exposing about half her underwear. The back half. I fumbled in my bag for something that might help, but all I came up with was a bobby pin. As I left the restroom, I could hear her telling her sister on the phone, No, no, you don't understand how bad it is. Even perfect strangers are trying to help me.

Back in line, midway through regaling CameraMan with the story, she arrived to try to get back in the bar. Her response to the bartender telling her she needed to stand in line again was to turn around and show him (and everyone standing in line) exactly what had happened to her pants.

The best part is, nobody seemed fazed in the least by this. Idly curious, yes, but nothing more. You got the feeling that anybody asking for an explanation simply thought, It happens. This is New Orleans.

***

Bellies full of breakfast (beignets and coffee at the Cafe du Monde, of course), we walked along the river. When I saw the man playing the saxophone, I immediately nudged CameraMan to take a picture (I had my camera, too, but he has a telephoto lens). You can see the picture here. And the ensuing hilarity here, as the man (Dr. Saxtrum is his name) began serenading me with "Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?" The amount of distance between us in the picture was pretty constant for about 5 minutes. The sun made the Mississippi shimmer, and the good doctor was singing, and I couldn't stop grinning as CameraMan attempted to capture the moment with his camera. It was perfect.

And then he charged us $19 for his CD and warned us not to give any money to hucksters claiming to be shoe shiners.

***

I know I'm not wrong, this feeling's getting stronger,

The longer I stay away.