Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 6

Three Jews and a Mexican all woke up at noon. None of us were fatally hungover, thankfully, but our stomachs demanded food. Having made a pledge at the beginning of the trip that, in cities, we’d always eat at a local restaurant, we asked a couple of New Orleansans to point us to a good breakfast place.

And did they ever. By this point it was lunchtime, so we were directed to “Coop’s Café,” a hole in the wall located not too far from the French Quarter. I am going to go out on a limb and nominate this as the best meal we had on the trip, even better than that Hooters in South Carolina. This was, without a doubt, the best fried chicken I’ve ever had the opportunity to enjoy – crisp and spicy and tender and juicy. Because I didn’t get to be this size and shape without eating, I also ordered duck quesadillas, which were spectacular. Duck may be terrible for you, but its taste perfectly complemented the cheese and salsa. We ate at many places, but this restaurant alone was worth the trip.

After the meal, we took a short walk around the French Quarter. We (or rather, the three Yids) braved a twenty minute line in order to enjoy some coffee at the renowned Café du Monde. I am told it was worth it. We walked around Jackson Square for a bit and took in the sights. These sights did not include the cleavage of a woman who, having spied us while we were standing on a pedestrian footbridge maybe 50 yards away, made a whole show of pointedly adjusting her tank top.

New Orleans is a really cool place. Its style is wholly unlike anything else in the United States. I know very little of architecture and won’t pretend to make stuff up. But the overall style, with its courtyards, grated windows a general loveliness is, I’m sure, representative of something. The streets of New Orleans, and in particular the French Quarter, are definitely worth a look.

We took our time looking around, and, by the time we returned to the car, Dustin, as he is wont to do, got a parking ticket. Without the parking ticket in Louisiana, it is doubtful the trip would have been complete. After posing for a picture with that which seems to always follow him around, Dustin sighed and got back in the car.

On a trip marked mostly by goofing off, screwing around, and generally having a lot of fun, we did have one solemn interlude. That was driving through the lower Ninth Ward in New Orleans. At that point, it had been two years since Katrina, and, for all respects and purposes, the lower Ninth Ward was a ghost town. Once you figured out what the X’s painted on the houses with their attendant numbers meant, it really started to underscore just how awful the human toll was. That, coupled with the fact that, two years out, houses were still ripped off their foundations – some moored on the middle of the road like vagrant abandoned ships, making some streets actually impassable – does point to a level of neglect that we should be ashamed that we ever let this happen in America. As Dustin said, while not a highlight, this was certainly one of the most deeply affecting parts of the trip.

After some contemplation, we decided to explore some more of New Orleans. The Garden District was certainly worth a visit. At least, what we think was the Garden District. We got lost there several times. “According to the map, I think we’re somewhere on the I.”

Then we spotted a place called “Bayou Bagels” and, of course, the three Jews all went nuts, sort of like what happens when an American sees a McDonald's in China. We actually took a ten minute detour to go get some bagels in New Orleans. Unfortunately, the bagel place was closed, and seemed to have been shuttered for some time. Oy.

Later in the afternoon, we used the press passes to once, again, finagle our way into a minor league baseball game. At the New Orleans Zephyrs’ park, we saw little of a largely uninteresting game, although we did wonder why on earth the Mets’ minor league affiliate was located so far away from Queens. We used our passes to mosey down the left field line in an attempt to talk to the guys in the bullpen. The relief pitchers were very unfriendly, probably because they knew that their promotion, if they got one, would be to the New York Mets. We did manage to confuse them, and us, about what happens when a ball is fair, rolls foul, and then rolls back fair again (It’s a fair ball, for the record).

We had dinner at a Cajun restaurant in the French Quarter, and it was, again terrific. The food in New Orleans was, like I’ve said, the best on the trip, although its waitresses were not quite up to par. More on this tomorrow. But tonight, the waitress must have set the record for “Most Glasses Spilled.” She dumped, if I remember correctly, two glasses of water, a glass of wine, and a soda. And that was just at our table.



After dinner, we went to the legendary Preservation Hall to take in some jazz. To a (functionally) white kid from the suburbs, the music was outstanding, particularly, “When the Saints Come Marching In.” After the music, we had a slightly more tempered night on Bourbon Street, where we were constantly assaulted by test tube waitresses and girls with penis earrings. After once again breaking the rules (“No drunk, tired, miserable gambling.”), we turned in, looking to drive to Texas the next day.