| Southern
Discomfort
Insiders know there's a lot more to humid New Orleans than Bourbon Street. (Story first published in Red Herring, August 2000.)
Chances are, if you went to the Cellular Telecommunications Industry Association’s Wireless 2000 convention in February, you stayed at the Sheraton and stood in line to eat jambalaya at K-Paul’s and sugary beignets at Café du Monde along with everyone else. Maybe you visited the state-of-the-art aquarium, a few convenient doors down from the block of high-rise hotels on Canal Street, then bought a "Pinch Da Tails, Suck Da Heads" crawfish-touting T-shirt from the cheesy Riverwalk Marketplace. You probably hoisted a samovar-size Hurricane cocktail outside on Bourbon Street after seeing some authentic—and geriatric—jazz at Preservation Hall. If you had fun, more power to you. The city has bet its economic livelihood on making sure that conventioneers have a blast. But outside of the carnivalesque "Walt Dixieland" atmosphere that is tourist New Orleans, there is much to see—and hear and eat. Last month, the first installment of Red Herring’s Travel & Entertainment series told high-flying business travelers where the best places in Hong Kong were to burn wads of cash on days off. Taking into account that you’re probably in the Crescent City for a convention—and therefore can’t plead the excuse of schmoozing customers—this one will tell you how to meet this most exotic of U.S. cities on a less incendiary budget. SOUTHERN REVIVAL New Orleans has staged a remarkable comeback since the early ‘80s, when plunging oil prices sank the city’s fortunes with them. When I lived here, from 1984 to 1989, the downtown Mississippi riverfront—home of today’s aquarium and Riverwalk—was a concrete desert of recently vacated World’s Fair buildings. Handsome, centuries-old Garden District mansions were visibly crumbling, their owners unable to afford the upkeep. Panhandlers were numerous and inventive: I never tired of watching Mardi Gras tourists fall for the "Bet you a dollar I can tell you where you got those shoes!" game. (Answer: "You got them on your feet in N’awlins, Loooeeesiana. Now pay up!") The French Quarter late at night was like a casino where muggers shook down drunken human slot machines. (The city’s nickname then was Big Easy Pickin’s.) New Orleans smelled—not just of the usual odors of a town well below sea level with 100 percent humidity 90 percent of the time, but of laissez-faire desperation. Well, the city is still a little stinky, but only on the really hot days, when sweat, beer, and the too-close-to-the-surface sewage system comingle into overwhelming ripeness. Thanks to a concerted effort by the city government, the desperation is gone. Since being elected in 1994, Mayor Marc Morial, a Wharton Business School graduate and the son of the city’s first African-American mayor, has put twice as many police on the street while jailing others for corruption: the murder rate is down 64 percent, and violent crime has dropped by half. He has pumped billions of dollars into expanding the city’s convention facilities, revamping the airport, and revitalizing the port, resulting in a 3.5 percent unemployment rate for the metropolitan area as of April—lower than the U.S. average of 3.9 percent, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. The tourism industry alone now accounts for $3 billion per year in revenue and more than 60,000 jobs, the city government says. The good news is, tourism has sanitized New Orleans. You’re as safe toddling around with your jumbo-size daiquiri as you would be in any other major city. And the panhandlers have figured out that they will make more money with either (a) a costume and bucket on which to stand stock-still for photographs, (b) a trumpet and rudimentary knowledge of "When the Saints Go Marching In," or (c) a table, turban, and deck of Tarot cards, so you won’t be harassed for spare change. The bad news is, hotel rates are high, raunchy T-shirt stores proliferate, it’s hard to find fresh pralines, and the local artists have been driven out of Jackson Square by the psychics. A ROOM WITH A VIEUX Fais do-do (fay dough-dough) is the Cajun expression for "a dance party after the children go to bed," and after sampling all that New Orleans nightlife has to offer, you’ll want a comfortable place to nurse a hangover. New Orleans has more than 35,000 hotel rooms, and most of them are in faceless high-rises next to the convention center. If you only have an extra weekend, spend the first night in the French Quarter proper, the second in the Garden District. Assuming you can plan well ahead, the Hotel Maison de Ville in the heart of the Vieux Carré is by far the most fabulous—and exclusive—place to stay. "Hotel" is a slight misnomer in this case, as the two main buildings of the Maison de Ville (a two-story residence first built in the 1700s), the former slave quarters, and the seven nearby Audubon cottages comprise only 23 guest rooms, and they’re booked months in advance. Should you be one of the lucky guests, the hotel’s period furnishings and interior gallery will transport you back to a time of hoop skirts and lace parasols. You can just about see Tennessee Williams knocking back a bourbon as he wrote A Streetcar Named Desire next to the flowering fountain in the courtyard. If, however, you find yourself shut out of the smaller deluxe places, stay at the Hotel Monteleone, one of the oldest hotels in New Orleans. Established in 1886, it has been expanded and renovated many times over the years, and while its 600 guest rooms are on the nondescript side, the rooftop pool and the French Quarter location are unbeatable. On your second night, move to the Columns Hotel, uptown on St. Charles Avenue, where the faint sounds of passing streetcars will rumble you to sleep in an antique four-poster bed. Built in 1883, this classic Italianate building has 20 generously sized rooms (some with balconies and clawfoot bathtubs), an invitingly dark Victorian lounge, a decent restaurant, and two verandas for sipping highballs in the shade. If you experience déjà vu, don’t worry: you’re remembering the Columns from Pretty Baby, the 1978 Louis Malle film starring Brooke Shields as a nubile prostitute-in-training. GUMBO JETS New Orleanians are single-mindedly devoted to food. With cooking this good and weather this steam-bath inviting, you can understand why the city has been ranked in the top five most obese metropolitan areas for two years running, according to a Men’s Fitness survey. Although New Orleans offers many fine restaurants, from Ethiopian to Thai, it’s justifiably famed for its Creole and Cajun cooking. Cajun food is basically Creole simplified, a one-pot "what you got" or fried. That’s not to denigrate it—oyster po’ boys and spicy boiled crawfish deserve a paper plate at any table. But Creole cooking traces its rich roux to the city’s French origins and its complex spiciness to its Spanish and African heritages. There are two strains: traditional Creole, in which the dishes have changed little in the last century, and "eclectic," where those dishes have been combined with Asian fusion, California nouvelle, and pure genius. For your first day of dedicated eating, avoid the chains and visit one of the French Quarter’s best restaurants, tucked away off the main drags of Bourbon and Decatur Streets. While the tiny Bistro at the Maison de Ville is good, it made its name through chef Susan Spicer, who is now dishing up her clever eclectic Creole dishes at Bayona, a few blocks over. The locals have followed Ms. Spicer, and so should you. You can relax in Bayona’s airy dining room or out in the leafy courtyard, sampling cream of garlic soup, grilled shrimp with black bean cake and coriander sauce, and lamb with goat cheese in a Zinfandel reduction. (Warning: service can be leisurely, but the food deserves savoring.) On the ground floor of the Bienville House Hotel is the rarest of birds: a fine New Orleans bistro that has yet to make it into the guidebooks. Only a year old, Gamay offers up a more adventurous strain of eclectic Creole: crabmeat spring rolls with pickled ginger, wasabi, and mustard dipping sauce; foie gras with apple pear chutney; almond-crusted soft shell crab with garlic shrimp and oyster pasta; and apple-jack ice cream. For traditional Creole cooking, skip the always crowded Galatoire’s and Antoine’s Restaurant in the French Quarter and head uptown to Gautreau’s Restaurant. In this converted two-story house on Soniat Street, in a leafy residential neighborhood, tuck into well-executed Creole staples like grilled shrimp, boudin noir (blood sausage) with spicy homemade mustard, seared Black Angus filet with roasted potatoes, and roasted chicken. Also uptown, in the Garden District area, is Commander’s Palace, arguably New Orleans’s finest—and most popular—restaurant. In operation since 1890 and now the jewel in the crown of the Brennan family’s restaurant dynasty, Commander’s offers a not-to-be-missed culinary experience. Fortunately, it boasts six dining rooms and seats 350 people, so you shouldn’t have to. Despite the volume of diners, the ratio of waiters to tables appears to be about 4:1. The white-gloved, well-trained battalion makes a big production out of serving you traditional Creole dishes, like chilled oysters on the half shell, rich crawfish bisque (they’ll try to browbeat you into sucking the heads of the scarlet critters, but this is a delicacy you can pass on), and spicy barbecued shrimp simmered in Abita beer. Go for the chef’s seven-course tasting menu, but skip the wine pairing: the restaurant offers an excellent 15-page wine list from which to better customize your own selection. And save room for the lightest, fluffiest, most transportive strawberry shortcake you will ever taste in your life. It represents the pinnacle of what 100 years of practice can do for a basic dessert. Should you find room for a snack, at the other end of the sophistication scale are popular eating destinations like the Camellia Grill, the no-nonsense, no-frills ‘40s diner uptown; Café du Monde, for coffee and beignets (even better at 2 a.m. after a night of dancing); Central Grocery, for the best muffulettas; and the Praline Kitchen in the French Market, about the last place left that serves warm, oozingly sweet, fresh pralines. ANTEBELLUM TO ZYDECO The best reason to sightsee in New Orleans is to work up an appetite for eating and to burn off the calories afterward. The city boasts more landmarks and history-rich nooks and crannies than arguably any other place in the United States. Your first day might best be spent just wandering the outlying streets of the French Quarter with a good guidebook in hand. Cruise by the Old Absinthe House, LaFitte’s Blacksmith Shop, and the dingy New Orleans Historic Voodoo Museum (not the Marie Laveau sideshow and souvenir shop). In between, enjoy multiple ragtag musicians and sidewalk performance artists for a mere dollar’s donation. After wandering through the open-air French Market, tour the beautifully restored interior of the 1857 Gallier House and make the slight hike to St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 (New Orleans’s oldest "city of the dead," featured so memorably in Easy Rider). On your second day, swing onto the streetcar that passes in front of the Columns and marvel at the antebellum mansions lining St. Charles—while crying enviously over their incredibly cheap prices in the Times-Picayune real estate section. Jump off at Audubon Park, across from Tulane University, and sprawl in the grass under oak and magnolia trees that date back to the Civil War. Most importantly, rest up for a late night pursuing the city’s most amazing cultural offering: music. TO BEBOP OR NOT The most important thing to realize is that while New Orleans is content to be a jazz museum for tourists, its musicians are not. Dixieland and bebop sound just as good on CD, so open your mind and, after 11 p.m., head to where the local players go to blow off steam once they’ve run through "When the Saints" for the 1,079th time on Bourbon Street. Scattered around town but all easily accessible by cab, the Funky Butt, Donna’s Bar & Grill, and the Vaughn Lounge offer brass and swing so pulse-quickening that you’ll be sucked, helplessly twitching, into the hot, packed, and smoky crowd. If you’re lucky enough to hear brass genius Kermit Ruffins and the Barbecue Swingers, thank the gods and wear a minimal amount of clothing, because you are going to sweat. For good zydeco—the raucous, fiddle-based music that Cajuns have added to the area’s musical gumbo—cab over to Mid-City Lanes Rock ‘N Bowl on Carrollton Avenue. Here it’s best to dress up a little bit country and arrive early (around 10) to stake out one of the few tables—or a bowling lane. Yes, the stage is a cramped area just to the side of a functioning bowling alley. If you’re brave enough, you can fais do-do with townies in ‘80s-style hairdos and high heels, students in bowling shoes, and courtly Cajun men in spit-shined cowboy boots. But be sure to call for the schedule: every now and then the Rock ‘N Bowl sneaks in a cover band whose specialties might include, say, Peter Cetera’s "Glory of Love." Unquestionably, there’s a lot to experience in a city whose motto is "Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez." Although Mardi Gras and the Jazz Fest are worthy spectacles in their own right, trying to see anything else at that time of year (the above events usually fall in March and May) is nearly impossible. A convention, if you can carve out a few free days at either end, offers a better opportunity to really get to know New Orleans. But as you settle on the plane among badge-wearing, bead-bedecked, Hurricane cup-toting passengers, don’t smirk. They got what they came for—and perhaps a whole lot more that they didn’t expect in this city of exotic distractions, sensuous assaults, and timeless languor. |
