Star Sighting in the Marigny: Steve Zahn, Part Deux

Confession--I had to leave New Orleans briefly for short business trip to the home office. I left Tuesday afternoon and was back before midnight on Wednesday. So technically, I didn't miss any of my 32 days. 

However, I did miss the return of J and B from their fishing adventure in the Gulf. While I was stuck in a bad chain hotel in New Jersey on Tuesday night, B went out in the Marigny. Fortunately, he was prepared with his video camera because guess who was partying on Frenchmen Street? Everyone's favorite NOLA star, Steve Zahn. 

Here is B's recording of his encounter with one of the great comic supporting actors of our time. This video is best viewed with your monitor or laptop turned upside down. Just click on the link and you'll understand why.

B needs to do a little more work on his technique before he's ready for TMZ, but I appreciate his willingness to let 32 Days in NOLA have the exclusive. Thanks, B! And, hopefully, there will be more Steve Zahn sightings before our 32 days are up.

Photo Safari in Treme

Today we explored the Treme neighborhood. It's close to the Faubourg Marigny and the French Quarter. Now a household name because of the HBO series, it was the home to many famous musicians back in the day and is the oldest African American neighborhood in the US.

Bayou was the end of the road for us in the Treme. But we'll be back!


A special thanks to J for the loan of some of his photos.

The Recipe for Happiness

Yes, we found the recipe for happiness. Is it any surprise that this particular recipe was created in New Orleans? And in the most unlikely place--Tropical Isle.

We were giving my brother B a tour through the Quarter and dared him to try the signature Tropical Isle drink. You’ve probably heard of famous Crescent City drinks such as the Hurricane and perhaps even the Sazerac, but the Hand Grenade is really the quintessential French Quarter drink.

B was game to try the concoction and ordered a large. He asked what was in it, and the bartender tiredly told him, “Happiness.”

B takes up the challenge to drink a Hand Grenade.

It all depends on your definition of happiness, I suppose. The Hand Grenade was a citrusy, overly sweet concoction. After we all tasted it, we guessed that the ingredients included Red Bull, Mountain Dew, and grain alcohol. But what makes the Hand Grenade the ideal Bourbon Street drink is its brilliant design—easy to carry, hard to spill, impossible to break. A smaller version would make a great sippy cup.

Real Hand Grenade next to graffiti hand grenade.

One of the patrons of Tropical Isle commented to B, “That drink will make you lose all your ambition.” We weren’t sure if she meant “inhibitions” or maybe even both.

No inhibitions or ambition. A very New Orleans definition of happiness. 

Star Sighting in the French Quarter

So, while J and I were walking to dinner, we had a New Orleans star sighting. But before I tell you about our star sighting, let me take a step back.

It was the day before my birthday. I was feeling a bit of middle-age malaise, and the rainy day matched my mood. To cheer me up, J took me to lunch at Commander’s Palace where they have a 25-cent martini lunch special. However, there’s a limit of three. Why?  “Cause that’s enough,” the menu says.

Two bits

It was still raining when we left Commander’s Palace to check out Magazine Street in the Garden District. Unlike most places I’ve lived, the rain in New Orleans doesn’t wash everything clean. Instead, the rain leaves everything smelling dirty, and it feels like the ground may collapse beneath you. Maybe it has something to do with being below sea level. In any case, New Orleans shows best in the sun.

Later that evening, we walked through the Quarter to the Hotel Monteleone. The Monteleone is one of my favorite New Orleans spots because of the revolving Carousel Bar. It seems so quaint to have a revolving bar at street level instead of 30-stories up.

Carousel Bar at the Monteleone.

Truman Capote used to party here.

Walking down Decatur to the Hotel Monteleone, we saw a shaggy-looking guy hailing a cab. “Look, it’s Steve Zahn,” J joked because the guy was dressed in faded jeans, a plaid shirt, and tennis shoes, just like the character Steve Zahn plays on Treme.

The funny part: it was Steve Zahn. 

Wednesday Night in the Faubourg Marigny

Jazz Fest ended less than a week ago. It was Wednesday night. We figured it would be fairly calm on Frenchman Street, home to dozens of music clubs. But we were wrong.


We saw the Lazy Boys, a funk jazz band, at Vaso. Then we headed over to the Apple Barrel and listened to Andre Bouvier and the Royal Bohemians, complete with a woman playing the washboard. Both bands were terrific and the bars were crowded, though I'm sure this weekend the clubs will be packed. 


But the most energetic crowd of the night was gathered in the street as we headed home. You can see what it was like with a couple of minutes of video that J captured.

Trust Me

Traveling means having to trust strangers. Even if there's no language barrier, it takes me a few days to get my bearings, and having absolutely no sense of direction makes it just that much worse. It means having to worry about basic needs like food and shelter, even if that just means locating a restaurant I read about or making sure that the cab driver took me to the right Hilton. Living in New Orleans for a month means redoing all of our routines: from walking Roscoe, to finding a grocery store and bank, to figuring out who has the best takeout.

I have to admit that on Tuesday we pretty much limited ourselves to finding great food and drink. We did our research and had not only a Plan A restaurant, but also a Plan B restaurant just in case. Fun fact about New Orleans—most restaurants close on Tuesdays, not Mondays, which meant we needed a Plan C. By that point, we were dying of hunger and so a rundown corner store suddenly fit the bill.  Frady’s One Stop Food Store offered a small but oddly curated selection of gallon tubs of “heavy duty” mayonnaise, Mexican cokes, and canned green beans. 

Frady's--where they command you to eat!

A short woman with a groomed moustache was behind the counter, and asked us for our order. Let me emphasize that this was not a woman who had neglected waxing her upper lip for too long. Clearly, she took great pride in her carefully grown and meticulously groomed mustache. Behind the glass cases, I could see chafing pans of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. It looked surprisingly good, but not the right call when dripping sweat. A local came in to get a refill and sensed our confusion. She insisted that the roast beef po-boy was the best in the city and folks came from all over to get their hands on one. But there were still so many decisions to be made. What kind of roll? What kind of cheese? What size? The woman behind the counter was too nice to correct us when we gave the wrong answer, so we simply said, “make it the way you would like it.”

We'll be back for more po-boys soon!

Later that evening, Mimi's in the Marigny was our stop for dinner. Their specialty is tapas, along with live music every single night of the year. One of the tapas had the irresistible name of “Trust Me.” Chef’s choice--could be hot, could be cold. Meat or veggie? Who knows. You just have to trust, and that’s what we did. It turned out to be grilled and peppered trumpet mushrooms. And those mushrooms were heaven after so much BBQ, Slim Jim’s, fast food burgers, and Skittles.

Sometimes it’s good to trust strangers.

Sulphur-style Gumbo

After a day of broken elevators, electricity outages, snarky desk clerks, sluggish highways, crappy convenience store junk food, and a torrential downpour, we were exhausted by the time we arrived in New Orleans. For four days, we had been driving through the fabulous and storied West. Sounds great, doesn’t it? But, except for the coast, I hate the West. Deserts are ugly—sorry, but I’ve never understood the beauty of a barren landscape except when I’m looking at a photo of the desert while I'm in a coastal city. My dislike is so intense that I believe that people who choose to live in the desert are scary, unfriendly, and never leave the air conditioning of their homes, trucks, or offices. Also, their wifi is embarrassingly slow, though always advertised as “high speed," they let their toddlers ride in the backs of pickup trucks, they don’t wear helmets on motorcycles, and they actually like food from Sonic. Nuff said. 

I couldn’t wait to get out of the West and into the South. So no matter how bad the rest of the trip might have been, finally crossing into Louisiana made it all worthwhile. It was exactly what I had hoped for. So many of the states we drove through were just an endless string of chain hotels, restaurants, and gas stations replicating along the I-10. But this border crossing was different. It was clear we had left the familiar behind when we stopped for dinner at The Boiling Point in Sulphur, Louisiana, heart of Cajun Country. We knew they were worth a visit because their website only listed three links: “menu,” “catering,” and “deer processing.”

I've discovered that the quality of the food at local restaurants is always in inverse proportion
to their grammatical accuracy. The Boiling Point was no exception.

At four in the afternoon, they were doing mainly takeout business and serving a few locals. We were the only non-Cajuns in the restaurant, and also the only patrons who didn't order a massive platter of boiled crawfish (which comes with a plastic bucket for the carcasses). J had the crawfish platter so that we could dip our toes in the crawfish pool. When I ordered the gumbo, the motherly waitress asked if I wanted a side of potato salad. Confused, I asked if the gumbo came with a side?  “No, hon. But everyone here eats their gumbo over potato salad instead of rice. If it makes the food messy, that’s how we like it.” So I ate my gumbo like a Sulphur native. And you know what? It was fantastic. Just like our waitress and the rest of Sulphur, I’ll never eat gumbo over rice again.

One of my goals while I’m here is to learn how to make gumbo. Gumbo has always seemed like a particularly American food, one that combines the best of the old world (France contributed the roux and Spain the seafood and cayenne pepper) with the new (the okra in gumbo originates from Africa, the Choctaw tribe provided the distinctive flavoring of filé or sassafras, and Cajuns added the “holy trinity” of celery, onion, and bell pepper).

While I was eating my gumbo over potato salad, I felt like I could easily slip into this friendly, offbeat, Cajun culture. Even the whole bit about eating crawfish by sucking the meat through the head felt like it might actually be doable. As we finished, one of the men who greeted us so warmly when we arrived, got up to leave. He’d been drinking sweet tea and gossiping with the owner while we were eating. As he walked to his car, I noticed the large handgun attached to the waistband of his stretch slacks.

Maybe it’s not so easy to slip into a new culture after all.