When three childhood friends suggest we all meet up in the US, somehow the conversation turns to food, and so we end up on a road trip to New Orleans.
A few hours into the drive from my home in Austin, Texas, the sky opens up and I remember, oh yeah, it's hurricane season. With torrents of water pelting the window of our Ford Expedition, we pulled over at Prejean's in Lafayette.
Recommended by a local, this side-of- the-highway spot serves traditional Cajun fare – fried alligator (which, you guessed it, tastes just like chicken) and an award-winning Andouille sausage gumbo, a stew-like Cajun soup. Prejean’s is somewhat touristy, with its Disneyfied swamp decor; the food is heavy but delicious. The guys are particularly enamoured with the desserts, wolfing down a turtle cheesecake and bread pudding on already full stomachs.
Prejean’s sets the tone for what would become a glutinous, men- versus-Southern food adventure.
A family tradition After checking in to the Prince Conti Hotel, we go to explore the nightlife on Bourbon Street. Bourbon Street is to New Orleans what the Khao San Road is to Bangkok – grimy and seedy, but an event all the same.
We start off at the Tropical Isle for a Hand Grenade, a green concoction not unlike the Fat Frog mixes we drank as teenagers.
Battling sugar headaches, we move on to the Cat's Meow bar to watch some karaoke. Here we discover our trip anthem when a burly Hell's Angel gets up to perform Hank Williams Jr's Family Tradition.
With a final drink in Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, one of the oldest bars in the US, we call it a night.
Beignets and po' boys, oh my! The next morning we walk through the French Quarter to the riverfront to watch the barges on the Mississippi. While there we stop at Café Du Monde to sample their famous beignets. Not quite full after a second helping of powdered sugar and fried dough, we continue on in search of a New Orleans po' boy.
A po' boy is a long rectangular sandwich served on a Louisiana loaf, a softer, wider (see: Americanised) version of a French baguette. The sandwich was invented during the 1929 streetcar operators strike when two brothers, Bennie and Clovis Martin, offered free sandwiches as a sign of solidarity to the poor boy workers, or po' boys.
From Killer Po’ Boys beside our hotel, we try two variations: Mother’s Famous Ferdi Special (baked ham, roast beef, “debris” gravy and all the trimmings) and a “snack” of Moroccan lamb with tzatziki. If it weren’t for the mammoth portions, the lads would consider second helpings – our barometer of excellence.
All that jazz That night we head uptown to Carrollton Market, one of New Orleans’s newest restaurants, to try a more refined approach to Louisiana’s Gulf cuisine. After mouthwatering crispy fried pork tail tots and “chicken n’ dumplins”, we hit the Maple Leaf Bar to watch resident brass band Rebirth and digest our dinner.
The night is still young, so we cab down to Frenchman Street for a more low-key vibe and dance to live jazz at the Spotted Cat before packing it in. Going down the bayou The following morning we venture out of the city to take an airboat tour of the swamplands. Again the weather isn’t in our favour and we spend the first 20 minutes clad in Teletubby-esque ponchos as we zoom along the bayou. The rain gives way to a dense humidity and an eerie silence as we pull into the first inlet and begin to throw marshmallows – “swamp crack” – into the water.
A few minutes later, a 9-foot long alligator creeps towards the boat, followed by a few little guys. Our guide, Captain Kendall, casually hand feeds our guests some rotting chicken while explaining the bayou’s ecosystem and alligator hunting policies.
We continue on after the feed, passing a massive oil tanker that washed up during the last hurricane. Despite a few mosquito bites, the airboat tour is a trip highlight and we learn something new – besides how many po’ boys three guys can eat in one sitting.
Eating until one hates oneself Assuming that the fresh air would work up an appetite, we make reservations at Chef Donald Links’ Cochon for the evening. With a slew of James Beard Awards, we have high expectations for this New Orleans institution and order most of the waitress’s suggestions, ie far too much.
The wood-fired oysters and fried boudin (similar to black pudding) eclipse the rest of the appetisers, but only slightly. Similarly, the fish special and Louisiana cochon marginally surpass our other entrees. Although close to bursting, the lads insist on dessert, so we finished with chocolate peanut butter pie and a 16-layer double chocolate doberge cake (so unnecessary). All of this is washed down with local moonshine.
A hi-low kinda evening For an after-dinner drink, we stop by the Column's Hotel, the backdrop for some of the scenes in Steve McQueen's Oscar-winning movie 12 Years a Slave.
The bar is closing, so we ask the bartender to recommend a local’s hangout to finish out the night. He sends us to Snake and Jake’s, a dive bar in a trailer festooned with Christmas lights – the perfect contradiction to the high culture earlier in the evening.
Going out with a bang Given its French heritage, New Orleans’ pommes frites are second to none and we choose District for sliders and a side of cheesy, waffle fries for the last hurrah.
The trip culminates with one of the guys eating three of District’s colossal donuts – don’t ask why. After a long goodbye, we waddle our separate ways.
Despite the 100 or so pounds gained collectively and the impending weeks of austerity eating, the trip was certainly worth it.
