Having walked the cat back about last night, we were the first through the door at Elizabeth’s, greeted by cheerily bitchin’ oilcloth table covers and Boston on the radio. What is this? In my pre-visit New Orleans fantasy, every radio would be tuned to WWOZ so I could dance around waving fistfuls of boudin. Just wait till the reggaeton and hurricanes on Bourbon Street sez The Skipper. He ordered the eggs, grits, praline bacon, and biscuit. I opted for one of the specials: chicken fried steak (with white gravy, of course), grits, biscuit. The last time I had chicken fried steak this good was from a diner in Logan, Utah. New Orleans is closer. The sweet/salty praline bacon was tasty, but oy vey, it was a lot. I tucked the huge biscuit into my purse for later and concentrated on finishing the grits, not Maurepas-style, but quite good, and made lively with Elizabeth’s own hot sauce.
We walked off some breakfast with a trek to the French Quarter for Cafe Du Monde’s coffee and further digestion atop the levee, then returned to the Creole Inn just before a midday thunderstorm. The Skipper worked during the afternoon while I propped up the local economy most successfully at the Louisiana Music Factory. Bought pralines, scoped the postcards. Must. Find. Boudin. To recover, I stopped at La Divina Gelateria for a little peach-prosecco sorbet and bonded with the woman behind the counter about WFMU and WWOZ. (Support your local radio stations, kids.) And then it was time for dinner.
Since The Skipper would be fine dining later at Lüke (he returned with leftovers of a huge pork bone, sausage, and home made sauerkraut), I headed for a solo dinner at Erin Rose. Again, there was a bar-in-front, kitchen-in-the-back setup like Lost Love. It’s like having a food truck in the basement. Or a mullet. This time I was sober enough to note the name: Killer PoBoys. Two bearded and tatted biker dudes took my order for the Dark-and-Stormy po’ boy (rum and ginger glazed pork belly with garlic aioli and cabbage) and then talked me into some cajun potato salad. The meat-bread-oil combo was just right, and the potato salad I took home against future midnight cravings. The Skipper joined me for a drink part-way through the meal, and then we went to Felix’s and had Buds and split a dozen raw oysters.
Rather than tote several pounds of vinyl and pralines across two neighborhoods, I caught a cab to the hotel, but the driver almost missed the turn on St. Roch because we were discussing how to cook rabbit.