Part of a series of essays on New Orleans.
Sheryl Crow once opined that she liked a good beer buzz early in the morning, and I have to agree with her there. You have to be careful, of course, and neither overdo it, or become accustomed to it. No one likes a drunk. But if you can limit your excesses to the occasional excursion into daylight inebriation, it can be quite enjoyable.
If you have the right people and a good attitude, I suppose any place is conducive to day drinking, but no other place on earth is built for it quite like the city of New Orleans, where they take day drinking to ecclesiastic heights. Not only are the bars open, there are patrons in them at all times of the day and night, with no judgement expressed or offered. I scouted exquisite homes in the Garden District, carrying a red solo cup full of some adult beverage, and no one even blinked. They just talked about the upcoming Mardi Gras and all the friends and family who were coming to visit.
I like a good beer buzz early in the morning.
Sheryl Crow
When it comes to day drinking, you have to view it as a marathon, not a sprint. The goal is longevity and control, not indiscriminate mayhem. You’ve got to be able to hold your liquor or you’re going to be passed out long before you want to be, or chillin in the hoosegow. While I may tinker here and there with hard liquor throughout the course of a day of drinking, my plan has traditionally involved beer for its relatively low alcohol content. My preference in New Orleans is Red Stripe, as it has a fruity nature and is readily available almost everywhere. That said, I have been known to mix a dizzying array of ales, tonics, and spirits from champagne and wine to bourbon and tequila, and remain standing.
In what must be a symbiotic relationship, the food in New Orleans is particularly suited to heavy drinking, and no doubt the reason that residents of this fair city live, on average, a good decade less than the average American. Locals would argue that they live considerably more within far less time, so that they’re still ahead in the end.
That’s hard to argue with.
The Erin Rose
It’s possible that we only wandered into this unassuming dive bar in the heart of the French Quarter by chance, but I’m pretty sure I must have read about it and sought it out purposefully. It is known as a locals bar, despite it’s proximity to Bourbon Street and all that that entails. On the first day there, which happened to be a Tuesday, we learned that this was the only day of the week when they served what one local told us, were the best Po-Boys in the city. Not having tried all the Po-Boys at all the other joints claiming to make the best, I can’t say with any certainty that rules supreme, but I will say it was delicious.
We ended up at a great many watering holes, dive bars, juke joints, and greasy spoons in our time in the Crescent City, but time and again, we found ourselves back at the Erin Rose. It became our home port, our beacon when couldn’t figure out what else to do, our home away from home. What’s funny about this, to me, is that it’s not like we got to know anyone else as regulars. Once we got to know one bartender, another appeared the next night and we had to start all over. Same with the patrons. There seemed to be a steady stream of people who frequented the bar, but not continuously. Everyone has their own schedule to keep, even in N’awlins.
Napoleon House
On one particular morning, when I wasn’t working for some reason, but my producer and partner in crime was, I set out on foot to see what I could see. I had a cigar that I had procured at some point along the way and found this open air bar on Bourbon Street, that seemed like just the ticket. I could sit at the bar and write, while smoking my cigar and sipping a cocktail. The weather was perfect, cool enough to warrant scarf, and sometimes a hat, but not a coat. Everyone’s doors were open and light, music, and smoke drifted in and out of the barrooms.
A couple sitting nearby chatted me up and proceeded to explain that they had met by chance somewhere and driven to New Orleans on a whim. One of them was fleeing something I can’t remember and it all sounded rushed and poorly planned. I feared for both of them, not sure who was scamming who. In reality, they were probably both trying to scam me, but I wasn’t biting. I have heard my share of sob stories and seen my allotment of dog and pony shows. I’m all for a good story, fabricated or not, but I draw the line at handing out cash to strangers. No one has a story that good.
Bar Tonique
I left the Napoleon and found myself in a pedicab on my way to the outskirts of the Quarter. I had read about a cocktail bar that specialized in hipster mixology and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. It was on Rampart Street, across from Congo Square and Louis Armstrong Park. It was called Bar Tonique, and it turned out to be everything I wanted it to be.
It was a bit swankier than the dives along Bourbon Street, or even the honkey-tonks along Frenchman Street. It had that industrial vibe of the hipster bar, complete with chalkboard menu filled complex potions, crushed herbs, and homemade bitters. What made it entertaining was the gaggle of bartenders who had traveled all the way from Atlanta just to visit this very destination.
They had traveled six and a half hours by car, whereas I had haphazardly driven across the neighborhood in a human-powered go cart for less than five minutes. It was nice, but not thirteen-hours-round-trip nice. I would visit again, should I find myself in New Orleans once again, but I wouldn’t make a special trip.
The Boondock Saint
When I finished chatting with the bartenders from Atlanta, I made my way back to Bourbon Street to meet up with Claudio, my producer, and I figured the easiest thing I could do was just to go back to where it had all started, and return to the Erin Rose, which is what I did. When I arrived, I recognized no one but everyone felt familiar. I settled into a seat at the bar and almost immediately struck up a conversation with Tommy, a suave gentleman in his sixties, who lived nearby and had wandered in for some afternoon libations. After a round or two, he told me he was headed over to another bar nearby, and suggested I join him, which I did. It turned out to be a funky little Irish hole in the wall, directly across the street from Preservation Hall on St Peter Street called The Boondock Saint. Another spot that welcomed locals and tourists alike.
Claudio eventually made his way there, as well as Asif, a friend of mine who inexplicably drove all the way from Dallas just to hang out. The next thing you knew, we were smoking cigars, drinking bourbon, and hanging out in the window watching the world go by. I met a bunch of other characters, including a man who introduced himself to me as Moose and who sported a white handlebar mustache. Moose turned out to be quite the bon vivant, photographer of strippers and bears, wearer of flashy suits of many colors and prints, and a world traveler to boot.
I’m still in touch with him.
The day didn’t end there, but it does get a little hazy after that. I’m certain we ate something, but don’t remember what. At some point, we ended up back at the Erin Rose, which is likely where we ended the night, but there were a few other bars, a strip joint, and a mechanical bull along the way. No one was arrested, permanently harmed, or otherwise suffered any long-term damage, but you might say we were a bit dinged up the next morning.
Nothing a little cafe au lait, a few beignets, and a Red Stripe won’t cure.
