Tonight was a beer night.
I usually do not like indulging at the local bars but the prices are cheap and tonight I was thirsty. As current crush has been oddly absent lately beer seemed like the drug of choice. And as alcohol tends to turn my foot into lead I make sure to drink at bars within walking distance. Of which there are three.
One is the Balcony Bar and Grill. It is your average fratpub except for the namesake balcony, my favorite place to spend a Sunday August afternoon, pint glass in hand. During the summer New Orleans enters monsoon season and the rain starts at 3 PM exactly and ends at 5 PM exactly. These times are non-negotiable and you can set your watch by them. The sun is usually out not half and hour later and you can sit and steam on the balcony, watching the waves of darkness recede into the horizon. (The bar also deserves mention for George, greaser bartender extraordinaire, the sort who is somehow able to gain immediate respect everywhere he goes simply by treating everyone with copious but equal disdain.)
In lieu of doing anything else, I drank pints at the Balcony and it was welcome.
There are other events in the city tonight but I must turn in early.
Occasionally I have to work across the river in Gretna at the Jefferson Parish Sheriffs Office. Its one of the few joys of my job.
Not for the office, which is draped with likenesses and caricatures of Sheriff Harry Lee, 350-pound Asian egomaniac extraordinaire, Ive counted 38 such likenesses in a day visiting limited parts of the building, Harry Lee is adored for his pure ego and chutzpah and will never be voted against. And I understand that he throws the most incredible parties, massive caviar cakes in the shape of his corpulent mug, Id like to go to one because the suburban Jefferson Parish is where all the corruption of New Orleans has gone to roost and Id like to just stand in the middle of it all, knowing that each handshake contained a twenty and that each wink meant a business deal was sealed. But thats Harry Lee, and Im talking about his headquarters. They are nothing special.
I often finish my work there halfway through the day and I get to drive back to my office through the French Quarter, thus enabling me to eat lunch in one of the finest dining districts in the world. Not that I go for white tablecloth settings and harried servers and daily-changed menus that all feature panko crumbs and pepper jelly. Theres the Croissant DOr, a French bakery owned and entirely staffed by Vietnamese refugees, over on Ursuline. Or Coops, a dim bar that surprisingly features the best soul food in the area. Mollys had an old cook working in a closet kitchen last year, shed fry anything that would take breading and demanded that no one abuse the bars then-resident, an oft-beaten but still sweet tomcat.
Today was a long lingering lunch at Croissant DOr, sipping coffee and chicory (which creates a buzz that beats any herbal amphetamine youve ever had) and blazing through a crossword. Everyone there loafed about, either tourists enjoying the February sun or those with night jobs and free time and that is relaxing, being around people who, for that moment, in the shop, have no other ambition then to drink some coffee and solve 54 across.
I dont get to do this often, simply sit and sunbathe in a shop, and I always appreciate it when I do.
I usually do not like indulging at the local bars but the prices are cheap and tonight I was thirsty. As current crush has been oddly absent lately beer seemed like the drug of choice. And as alcohol tends to turn my foot into lead I make sure to drink at bars within walking distance. Of which there are three.
One is the Balcony Bar and Grill. It is your average fratpub except for the namesake balcony, my favorite place to spend a Sunday August afternoon, pint glass in hand. During the summer New Orleans enters monsoon season and the rain starts at 3 PM exactly and ends at 5 PM exactly. These times are non-negotiable and you can set your watch by them. The sun is usually out not half and hour later and you can sit and steam on the balcony, watching the waves of darkness recede into the horizon. (The bar also deserves mention for George, greaser bartender extraordinaire, the sort who is somehow able to gain immediate respect everywhere he goes simply by treating everyone with copious but equal disdain.)
In lieu of doing anything else, I drank pints at the Balcony and it was welcome.
There are other events in the city tonight but I must turn in early.
Occasionally I have to work across the river in Gretna at the Jefferson Parish Sheriffs Office. Its one of the few joys of my job.
Not for the office, which is draped with likenesses and caricatures of Sheriff Harry Lee, 350-pound Asian egomaniac extraordinaire, Ive counted 38 such likenesses in a day visiting limited parts of the building, Harry Lee is adored for his pure ego and chutzpah and will never be voted against. And I understand that he throws the most incredible parties, massive caviar cakes in the shape of his corpulent mug, Id like to go to one because the suburban Jefferson Parish is where all the corruption of New Orleans has gone to roost and Id like to just stand in the middle of it all, knowing that each handshake contained a twenty and that each wink meant a business deal was sealed. But thats Harry Lee, and Im talking about his headquarters. They are nothing special.
I often finish my work there halfway through the day and I get to drive back to my office through the French Quarter, thus enabling me to eat lunch in one of the finest dining districts in the world. Not that I go for white tablecloth settings and harried servers and daily-changed menus that all feature panko crumbs and pepper jelly. Theres the Croissant DOr, a French bakery owned and entirely staffed by Vietnamese refugees, over on Ursuline. Or Coops, a dim bar that surprisingly features the best soul food in the area. Mollys had an old cook working in a closet kitchen last year, shed fry anything that would take breading and demanded that no one abuse the bars then-resident, an oft-beaten but still sweet tomcat.
Today was a long lingering lunch at Croissant DOr, sipping coffee and chicory (which creates a buzz that beats any herbal amphetamine youve ever had) and blazing through a crossword. Everyone there loafed about, either tourists enjoying the February sun or those with night jobs and free time and that is relaxing, being around people who, for that moment, in the shop, have no other ambition then to drink some coffee and solve 54 across.
I dont get to do this often, simply sit and sunbathe in a shop, and I always appreciate it when I do.
*pout* Christ I'm fucking home sick...