Making Mighty as a Mule (TOTC 2016, Day 4)

We are a bit Absolut-ly slowed this morning, so do not run, but walk quietly to the Kick Start Coffee Bar, and can't resist a bit of gin and juice from Tanqueray because it's good, there, and free. I'm not sure I've made it clear yet how well-branded TOTC is, with lovely little logos lurking practically everywhere. It makes the event all the more special, even at those private moments.

There is a fascinating Lobby Bar event featuring the Wild Hibiscus Flower Company that markets actual hibiscus flowers that come packed in syrup all the way from Australia. It makes for a very ornately gorgeous cocktail accoutrement, but to be honest while edible, they still seemed too fleshy for me, at least before noon. Perhaps in a champagne flute at midnight under a gibbous moon I'd feel differently, at nibble on them as if they were a lover's neck. I've got a jar of them to experiment with, so will let George Eats readers know.

This is also the day we have to, sadly, switch hotels. I can't say enough about the Monteleone, its grace under the raucous pressure of Tales--so many people, events, alcohol-aided volume, elevators a-brim with revelry. The staff is ever calm, helpful. Somehow the rooms remain quiet, the escape from the lobby a move to a peaceful paradise. But, they also raised the rates for the weekend, so we move on a few blocks away to the sister property the Bienville House. It's got a rep, so when we check in we ask the desk clerk, "Is our room haunted?" and she replies without missing a beat, "You'll have to tell me." We do not experience any ghosts, nor do our phones take photos of us while we're asleep, which is supposedly one thing the spirits do--when did the dead get so technologically savvy? It is a noisier hotel, though, partially because we're on the third floor, not tenth, and we're also much closer to the elevator. Evidently the fear of dying in an old hotel's elevator make people shout a lot while waiting for it, just in case they only get to scream one more time, and at that it would be a scream cut off mid yell.

This is also the day we plan to meet up with Santa Barbara-New Orleans (yes, the lucky devils live in both places) Melinda and Steve to lunch out of the Quarter. They take us to Liuzza's, a Mid-City establishment around since 1947, except for the Katrina stretch when water flooded 2/3 of the way up the first floor. It's not where tourists go, even after it got highlighted in David Simon's Treme. You get called hon by the waitresses. You get a frosty goblet of draught beer you hold with two hands to be safe. There's lots of red gravy, as this is New Orleans by way of Italy, a connection people don't realize as much. (It's not as old and glamorous as all the French and Spanish influences, but it rings true through many neighborhoods.)

I go for their famous Frenchuletta, a take on the muffuleta that comes more as a sub than in a giant round bread. It is ridiculously huge, all sorts of Italian cold cuts and most importantly an olive salad dripping with oil that is disgustingly delicious. I get about 3/4 of it down, which I consider a victory. Chryss orders the famous (everything here is famous, as people have been ordering it all for eight decades) Pasta Spinach Lougia, basically spinach, garlic, and olive oil on pasta, and nearly halfway through our waitress stops by with more spinach, saying, "Sorry, it didn't look like we gave you enough." It's the kind of place where mommas never feel there is enough. It's a kind of instant home.

The afternoon was a quick tour about some tasting rooms. It seems amaro is the THING right now, so everyone needs one, even if they don't call it an amaro. Exhibit A, meet Bruto Americano by St. George Spirits. (The call it a "bitter aperitivo liqueur.") So one had the opportunity to make  the rounds of bartenders having fun with the new product, all in the Vieux Carre room of the Monteleone, aka the top floor. So it's worth doing just for the view, but the drinks were darn good, too. (At this event I also discovered St. George's Green Chile Vodka--if you want something with a bit of heat, hunt this out.)

Exhibit B: The other tasting room, a crazed mass of people, was run by Fratelli Branca, makers of the classic amaro Fernet-Branca (which will surface again Saturday, just wait). I might just be bitter--no pun intended--because we didn't win the bike in the raffle they held, but overall these cocktails didn't do it for me--they tended to be a little sludgy and one-sided.

The evening then got messed up because we thought we were going to a Meet the Distillers event, but it was not clear press wasn't allowed as media at all, and once that became clear, well, this press wasn't going. (Sorry, distillers! Would love to have written about you but I wasn't allowed in. Talk to your favorite TOTC representative.) So we wandered a bit, taking in the Mississippi River some (we learned from our Sweat Social runs it's 250 feet deep at New Orleans!), and thinking we'd finally end up taking the free ferry across to Algiers one day this trip. Alas this didn't happen.

So instead we hit one of the city's most famous spots, the Sazerac Bar (snarky side note--do you also want to punch the people in the photos on that website?) in the Roosevelt Hotel. First, there are WPA murals in a hotel owned by the Waldorf Astoria Corp. There's America for you in a nutshell. Plus this is a bar Huey Long would hang out in (Long seems quaint with Trump around, no?). I get a Sazerac, of course, that simple, simply perfect mix of sugar, bitters, rye, Herbsaint, and something the NO humidity adds you don't get even when you make them properly at home. Chryss has the Ramos Gin Fizz, a preposterous yet gorgeous concoction: Hayman’s Old Tom Gin, fresh citrus, cream, egg whites, sugar, orange flower water, shaken until frothy and topped with club soda.

These drinks aren't cheap--you pay for all the marble in the Roosevelt lobby--but they are luxurious.

The rest of the evening is one of the TOTC's Spirited Dinners--Thursday the whole town is a-buzz with restaurants hosting crazy drink menu matched meals. We get invited to Smirnoff's celebration of the 75th anniversary of the Moscow Mule. It seems the simpler the cocktail, the more detailed the origin story must be (just try to tease out how a martini was born), and the Mule has a doozy--Hollywood setting, businessmen down on their luck, heiresses with copper mines. This dinner is a kind of dinner theater--they actually act out the invention of the cocktail between courses. Fake dinner guests join you spreading gossip and lies. It was hokey fun. It helped the food was very good (but you can't fry an oyster and call it a shooter, folks!), and the event had a bit of historical aura going for it, too, taking place at the lovingly restored Little Gem Saloon, where some guys named Louis Armstrong, Jelly Roll Morton, and Buddy Bolden played back when jazz didn't have a name yet.

 And then there's the Mule itself. It almost seems too simple--vodka, ginger beer, lime--to count as a cocktail. But simplicity is one of the joys of drink, for sometimes a quick prep is everything. (You had that Monday, too, didn't you.) Cold, refreshing, zippy, with a hidden alcohol kick. Why not. Plus it goes well on a steamy New Orleans' evening with a blackberry pop. That seemingly gimmicky copper cup does it keep it icy.

Then there was yet one more huge bonus to this event, the music, for pianist David Hull and singer Meschiya Lake would have made the old ghosts of the Little Gem proud. Lake, in particular, sings like a modern Billie Holiday, with a lot more tattoos. This photo doesn't do her much justice, but you'll get a great sense of her talent watching this video.

We get back to the Quarter at almost 11 and figure, it's Tales, time to nightcap. We try to go to Latitude 29, an acclaimed tiki bar in our hotel, first. They close at 11, and don't want to seat anyone for drinks even at 10:40. So we walk the few blocks over to Napoleon House, where the Little Emperor never came to live although they wanted him to. (One of the few facts that make me feel pity for Napoleon.) Alas, it too closes at 11. New Orleans never fails to surprise.

A Streetcar Named Perspire

Two different ways of looking at NOLA, one a bit more romantic than the other, although I never felt much defended against--everyone seemed more than welcoming. Still, there's that part of New Orleans that seems a bit wild that makes it more thrilling, isn't there? The air feels a bit like sin.

Day 4, Saturday, July 28

Weather:

Today's daily downpour comes courtesy of the people who decide to shutdown their establishments for a week (or more--one place was closed since May 19!) in the summer. How European of them, and miserable for us, as we did a lovely hike that slowly converted into a miserable death march through the Garden District this day. Plenty of cool shopping and architecture and people watching along Magazine St.

One fun stop for a beer (see surprises). Then a lot of disappointment trying to find a place to: eat lunch, stop sweating, stop moving, avoid the deluge clearly on its way. Domilise's closed. Casamento's closed. Le Petit Grocery turns us away at 1:40 even though they supposedly serve lunch till 2:30 and we assume we look too bedraggled and be-touristed (caps! a big camera!) for their preciousness, or did I mean pretentiousness. (Ha, no good review for you!) A fourth place whose name is washed away by the beginning rain also on vacation. We wonder if we missed the "Garden District--Closed for Summer" sign when we entered. Luckily we find Slice, with solid pizza with an intriguing cornmeal-featured crust and a good enough salad. And a roof. Best restaurant feature, ever.

Quote o' the Day:

"After four days of cocktails, don't you want a beer?"

(Clever marketing by Newcastle, giving beers away at Happy's, which just happened to be a breastaurant, and schoolgirl outfits and beer after lots of drinking, well, they might just have something there if their goal is to part middle-aged men from their money.)

Event-and-a-Quarter o' the Day:

After recovering from our Garden Street debacle a bit in the hotel, we hike back out to the Hyatt Regency, which seems too corporate a place for Tales, in a way, but there's a Taste the World's Best Spirits Grand Tasting to attend. It's the kind of event where all the Johnnie Walker's are on a table for you, through the blue, green and gold, next to a table of the Classic Malts (when in doubt, seize the name and make them pry it from your peat-y fingers, I guess)--Talisker, Dalwhinnie, Lagavulin. Yeah, and that's just whiskeys and leaves out my favorite, Aberlour's A'bunadh, aged in solera casks and presided over by this dandy chap.

There was Lillet with their new Rosé, that you want to drink straight and fiddle with at the bar too, and Del Maguey Mezcal with a good 8 varieties to try and you want to linger just to play with their little clay tasting cups. Somehow, the only edibles at this event, though, were chips, popcorn, pretzels, and nuts. Seemed like they thought it was a light beer fest, and, alas, nothing was light about these fine sips.

So, our spirits emboldened by consuming the world's best spirits, we take the escalator down a floor and discover the Spirited Awards are beginning and no one is really paying attention if you want to sneak into the pre-event reception. We figure, as long as we don't go in and sit down for dinner, who will know we don't belong? Part of it is this is the first and last dressy event, so we might stand out a bit for being too casual, but cocktails make everyone civilized, as long as you don't cut in line when they're hoping to score a slider or grill cheese. We have some more drinks, one a pinkish straight martini, and that makes me wonder if I've had too much.

Not that we saw this while there, but it seems they really do the awards portion right, too, based on the videos they ran during the event that are kindly now on YouTube like this one, "Shit Brand Ambassadors Say":



Surprises o' the Day:

House Spirits Distillery out of Portland, OR doesn't just make Aviation Gin, and will make you a fine whiskey Bloody Mary. Conveniently this will be in an art gallery on your way to Cafe Beignet.

In swagland, the loot is always greener in another conventioner's hands. Where did those leather-looking books go at the Herbsaint tasting room? How did we miss that one attractive bag? Why do we think we need everything given to everyone at TOTC?

Parasol's is our dream of a neighborhood bar--big scary dog that's actually nice allowed inside, people of all ages and races, locals and us, smokers and not (OK, not my favorite part about New Orleans bars--I've become a true anti-cig Californian), a hipster bartender with a Dr. Who obsession, and NOLA Brewing beers on tap, including my new favorite, Hopitoulas...of course a West Coast IPA.

The Columns is nowhere near as fascinating when Susan Sarandon and Brooke Shields aren't staying there.

Best Food Non-TOTC Edition:

Even closer to the Monteleone, Cafe Beignet has better beignets than Cafe du Monde. There, I said it. Much doughier, less sugar, better coffee. It has nothing to do with having had three Bloody Marys before the first fried dough hit my stomach, promise.

We also had a lovely late dinner at Eat New Orleans, a place that takes the classics and freshens them without going frou-frou. A mustard green and artichoke gratin to start was everything you could hope--rich with the two different textured and tasting greens, just enough of a creamy sauce but not so much you need a defibrillator nearby, and some crunchy pita-ish chips to scoop it all with. Chryss has a butterbeans with shrimp bowl, I had the trio--cup of gumbo, cup of red beans, a roasted stuffed red pepper, rice, and a Caesar, and we both hailed our meals. Simple, satisfying, soul-quenching. We also got an inadvertent show out the window as a drunk crashed on the curb, letting his two dogs loose to wander out into Dumaine Street. Luckily, they didn't get run over; the cops visited the guy but left him; our waiter brought out a to-go tray with water for the dogs. Ah, the humanity.

Other Drinks Consumed Not Mentioned Above:

Eat is BYOB, so a six pack of Abita Jockamo IPA from the corner shop down the street did the trick. At one of the Saveur Snack Stand events we got a pleasing Breckenridge Rocky Mountain Rickshaw, zipped with some ginger. Martini (as in Rossi) concocted a very elegant The Monteleone Cocktail--not to be confused with the different one the Carousel Bar serves--of cognac, Martini Roasto Vermouth, Amaro Avena (which will be in the surprise list tomorrow)--and then a misting from a perfume atomizer. When asked, the one bartender said it was Chanel No. 5. (Actually it was Herbsaint--even better.)

And we finally got to the Sazerac Bar in the Roosevelt Hotel to enjoy the namesake drink in a truly swank location ringed by Paul Ninas Art Deco murals that make you expect to see some unholy drinking party of Huey Long and Noel Coward to wander in. A very civilized spot, and fine drinks, although their Sazeracs are much redder than mine--perhaps that's because I use both Angostura and Peychaud's and they only use the carmine latter. No matter, can a lovelier thing be done to rye than make it into a Sazerac? Even I'd be better with the perfect combo of bitters, citrus, sugar, and a bit of sticky Pernod.