Every Day is Fat Tuesday in New Orleans

New Orleans, Louisiana, March 2023

One of my favorite parts of travel is how time ceases to exist, and because the day of the week doesn’t matter, I wake up each morning and don’t know (or care) if it’s a Wednesday, or a Sunday, or whatever. I choose to live like every day is a Saturday while traveling, or while on vacation in New Orleans, every day is Fat Tuesday. 

The two of us—my salsa dancing, Spanish-speaking, never complaining, adventurous eater of a husband and I—approach the city in a car we rented and drove over from San Antonio, Texas. We ditch the vehicle as soon as possible and walk the streets, which is a far superior way to acquaint yourself with a city and its people. At night, the streets of New Orleans offer any indulgence, ones that you may never even have thought to explore. We wander into a corner bodega, dropping hands to squeeze through the aisles one after the other. Eager to eat something almost vulgar, we choose a po’boy with multiple meats, vegetables, shrimp, and sauces, all toasted together with multiple cheeses.  

Po’ boy in hand, we walk through the historic neighborhoods that smell like old beer and Magnolia trees and sea foam. We are staying in a dusty room in one of those Victorian guest houses. The Gingerbread trimmed house was built in the 1800’s and features six rooms that have each been fitted with a private bathroom. The decorator took The Blues room quite literally, painting the walls navy and framing posters of Muddy Waters, Billie Holiday, and Louis Armstrong. There’s an oboe hanging above the decommissioned fireplace next to a trumpet hanging from a rope. 

I wake up hours before the twerkout I booked begins the next morning. There is a shop with beignets and coffee that I want to visit before class while Jaime answers emails. Today must be Tuesday if he’s working. I have time to stroll and sit in the cafe and enjoy the buskers who have set up outside. There’s plenty of cash in my wallet to tip the local musicians. The waitress pulls up a chair to chat for a few minutes—southern hospitality still unsettles this yank—before returning with my coffee and an extra beignet as a snack for Jaime later. I’m feeling the vibes in this city and ready to throw my ass in a circle.

There is too much good food in New Orleans to ever feel hungry, and so if I ever feel like I can eat, then I get to ordering because there are too many dishes to sample within the average trip of four nights/five days. Finding and taking cultural dance classes is something else I love to do when traveling, but it is also strategic in New Orleans. There was a good chance that after an hour of bounce, I could eat. 

My dance teacher meets me at a community arts center carrying a bag of biscuits and gravy which I assume is her breakfast later. I had booked a 45-minute private session, though she ends up spending an hour with me since we kept finding ourselves in conversations about things like Beyonce’s backup dancers, or the ideal length of a booty short, and the price point for the group classes she is planning to start. She offers to drop me off after class so I don’t have to pay for an Uber, and when I insist that I could never accept such a kind offer, she walks me out and waits with me until my Uber arrives, giving me a hug before I get into the car like we are old friends. 

Back at the corner bodega after dance class, I get a good look at the staff in the daylight while I wait to order another sandwich. They all look out of context during business hours. The man at the counter is explaining to the couple in line in front of me that Anthony Bourdain used to come in for their muffaletta sandwich, so I decide to order the same. I pay the man at the counter (who gives me two bananas for free) and turn toward the kitchen in the back to wait for my sandwich. The cook who calls my number looks like he has at least one felony. “Hey, what’s up?” I responded to my number. “Whole lotta nada,” he answers as he tears off a long strip of brown paper roll—the kind you’d find in a gas station bathroom to dry your hands—that I understand is to be used as a napkin. 

Jaime and I finish the sandwich as we get ready for a walk past Frenchman Street to the 9th ward. We consider hailing the bicycle pulling a swing set offering rides for novelty’s sake. Instead, we take the long way through public parks and stop into Wiccan shops and small galleries hoping to be hungry again after the muffaletta by the time we reach our destination. The scent of butter and sugar sneaks out of a bakery we pass and I decide that there is a 100% chance that we’ll be stopping for dessert after our second lunch. Jaime needs no convincing after our meal of gumbo and grits, and we tuck into the brightly lit shop. The bread pudding we order is so hot that the scoop of vanilla is already forming a shallow pool in the bowl from the seconds it took to leave the kitchen and arrive at our table. This is how bread pudding should taste. The bread is saturated but not soggy and gives me the feeling that I could go home today feeling like I have accomplished all my eating goals for this trip. The waiter delivers our check and brings the credit card machine to our table. He coaches Jaime by saying, “Wait… okay… now you can tap it,” to which Jaime responds, “That’s what she said.” The waiter laughs like it’s the first time he’s heard the joke. 

Back on foot, I rap out loud Cash Money Records trying to bait Jaime into rapping with me. Taking over for the nine nine and the two thousands I continue solo. He’s Colombian and doesn’t know songs from the United States unless they’re popular at karaoke. We walk from the 9th ward to Bourbon Street hoping to be able to eat again for dinner. We reach Bourbon Street before dark and already find the level of debauchery to outshine the Vegas strip. There is a young man belting ballads into a microphone powered by his car battery. A homeless man is cycling up and down the street with a plastic rat on a leash in an attempt to make tourists jump. Two women sit across the street from their children who are playing paint buckets as drums for tips. Jaime and I don’t stop for a drink. We laugh at the realization that we’re too old for this scene and need a drink on a street that is more civilized. 

We land at The Monteleone for a Sazerac which is an overcorrection from Bourbon Street. Looking for something more common, we order a hurricane at the bar where they were invented. Looking for something a little more local, we leave the French Quarter and find a creole restaurant. I tend to overorder and this time, Jaime doesn’t try to talk sense into me: jambalaya, alligator, red beans and rice, a side of gumbo, and the most glorious slice of lemon pie.  

My eyes open the next morning to the poster of Muddy Waters and the realization that this day is not Tuesday. We are flying home today, but first I visit yet another coffee shop wishing we had more time to go on dinner dates in the city. My heart catches as the thought that I don’t know when, if ever, I’ll have creole food again. It’s not like Mexican or Italian or Chinese food that you can find some version of in virtually any city in the world. New Orleans cuisine is special, and I’ll dream of its flavors until I can make them a reality again.