Sam's Your Uncle: An American Road Trip: Day 16

Hey Forest

After happily indulging our need for a lie-in past half past seven, the three of us eventually made our way out for a lazy brunch at 11am. The sun was shining hot on our stroll toward our destination, and the air felt heavy with moisture. Cafe du Monde is a renowned French pastry eatery that exclusively sells coffee and beignets - deep fried sweet fritters. I had visited it on my last trip to New Orleans about ten years ago and instantly recognised its green awnings. The beignets arrived under a mountain of icing sugar, and we happily tucked in, resembling wired cocaine addicts after swiftly devouring the crunchy cubes.

Jannick grabbed a bag to take out and we emerged again under the sunny warmth. Under Joe's understated encouragement, we were to ride the tram to Audubon Park, on the southwest 'coast' of the city - the only real greenery bordering the Mississippi bend.

Pint at the Old Vic?

Equipped with the Nerf, deep fried goodies, and a tender sense of curiosity, we clickety-clacked our way toward the park. The main facilitator of the journey was St Charles Avenue, a gorgeous parade of pretty houses and apartments. The splendid residences no doubt house the rich and famous of New Orleans, but it wasn't showy at all. The colours remained vibrant through the cool drizzle.

The home of Bananaman

We got off at Audubon and ventured into the park, walking past two next door universities in the process (Tulane University pictured below). We hadn't given the place the full scope out beforehand so managed to wander into a substantial golf course and little prospect of finding the 'park' park. So we threw the finned ball around for a bit on the wet well-cut squelchy lawns. As grey clouds and a wall of water approached, we took shelter under a nearby tree and decided to follow the paved path around to see if we could spice up this detour. We hitched a ride on a bus and headed for the riverfront.

The riverfront area was less the bumping boulevard we expected, and thanks to the rain, was more of a dismal wash out. But there were some interesting looking eateries, which were neatly sandwiching a Supercuts hairdresser. Jannick and I had been complaining of long summer hair for a few days and had resolved to rectify this issue once we got to New Orleans. Though this wasn't quite the hip funky afro-toting creole hang out I was expecting, we were tempted nevertheless. Jannick was seated straight away and I had to wait about a minute before Trent strolled in. It transpired that his leisurely step was deceiving, for, once he began cutting, Trent was apparently possessed by some kind of barber poltergeist hellbent on breaking the record for fastest hair cut performed by man.

Lightning Hands limbers up

After ten minutes in the chair, the newly shorn sheep rejoined Joe, flush with tips of local lunch hunts and drinks for the evening. We headed to the Camellia Grill, a ten metre walk away, after getting some soft drinks and dried cranberries (weirdest impulse buy of my life) at a supermarket next door. It was a great restaurant. Staffed by some of the most jovial men I've ever met, their infectious zest for life creates a dining experience that was wholly enjoyable.

We sat at the bar and ordered three 'po-boy' sandwiches, each with fried catfish filling. The order was delivered to the chefs, who cook just behind the angular bar, in song, as the man who took it turned around and crooned like Marvin Gaye at his colleague. Easily the most soulful fish sandwich I've ever ordered. Take some notes, Giraffe.

Oh boy a po-boy

The food was great, and I was convinced the jolly atmosphere made it all the more tasty. Fillets of freshly fried crispy fish on toasted buns and a healthy dollop of tartar sauce and we were practically singing on the way out too. Don't miss this place if you come to New Orleans! After performing the departure rituals (a fist bump from our waiter Camm), we left the grill and had to negotiate some rainy weather on our way back to the tram.

We dropped our stuff off at the hotel and went again after a brief pause, this time heading to a local casino spotted on our way to the park earlier that day. The boys were seasoned gamblers, having been to Vegas together for a fortnight, and so were keen to get onto the blackjack table. Intimidated by the curt speed with which $40 can be stripped from a person at the table, I went for wander. The floor was huge and packed out with slot machines and card tables, with a buffet at the end and a dance club in the centre. I meandered through the forest of sounds, lights and spinning numbers, and caught the occasional glimpse of the emotionless drones that feed off their button clicking addiction. After seeing one man unflinchingly push $100 into an electronic poker machine, I reluctantly tried a slot game with a denomination more to my price point; good to see you, Mr. Washington.

Rejoining the boys after an uninspiring run of form, they gave me what sounded like a condensed version of the ups and downs of a typical week trip to Gambleville. I changed my money and bought in, sat opposite Joe, who was enjoying his swan song with a calm veneer of authority. Two rounds, two wins for the house and what felt like 20 seconds later, and I was out twenty bucks. A dollar a second - certainly premium entertainment. I felt as if I had just walked over and handed it directly to the man. Gambling campaign off to a faultering start, I don't imagine I'll be returning to one of these fortresses of false promise any time soon. Perhaps a heavier wallet will convince me to loosen those purse strings. Why hello, Abraham...

Back at the hotel, we geared up for our big night out by lying down and drinking some water. Glued to our computer screens until 10pm when Andy showed up, we donned going out gear and hit the strip. Fresh in from Memphis after an 11 hour(!) bus, Andy took fatigue (if he even had any) in his stride in true Aussie style and was once again firing on all cylinders. Bourbon was warming up when we got to it, the regular circus carousel seemingly greasing its gears for another huge Wednesday night.

After a hot dog street dinner, we headed to the Tropical Isle bar, one of the few places on Bourbon that sell the famous Hand Grenade cocktail. It was poured directly from a tap so we couldn't see what goes in it but it tasted very pineappley. The novel glasses were quite cool, and when you finish you get to try and throw the plastic grenade at the top into a hanging basket suspended from the ceiling, so there's a bit of fun. After Andy slurped down his grenade and we sipped ours more timidly, we went back out onto the street and headed for destination the second: Pat O'Brien's bar. 'Some chick' had told Andy about this place when he told her he was going to New Orleans while he was in D.C. The piano bar and a cocktail called the Hurricane are the two 'must dos'. After brandishing our IDs, and Jannick his room key (like a boss), we were seated at a table in the piano bar. Looking and gaping at our napkins, which featured the recipe of the Hurricane, at the prospect of four ounces of rum plus cocktail mix, we thought we might be in for a ride.

The atmosphere was great. It wasn't packed out, but there were enough tables of happy Hurricane drinkers for some buzz in the air and the piano players were excellent. As we mulled over our first request, Andy devised a cunning plan to get our names out there on the scene. We submitted 'Hey Jude' on a napkin and four dollars, which Andy amended during a piano player substitution break with a line explaining the motivation of our attendance there tonight - a celebration of Joe's divorce.

Andy sizes up his Hurricane

Naturally we fell about at the announcement, and the joke ran for the entire evening, dovetailing well with our other request 'Don't Look Back In Anger'. Aware of our drinks' potency, we sipped at a cautious pace, making sure to thwart any potential for Nashville The Sequel. But Andy, who apparently laughs in the face of boozy adversaries, gulped his down like a glass of morning OJ. Top lad!

Andy blew the bluster out of his drink without
flinching; mine is on the right...

Wounds heal quick: Joe's newly available ring finger

We went back out to the strip after giving the audience something to laugh about (and grumble about, such was the slurred manner of our singing) and headed to some more places for a bit of a boogie. We ran into some real characters, including the amazing Windex Pete (pictured below), a local celebrity washboard player/hustler. Keeping our heads about us though, we eventually secured that 2am pizza slice and glass of water.