A love letter to… New Orleans
It was a silly idea to try to get pregnant in New Orleans. That city is too damned hot. The air is saturated with moisture, like a wet woollen blanket on a summer’s day.
So instead, we got drunk. Sweet and sickly grape-flavoured Hurricanes at Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, tart refreshing sazeracs in Napoleon House, and bottles of Blue Moon collected from the petrol station on Esplanade Ave. The city wants you to drink, in the bars, on the streets. We accepted the invitation with enthusiasm.
And then we ate. At Port of Call, toppling burgers held together by orange cheese, an entire baked potato with bacon, cheese and sour cream as a side dish. At Li’l Dizzy’s, gumbo and bread and butter pudding. At Willie Mae’s, fried chicken and green beans.
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