Roadtrippin': Austin in a Few Quick Pictures

This weekend I took my first visit to the lovely city of Austin, Texas, before and during which I was liberally advised to keep it "weird". Sure, dudes. I was there to sling some words in the SUNCHILD reading series, put on by the editors of the online journal smoking glue gun and featuring their contributors (shameless plug: check out my work there in volume 4). Spoiler alert? It was awesome; think the literal, breath-was-stolen, sense of the word.

Besides that, I got the chance to hop through a handful of the many, many bars and foodstops the city has to offer. I don't think I've ever appreciated so many tastes (and calories) in a single weekend. Here are just a few moments I had the presence of mind to snap.


Our first stop when we rolled in on Thursday afternoon was The Jackalope. Decent happy hour specials, but I decided to order off their cocktail menu to start celebrating National Tequila Day with a blend of tequila, blackberry liqueur, and ginger beer. Not too shabby.

Bottoms up!

                                 

The Jackalope lives on Austin's "Dirty Sixth" Street, a stretch clustered with bars featuring live music and as many drinks as they can make you muster. I heard three separate people on the trip refer to it as "Austin's Bourbon Stree," but I really can't bring myself to endorse the comparison. I mean, you can't so much as bring open containers onto the sidewalks, and that is more or less a dealbreaker on that one.

An array of interesting decor was also featured in the bar, forefronted by a giant saddled jackalope sculpture. The rules to ride included "must have a drink in hand" and "no male nudity." So, that. Also displayed prominently were many portrayals of barebreasted women, so I'm guessing the rules on female nudity may be a bit more lax?

Thursday night's festivities were headlined by seeing a !!! show. Yes, it's a band, it's pronounced "CHK CHK CHK" or something similar. In any case, it was a dancing good time, though possibly most sweltering room I have ever been in. The lead singer, who maintained an impressive exuberance in his shameless dance moves, emitted clouds of vaporized sweat every time he clapped his hands. I wish I had had a glow stick or two, but I was happy to hold onto enough oxygen to make it through the act.

It would have been a shame to miss out on some real Texas barbecue. We rustled some up at a strange little stop called Rudy's, which provided unparalleled meat-based customer service in the form of samples given to first-timers. Everyone should make such an informed decision when choosing their smoked meats. Half a pound of tasty turkey and another half of extra-moist (yes!) brisket was carved out for us, along with some unexpectedly delicious creamed corn and potato salad. We were given half a loaf of Bunny read in our bag for the inevitable sandwiches and referred to a sauce dispenser that was enough to meet even my excessive condiment needs.

If you have the balls to light that sign up, you have some meat you can stand behind.

Finally.

 Friday evening drinks were at a Hole in the Wall bar. Literally. This one had an unnerving amount of Texas-themed decor, but I was informed that was usual in those parts.

It also housed an Asian fusion restaurant East Side King in the back patio. I partook of the Tori Meshi, which combined their specialty Thai Chicken Karaage with the delicious Liberty Rice. No regrets here, except not asking for more of their special sauce.

Saturday brought a dip in the perpetually cool waters of Barton Springs.

Not pictured: the imminent crackdown of The Man on the popular free swimming hole

I am normally not a very big fan of Tex-Mex, but I couldn't not try it while I was around. This enchilada plate from Wahoo's proved to be a solid lunch, but it was their frozen margaritas that really packed the kick.

Something about this town and riding large rabbit-shaped objects, I dunno.

If you let me into one of these junk shops, it's a hard job to get me out. We spent the better part of an hour just taking a quick tour through this one. Its niches were admirably curated by color. And sometimes brass unicorns, for which I have a fondness surpassed only by my love of brass dinosaurs, apparently.

WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I WAS NEW?!

On thing I did not do nearly enough in Austin: food trucks. They're parked in these round ups every so often, just to give me way too many delicious options. The phrase "life is hard" was uttered more than once on these occasions.

The punctuation lets you know they're serious. I should have paid better attention.

Zero regret about this one, though. Gourdough's menu presented some tough contenders, but the Cherry Bombs won out in the end. And, well, damn. Glazed doughnut holes topped with cherry, cinnamon, sugar, and cake mix. This presented one of these moments, those rare opportunities in life that arise sometimes by the forkful, immersing you in only the oblivion of bliss, unmarred by thoughts of your impending diabetes.

The paper may or may not have been consumed as well.

 Sunday closed out the weekend with a visit to the fantastic independent Malvern Books. My friend, one of the hosts of the reading, is in charge of ordering their poetry section, and I must say he does a damn fine job. I've never seen a better collection of small presses and contemporary voices in person. Er, paper. I had to limit myself to only a couple so I could hang onto enough money to eat for the rest of the month.

Speaking of eating. What would a Sunday be without brunch? I fell upon this one at the charming cafe Cenote, where the Eggs Benedict came highly recommended. The chipotle hollandaise may have changed my life, and those hashbrowns were a damn fine sidekick.

It was real, Austin. Thanks for everything. If you could just do something about that relentlessly blazing sun and open container laws, I'd be happy to catch you again sooner rather than later.

Happy Hour: Salu

Happy hour is a truly magical time of the day. Any pressure from the morning’s hope of productivity is wearing off, your evening plans have not yet made themselves clear, and all the drinks are suddenly a lot cheaper. And that’s not even taking into account the appetizer specials many places in New Orleans insist on putting out along with their drink menus.

Yes, next to brunch, happy hour is probably my favorite meal of the day.

One happy hour that I’ve been patronizing with special vigilance this week is that of Salú on Magazine Street. Their specials, which run from 3 p.m. to 7 p.m., offer half off all drinks as well as off their pretty impressive selection of flatbreads and mussels.

Sold. This is a great one to enjoy in the company of friends, as the specials also extend to their pitchers of sangria and mojitos. Plus their patio seating is great if you can snag a table.

I usually end up sticking to their cocktail menu when it comes to drinks. I was a big fan of the Harmony Street Hibiscus, but the one I got was the last one in the bar. So I switched to their Strawberry French 75 and sampled the Salu Champagne Cocktail, both of which were refreshing and enjoyable. On my most recent visit, my bartender made me some evolution of a Pimm’s Cup involving Pimm’s new Blackberry and Elderflower liquer and fresh muddled fruit. That was a winner as well.

Harmony Street Hibiscus

Strawberry French 75

Their flatbreads are a pretty good bet if you are looking for something casual to munch on, though the structural integrity of the crusts towards the center gets a little dicey; I started eating my pieces calzone-style. The portions are larger than I expected, too—they’re pretty much pizza size. I couldn’t finish my Margherita on my own.

Mushroom & Goat Cheese Flatbread

Margherita Flatbread

And if you like a good bowl of mussels once in a while, as I do, you can find a niche here as well. A friend and I split the Fra Diavolo mussels, steamed in some tomato-basil concoction. They were quite tasty, but I think I prefer a more traditional white wine/lemon broth. They have that there, too. I’ll have to get on that.

Fra Diavolo Mussels

Salad is good for you, too.

I’d definitely recommend stopping by this generous happy hour if you are Uptown and have a few minutes (hours?) to kill. There’s a decent chance I’ll be there, too. 

Hooray, Hooray for Daiquiri Day!

In case it has escaped anyone's notice (and if it has, I am envious of your blissful ignorance and/or your temperature controlled blood), we are undeniably in the deadlock of another long summer season. It is time to spend our days napping next to the nearest body of water and our nights pretending to look gracious on our porches as we try to keep from melting.

It is also the perfect time to dive into the sweet, sticky slushes of decadence we know and love as daiquiris. Now, there is some part of me that would love to proclaim myself a cocktail snob. Were that the case, I would be pressured to turn my nose up at these frozen concoctions we dispense by the gallon from cycloning machines, sniffing that their styrofoam cups and dismissing them as "abominations."

But really? Really. Come on.

When you are sipping on several dozen ounces of one of these while wandering through the evening swelter of the French Quarter... it's hard not to find a little love for our interpretation.

Admirers turned out this past Saturday to show their affection for the frozen drink at the Daiquiri Day Parade in the Marigny. I myself was quite pleased (though not entirely surprised) to discover that such a holiday exists and was more than happy to help celebrate it. A prelude to the Daiquiri Festival being held this weekend (you can buy tickets here), the parade gave revelers an opportunity to shake our ices down a few blocks while cavorting with troupes of lovely ladies and fellow daiquiri fans.

We assembled at Gene's Daiquiri's on St. Claude and Elysian Fields, where a line twined around the limited floor space and out the door. Patrons clutched cash in hand or held a ticket from the parade entitling them to a free daiq of their choice. Gene's is known for their impressive list of flavor combinations, attractive prices, and generous extra shots.

I considered their signature "What the F--K!! " mix but ultimately opted for one called the "Ha Sizzle," which fell under the category that assured me it would be both Strong and also Tasty. Turns out, it tastes surprisingly close to a SweetTart, which was good enough for me.

I have a feeling I'll be stopping by to check out another few options in their line-up over the next couple of months.


From there we bopped down Elysian, cut through Decatur and ended up over at Frenchman, much to the delight of more than a few afternoon partygoers.

Shaking it with The Organ Grinders

The NOLA Chorus Girls keeping their cool

Brave standard-bearers leading the charge

Francis Shadfly acting in his alter ego's capacity as a Duke of the Daiquiri

Breakfast in Duet: Slim Goodies and Horn's

In case there is any confusion, let us get this straight:

I love breakfast.

Any day of the week, any time. Give me eggs, bacon, grits, French toast, biscuits, waffles, and more bacon. Probably nothing makes me happier than seeing the words Breakfast Served All Day printed across a door or menu. Yes, this obviously applies to brunch as well, and I’ve already made my feelings about that quite clear.

So it’s a bit surprising it took me this long to get around to the local staple that is Slim Goodies diner. I guess it doesn’t help that their summer hours put them closing at two, and my mornings seem to start later and later. But it’s not all too hard to get my motivated to grab a plate of hot breakfast, so I decided to saunter on down while I could still say “Good morning” and have it be applicable.

Winging it down Magazine Street

The place is known for sporting a comfy, hole-in-the-wall diner atmosphere, with retro fixtures and Polaroids of locals, staff, and regulars papering the walls over the tables.

I sat at the bar overlooking the grill on the line and listened to the Creedence Clearwater Revival album play while I waited for my order, an Orleans Slammer. This hashbrown concoction, which the menu describes as “a hangover chaser extraordinare,” was definitely an impressively full plate, mixed with the house chili, melted cheddar, and two of the best strips of bacon I’ve had in months. Oh, and topped with eggs, of course.

Heaping on the love

The service was quick and friendly, despite the lazy summer heat of the day. Do note, however, that this is a cash-only establishment, so you should come prepared.

Bonus Brunch: Horn’s

Slim Goodies is not owner Kappa Horn’s only culinary venture in NOLA. Earlier this year she opened the eponymous Horn’s in the Marigny, which offers breakfast/brunch, lunch, and dinner in the down-home style.

I had the chance to grab brunch at Horn’s on a rainy Saturday morning shortly after I moved to New Orleans. The restaurant had just opened up on the former site of La Peniche, and neighbors as well as denizens from other parts of the city were still only beginning to check it out.

Brunch makes rainy days a little less gray

                                 

I’d never made it out to La Peniche, but from all accounts Horn’s remolding improved the decor, making the space cheerful and airy with a few quirky, rustic touches such as mounted guns and wagon spokes. On a day with better weather, the sidewalk seating would have been lovely.

After the requisite mimosa, I ordered the Grits & Daube Creole, and my friend ordered the Grits & Etouffee. Just a grits kind of day, I suppose, which is not entirely unheard of in my realm.

Foreground: Daube Creole & Background: Etoufee

                                 

Both the slow cooked beef and the etoufee topping the dishes were appropriately rich and flavorful, though the grits themselves lacked a certain “oomph.”

All in all, would definitely like to stop by and check out some of their other brunch items, but I’m also interested in taking a few bites from their lunch and dinner menu. Alas, until we meet again!

Literary Dalliances with the New Orleans Library

The rain slaps softly against my window. The grayness of the light tends to make everything seem a little softer, a little slower. But I can still hear the sluice of traffic cutting through puddles on rain-slick streets. They have places to go, maybe even things to get done.

That’s the thing about New Orleans. There is always somewhere to go, some friends to meet, some beat to dance to. Maybe even some work to get done. If you’re not careful, it can get awful hard just to squirrel away a little time to yourself, to get back inside your own head.

What I’m really talking about here, at least for me, is curling up with a good book. My reading time has recently dropped off precipitously, and that tends to make me feel off-kilter.

So rather than send my life into a downward spiral caused by a dangerous deficiency of literature, I did the only reasonable thing a new resident with a craving for words and an appreciation for the smell of old books could do.

I got my New Orleans library card!

The closest branch to me is the Milton H. LatterBranch, a gorgeous old converted mansion with lovely grounds to boot. It’s one of the smaller branches, so the selection isn’t the best, but they have a lovely cluster of reading rooms and nooks inside and out. Plenty of spaces to tuck yourself away for a while.

                                   

I’m trying to make amends for my shameful tracklist with classics and notables, so I picked up some James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, and Joyce Carol Oates.

                                 

Laying the books out like that, I appreciated the complement of the symmetrical Joyces, and only wished that a copy of Orlando would have been available to make a really nice gender spectrum there.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to eating my way through the vast literary collections I have access to. This is only the first course.

I leave you with Mrs. Dalloway, reflecting on those glorious drops of time we should savor, but so rarely do:

 Then, for that moment, she had seen an illumination; a match burning in a crocus; an inner meaning almost expressed. But the close withdrew; the hard softened. It was over – the moment. Against such moments (with women too) there contrasted (as she laid her hat down) the bed and Baron Marbot and the candle half-burnt. 

The Cheese Stands Alone (Well, It Stands with the Meat): St. James Cheese Company

Oh, St. James Cheese Company, why did I wait so long to present my tastebuds as a petitioner at your door?

It is not because I doubted your ability to assemble a plate of meats and cheeses that would please me beyond earthly virtue or vice. Not at all. Rather, it must be that I feared how right you would be.

Charcuterie is one of my most exquisite temptations, and this city is a mistress of providing opportunities to exploit it, as it does all my others. Before, I had been able to resist this particular one—though barely by the skin of my teeth. Literally. But the St. James Cheese Company had come highly recommended, it was in my neighborhood and I had a coupon and a beautiful day. The Fates had spoken, and so be it.

The shop is located on a hip little stretch of Prytania, albeit with little foot traffic. It features a nice little shared, shaded patio as well as a few tables out front with a street view. The inside also receives a nice share of sunlight from the front window-wall, but, per usual, I was already too busy ogling the goods on display to really appreciate any spatial aesthetics as that point.

I didn’t drool too closely, though, because buying as many large chunks of cheese and cured meats as I could carry was not my mission that day. Nor was the offering of lovely-sounding sandwiches and salads displayed on their menu board. No, I was there to order four meats and three cheeses on a plate, if you please. And a glass of the rosé. (Because of the weather, of course, I said.)

Service was super friendly, even with a bit of a line, and I learned that they supply cheese to the tasty City Pork Deli in Baton Rouge.  Cheers!

My friend and I took a seat outside in the afternoon sunlight, and, as promised, we received our bounty presented on a slab of slate.

             

The nice man did try to explain to us what all the offerings were, and I did try very hard to listen and comprehend, but it was mostly drowned out by the cheesily (yes) angelic choir chords filtering through my head.

Clearly it had been too long since I’d had charcuterie.

Anyway, the individual highlights for me that afternoon were the rustic, thick cut pepperoni-style slices of meat (bottom left, above the candied nuts) and, for the cheeses, the Stilton (last cheese in the column on the right). Guess I was having a robust day.

My favorite part, though, was when we were getting towards the ends of our selections and started mixing and matching pairings like bacchanalian scientists. The spicy mustard with which they provided us (top left) seemed to go well with everything, but I was pleasantly shocked when at the very end of the plate I added a dollop to the paté then swiped it through the sweet-tangy red jam. Success. And then I chased it with a grape.

Overall, the charcuterie plate commanded so much attention that I forgot I had a glass of wine at my hand, which is saying something.

The moderately high price point will probably relegate the St. James Cheese Company to a special treat rather than a part of my regular rounds, but it is definitely worth a try or three. 

Rooftop Augury

Some nights it is just not enough to hear your city sing from the streets, to stand on the ground and look up. Some nights you have to scale fire escape ladders in alleyways one-handed, dredging the ices of a frozen Pimm’s Cup. Because it is summer, not technically but the air whispers sticky that it is, and anything frozen is worth trying once.

These are some nights. These are the nights you climb regardless of whether you are wearing your bad luck dress, nights when luck is everything and nothing.

Don’t look down yet. There’s another flight, another ledge, another rooftop to conquer.

Let your legs dangle. These are the nights you can stretch Canal out below you, spangled bawdy with its nighttime glow. The streetcars grumble over their tracks, sparking, listening to conductors hollering car to car at passing stops. An airplane weaves too low in the skyline. It is headed the wrong way for any airport in particular, but you don’t mind overly much because some nights we all feel like that too.

Life goes on below in murmurs and shouts. In loiterers, in tired night shift workers, in men in crumpled suits crossing towards the French Quarter without their wives. Up here, too, where you stack your cigarette butts neatly along the precipice and marvel. Quietly, and after another breath comes another. You can feel the line of sweat sidling where the cement meets the flesh underside of your leg. Still, you are surprised pleasantly by the mildness of the night, the breeze. Nothing like the oppressive day-heat coming down like a greedy ruling hand. That’s just how it is, though, on these nights.

Going back down is an easy hand-over-hand down the rungs, toting an empty cup. Never less afraid of falling than on these nights. But planting feet on the sidewalk again is not always a let-down. Some nights it is a segue.

Some nights you don’t know where your next step is going to fall, but you can promise it will be forward. Some nights you don’t know the night air until you’ve knocked a tall shot of it back.

These are some nights.