| When the Snob Goes |
| Marching In |
New Orleans is a fat city. And by fat I mean really, really fat. Like Marlon Brando
fat.
There’s also the other kind of fat – the gangsta fabulous phat, which New Orleans
is clearly not. That kind of phat is reserved for my new obsession Kimora Lee
Simmons, the ex-wife of Phat Farm clothier Russell Simmons who, in an infamous
Vanity Fair profile, lowered her sunglasses to the tip of her nose and warned America “I
will beat a bitch's ass.”
Now that’s phat.
Running a close second in the phat-march is comedian Mo’Nique, who
complained she hadn’t “slapped a bitch in two weeks” during the movie “Soul Plane,”
and exclaimed “I got a whole lotta strength in my slap-a-bitch arm.”
I’m going to start calling her mom.
Truthfully (and when is the Travel Snob not truthful?), I prefer fat fat because it
requires almost no activity, as opposed to phat phat, which necessitates all kinds of
verbs, like “developing” street cred, “memorizing” rap lyrics and “knowing” the coastal
origins of “off the hook” vs. “off the chain.” From what I can decipher, and this is
someone wary of taking Park Avenue any more north than 90th Street, “off the chain”
is East Coast and “off the hook” is west coast. But don’t take it from me, please. I once
mistook the singer Fergie for the ex-Duchess, and asked what line of Wedgewood
china would go best with tea and crumpets. I should have known something was amiss
by the micro-mini and halter top, but you can never tell these days; Fergie the Royal is
pretty hard up for cash (she’s pitching Weight Watchers, for Christ’s sake), so it’s not
completely out of the realm of possibility. Anyway, let’s just say Fergie the entertainer
was none too Fergalicious about it, and to that I give a big WHAT-ever: girlfriend can
go cry into a big bag of money.
So, where were we? Ah yes, New Orleans, the reason I am five pounds heavier
and miles away the physique of Fergie’s hunky husband Josh Duhamel. I had the
occasion to visit the Crescent City recently and pretty much ate and drank the entire
time which, upon refection, is not that all different from what I usually do. Except in this
case the Slim Fasts were replaced by frozen Hurricanes, and the rice cakes and Lean
Cuisines magically became Fried Twinkies, alligator sausage, shrimp Creole and
delicious gumbo (yes, you read that right – I ate gumbo and liked it, and anyone who
knows The Travel Snob can appreciate how hard it was to write that sentence). And so
I understand why everyone is fat in New Orleans because you would be too, living here
surrounded by all this gluttony. For those of you coming late to the party (the party
being my column, duh), the French Quarter is back, and it’s better than ever.
We spent a raucous three days eating our way down Bourbon Street and its
neighboring sideways, savoring in the delicacies of Nawlins’ classics like Galatoires, a
fourth generation family owned restaurant that’s made it’s name serving authentic
French Creole (think fried eggplant and soufflé potatoes béarnaise), while brunching at
the uber classy Arnauds, which serves Belgian waffles as an appetizer and filet mignon
as the main course – all at 11 a.m., mind you. And as immune as I’ve become to
cheesy tourist schlock, even I was amused by the quarter of entertainers performing
“When the Saints Go Marching In.” Let’s hope they can fit through the door after that
brunch, though; otherwise there won’t be a lot of marching. Squatting? Perhaps.
Lounging? Surely. Marching? Not so much.
Now if you really want a taste of New Orleans, then look no further than chef de
jour John Besh, whose four restaurants -- Besh Steak, La Provence, Restaurant
August and Luke – have become all the rage with local and visiting foodies, and this
city has certainly established itself as a food Mecca, greasy and battered as it is.
Restaurant August, in particular, is on par with anything you’ll find in New York, with
mouth watering entrees like crispy-seared lane snapper (with silver queen corn and
local crabmeat), Wild Copper River king salmon (with olive oil poached, tartar and pan-
roasted) and Herb-crusted lemon fish (with confit tomato, artichokes and chorizo).
Besh, a southern Louisiana native, incorporates local ingredients into all his entrees,
and prepares them with the Creole influences that come naturally to one “born on the
Bayou.” His restaurants are a welcome respite to the madness that has become
Bourbon Street.
And it is mad … madder than I can ever remember it being, although the last time
I was here it was 1993 and I spent most of my time looking out for Julia Roberts running
away from Stanley Tucci over some silly bird. If memory serves me correct (and it rarely
does), Julia stumbled onto some big, global conspiracy involving Diana Ross and the
Supremes, then goes all crusader on us and hires Denzel or Tom or Brad to rescue
her, but he’s kind of on the run himself after discovering his firm is really the mafia and
out to get poor Susan Sarandon, who's too busy to notice, what with administering to
an imprisoned Sean Penn and all.
The point is the French Quarter is no place to look for overpaid movie stars
dodging Albino mobsters because it’s really, really crowded, and filled with enough
characters; namely, a swarm of weekend Bubbas whose rent-a-drawl accents get more
animated the more beer they’ve digested. And don’t even get me started on the dress
code -- when shoppers at Wal-Mart start to feel superior you know you’ve crossed right
over the fashion emergency line straight to disaster. But what fun! Aside from people
watching (and I hadn’t been this entertained since observing the low-rent wing of Boca
Raton Town Center Mall) there truly is something for everyone, whether it’s a bar
featuring a mechanical bull, four Diamond restaurant with two hour waits, tattoo parlors
preying on the inebriated or $10 psychics foretelling danger (like, you’re about to lose
$10).
Speaking of inebriated, and that is quickly becoming my favorite topic after
discovering me Irish Whiskey, once you’ve imbibed yourself into a drunken stupor, the
best place to crash is my new favorite destination in all the galaxy: The Maison
Orleans, a boutique hotel housed in the cavernous Ritz-Carlton. This hotel within a
hotel is what all others should aspire to: an intimate setting reminiscent of the Garden
District mansions that line the streets of Uptown New Orleans and St. Charles Avenue.
It’s as if you’d walked into a tastefully decorated Fifth Avenue penthouse, complete with
cozy living room with over-stuffed furniture, wood paneled lounge featuring comfy
leather chairs and couches, and a quasi-dining room that features five complimentary
food presentations a day. The staff is top notch as well, displaying the Southern
hospitality Nawlins is famous for, and not above helping you to your spacious room
after you’ve stumbled into its own private lobby in the wee hours of the morning. Its 75
guestrooms come equipped with giant sunken tubs, faux fireplaces, hardwood floors
and demi-canopy beds, among other amenities. The Maison Orleans used to function
as its own hotel, but closed in 2005 after Katrina and later re-opened as the new Club
Level for the neighboring Ritz-Carlton, which is fine except not. This hotel is just too
good to be merely a “Club Level” experience. It’s like its own little world, where you can
escape the downright lunacy of the French Quarter and bask in your superiority while
soaking in Bvglari bubbles in your sunken tub.
The main Ritz-Carlton, featuring 700+ rooms, has plenty to dazzle the masses as
well, from the Mélange restaurant, home to entertainer Jeremy Davenport three nights
a week, to the lobby lounge On Trois, where you can find tea parties by day and
cocktails at night (or day … there’s nothing wrong with that, you know. The Baileys just
make coffee go down smoother).
After a few days living it up in the French Quarter, and getting pampered at The
Ritz-Carlton (and its decadent Voodoo massage), it would be easy to assume New
Orleans is back and that Katrina had never happened. Unless you leave the vicinity
and visit affected areas like the lower Ninth Ward, which we did, but that’s a topic I’m
going to avoid because the Travel Snob cannot do it justice. I don’t do serious, in case
you haven’t noticed; I can write about featherbeds and fireplace butlers like worst of
them, but when it comes to scary things like feelings, introspection and empathy, well, I
leave that material for those more suited for the challenge. I will say this, though, and
you’ll forgive the momentarily lapse in sarcasm: this region is far from recovered, and
anyone who tells you otherwise (ahem, President Retard) is lying. Seeing the
devastation with my own eyes was one of the most awakening experiences of my
lifetime.
And that’s the dichotomy of New Orleans – tourist attractions like the French
Quarter are thriving while areas like the Ninth Ward are frozen in time, littered with
debris and abandoned homes, and ravaged by looters. The disparity is a bit
overwhelming.
fat.
There’s also the other kind of fat – the gangsta fabulous phat, which New Orleans
is clearly not. That kind of phat is reserved for my new obsession Kimora Lee
Simmons, the ex-wife of Phat Farm clothier Russell Simmons who, in an infamous
Vanity Fair profile, lowered her sunglasses to the tip of her nose and warned America “I
will beat a bitch's ass.”
Now that’s phat.
Running a close second in the phat-march is comedian Mo’Nique, who
complained she hadn’t “slapped a bitch in two weeks” during the movie “Soul Plane,”
and exclaimed “I got a whole lotta strength in my slap-a-bitch arm.”
I’m going to start calling her mom.
Truthfully (and when is the Travel Snob not truthful?), I prefer fat fat because it
requires almost no activity, as opposed to phat phat, which necessitates all kinds of
verbs, like “developing” street cred, “memorizing” rap lyrics and “knowing” the coastal
origins of “off the hook” vs. “off the chain.” From what I can decipher, and this is
someone wary of taking Park Avenue any more north than 90th Street, “off the chain”
is East Coast and “off the hook” is west coast. But don’t take it from me, please. I once
mistook the singer Fergie for the ex-Duchess, and asked what line of Wedgewood
china would go best with tea and crumpets. I should have known something was amiss
by the micro-mini and halter top, but you can never tell these days; Fergie the Royal is
pretty hard up for cash (she’s pitching Weight Watchers, for Christ’s sake), so it’s not
completely out of the realm of possibility. Anyway, let’s just say Fergie the entertainer
was none too Fergalicious about it, and to that I give a big WHAT-ever: girlfriend can
go cry into a big bag of money.
So, where were we? Ah yes, New Orleans, the reason I am five pounds heavier
and miles away the physique of Fergie’s hunky husband Josh Duhamel. I had the
occasion to visit the Crescent City recently and pretty much ate and drank the entire
time which, upon refection, is not that all different from what I usually do. Except in this
case the Slim Fasts were replaced by frozen Hurricanes, and the rice cakes and Lean
Cuisines magically became Fried Twinkies, alligator sausage, shrimp Creole and
delicious gumbo (yes, you read that right – I ate gumbo and liked it, and anyone who
knows The Travel Snob can appreciate how hard it was to write that sentence). And so
I understand why everyone is fat in New Orleans because you would be too, living here
surrounded by all this gluttony. For those of you coming late to the party (the party
being my column, duh), the French Quarter is back, and it’s better than ever.
We spent a raucous three days eating our way down Bourbon Street and its
neighboring sideways, savoring in the delicacies of Nawlins’ classics like Galatoires, a
fourth generation family owned restaurant that’s made it’s name serving authentic
French Creole (think fried eggplant and soufflé potatoes béarnaise), while brunching at
the uber classy Arnauds, which serves Belgian waffles as an appetizer and filet mignon
as the main course – all at 11 a.m., mind you. And as immune as I’ve become to
cheesy tourist schlock, even I was amused by the quarter of entertainers performing
“When the Saints Go Marching In.” Let’s hope they can fit through the door after that
brunch, though; otherwise there won’t be a lot of marching. Squatting? Perhaps.
Lounging? Surely. Marching? Not so much.
Now if you really want a taste of New Orleans, then look no further than chef de
jour John Besh, whose four restaurants -- Besh Steak, La Provence, Restaurant
August and Luke – have become all the rage with local and visiting foodies, and this
city has certainly established itself as a food Mecca, greasy and battered as it is.
Restaurant August, in particular, is on par with anything you’ll find in New York, with
mouth watering entrees like crispy-seared lane snapper (with silver queen corn and
local crabmeat), Wild Copper River king salmon (with olive oil poached, tartar and pan-
roasted) and Herb-crusted lemon fish (with confit tomato, artichokes and chorizo).
Besh, a southern Louisiana native, incorporates local ingredients into all his entrees,
and prepares them with the Creole influences that come naturally to one “born on the
Bayou.” His restaurants are a welcome respite to the madness that has become
Bourbon Street.
And it is mad … madder than I can ever remember it being, although the last time
I was here it was 1993 and I spent most of my time looking out for Julia Roberts running
away from Stanley Tucci over some silly bird. If memory serves me correct (and it rarely
does), Julia stumbled onto some big, global conspiracy involving Diana Ross and the
Supremes, then goes all crusader on us and hires Denzel or Tom or Brad to rescue
her, but he’s kind of on the run himself after discovering his firm is really the mafia and
out to get poor Susan Sarandon, who's too busy to notice, what with administering to
an imprisoned Sean Penn and all.
The point is the French Quarter is no place to look for overpaid movie stars
dodging Albino mobsters because it’s really, really crowded, and filled with enough
characters; namely, a swarm of weekend Bubbas whose rent-a-drawl accents get more
animated the more beer they’ve digested. And don’t even get me started on the dress
code -- when shoppers at Wal-Mart start to feel superior you know you’ve crossed right
over the fashion emergency line straight to disaster. But what fun! Aside from people
watching (and I hadn’t been this entertained since observing the low-rent wing of Boca
Raton Town Center Mall) there truly is something for everyone, whether it’s a bar
featuring a mechanical bull, four Diamond restaurant with two hour waits, tattoo parlors
preying on the inebriated or $10 psychics foretelling danger (like, you’re about to lose
$10).
Speaking of inebriated, and that is quickly becoming my favorite topic after
discovering me Irish Whiskey, once you’ve imbibed yourself into a drunken stupor, the
best place to crash is my new favorite destination in all the galaxy: The Maison
Orleans, a boutique hotel housed in the cavernous Ritz-Carlton. This hotel within a
hotel is what all others should aspire to: an intimate setting reminiscent of the Garden
District mansions that line the streets of Uptown New Orleans and St. Charles Avenue.
It’s as if you’d walked into a tastefully decorated Fifth Avenue penthouse, complete with
cozy living room with over-stuffed furniture, wood paneled lounge featuring comfy
leather chairs and couches, and a quasi-dining room that features five complimentary
food presentations a day. The staff is top notch as well, displaying the Southern
hospitality Nawlins is famous for, and not above helping you to your spacious room
after you’ve stumbled into its own private lobby in the wee hours of the morning. Its 75
guestrooms come equipped with giant sunken tubs, faux fireplaces, hardwood floors
and demi-canopy beds, among other amenities. The Maison Orleans used to function
as its own hotel, but closed in 2005 after Katrina and later re-opened as the new Club
Level for the neighboring Ritz-Carlton, which is fine except not. This hotel is just too
good to be merely a “Club Level” experience. It’s like its own little world, where you can
escape the downright lunacy of the French Quarter and bask in your superiority while
soaking in Bvglari bubbles in your sunken tub.
The main Ritz-Carlton, featuring 700+ rooms, has plenty to dazzle the masses as
well, from the Mélange restaurant, home to entertainer Jeremy Davenport three nights
a week, to the lobby lounge On Trois, where you can find tea parties by day and
cocktails at night (or day … there’s nothing wrong with that, you know. The Baileys just
make coffee go down smoother).
After a few days living it up in the French Quarter, and getting pampered at The
Ritz-Carlton (and its decadent Voodoo massage), it would be easy to assume New
Orleans is back and that Katrina had never happened. Unless you leave the vicinity
and visit affected areas like the lower Ninth Ward, which we did, but that’s a topic I’m
going to avoid because the Travel Snob cannot do it justice. I don’t do serious, in case
you haven’t noticed; I can write about featherbeds and fireplace butlers like worst of
them, but when it comes to scary things like feelings, introspection and empathy, well, I
leave that material for those more suited for the challenge. I will say this, though, and
you’ll forgive the momentarily lapse in sarcasm: this region is far from recovered, and
anyone who tells you otherwise (ahem, President Retard) is lying. Seeing the
devastation with my own eyes was one of the most awakening experiences of my
lifetime.
And that’s the dichotomy of New Orleans – tourist attractions like the French
Quarter are thriving while areas like the Ninth Ward are frozen in time, littered with
debris and abandoned homes, and ravaged by looters. The disparity is a bit
overwhelming.
| The Travel Snob Discovers the Dichotomy of Present Day New Orleans |