There’s neaux place like heauxme
My brother has lived in New York City for almost a year and a half now, and this has given us two or three occasions to engage in the Manhattan version of our favorite shared pastime: walking around a major metropolis without the trappings of a destination or an agenda.
The starting point of our trip is usually determined by where we want to catch lunch and we head out equipped with nothing more than a comfortable pair of shoes and a good sense of direction. No cabs, no subway, just two dudes who haven’t seen each other for a while running wild on the public thoroughfares of a big city.
Maybe it is overstatement to say we have no destination at all, but the route we take to get wherever it is we are going is as dynamic as a Leftover Lazos jam session during a thunderstorm on Simpson Street. If we are confronted with a “Don’t Walk” sign, we’ll bust a right angle and start mowing down avenues instead of blocks; if we are flanked by a square, circle or plaza, we will make sure we cut through at the widest point and meander as much as possible; and if record shop or street performer catches one of our eyes, we’ll move in for a closer look.
But we are mostly on the prowl for some good watering holes. Every dozen blocks or so we’ll stop somewhere to rest give our feet a rest, and, depending on the weather, either warm up or cool down by soaking ourselves in booze. It is then, over a cold beer or some cheap scotch that our conversation hits it’s natural stride and starts to wander around like a free jazz record.
If a layman off the street were to drop in and survail our discussions at random, there’s as good a chance the two of us would come off like side 2 of Pangaea as there is that the third-party observer would have even the slightest idea about the type of shit we are getting into. Sure, we might be earnestly discussing the current arc of our careers or soliciting relationship advice from each other at one moment; but before you know it we’re exchanging the Queen’s English equivalent of the type of indulgent “Skee-bop bop ba da bop!”s you’d expect from a heroin-addled trumpeter blowing away in a smoky basement to the delight of a bunch of spodiodi-slugging beatniks.
You get the point. Anyways, I was back in New York for Thanksgiving weekend, and my brother cut his holiday in Brigantine, NJ short so we could meet up for a Saturday odyssey around town. Our journey from a pizza joint near his new apartment in Yorkville was nearing it’s conclusion at the residence of my, uh, friend in Hell’s Kitchen when a neon sign at the corner of 48th and 9th got my attention.
In New Orleans, Abita Beer is more ubitiquious than sweltering humidity and cockroaches. I’d be willing to bet a week of Revillion dinners that every single bar in the state, without exception, serves at least one of the many varieties crafted by this north shore brewery.
So when I saw the familiar purple glow of a fleur de leis in the window of a The Delta Grill, a creole/cajun restaurant in Clinton’s restaurant row, I knew we found our next hideout of the day. We headed to the bar and staged an impromptu tasting of all the New Orleans beverages they had to offer as I regailed my brother and the bartender alike with stories of po’ boys at Parkway Tavern, Ramos Gin Fizzes at Monteleone, and concerts at The Maple Leaf. Not only did I effectively travel 1,300 miles to drink the type of alcohol that, back in The Big Easy, is easier to locate than a recycling bin, but I was cracking eggs of knowledge like I have lived in the Crescent City my whole life.
And even while sitting there with my brother in the midst of one of my favorite activities of all time (basically just sitting around with my brother), the taste of Abita Amber and the sight of Tipitina’s posters sent me into a moonage daydream about the world that was waiting for me when I returned home.
As Bob Dylan once said: “There are a lot of places I like, but I like New Orleans better.” And after almost a year of drinking at bars that don’t close, eating food I’ve never seen before, and getting my mind blown on a daily basis by the excess of culture and personality you find around every turn down here, I finally feel comfortable calling this place “home.”
