Midnight Smack BY FU

Overindulgence at Its Finest

No Beads Required

This month happens to be my birthday, so I wanted to write about one of my most memorable ones—18 years ago, to be exact—when we decided to follow the lyrics of our wedding song by Jerry Jeff Walker: “We are going to roll all the way to La Louisiana…” We swore we would do that someday. And JZ planned it for my birthday. Goal: Bourbon Street.

The City of New Orleans Train

Traveling by train is our favorite way to get somewhere—if you have patience, a few beers, a bottle of wine, some cheese, and zero deadlines. Sometimes train time feels endless, but this trip? Perfect. The Empire Builder leaves Winona around 10 a.m., and six hours later we were in Chicago. With a few hours to spare before the next train, we even managed dinner in Chicago. How perfect is that?

Next, the City of New Orleans train left around 9 p.m. We had a cozy room where we could kick back with a book, watch the scenery roll by, play scrabble, and sip adult beverages all day if we wanted. When our room got old, we wandered to the observation car or the bar car—more drinks, naturally. After all, we were gearing up for Bourbon Street. About twenty-some hours later, we arrived in New Orleans—rested and dangerously ready.

Bourbon Street: A Little Birthday Anxiety

Prior to the trip, I had some real world concerns. I spent a ridiculous amount of time obsessing over what I would do if someone called out asking if I wanted the beads. You know the drill: show us what God gave you and you get a cheap set of beads. Sounds reasonable? Well, what was I going to do? Would I turn bright red? Politely refuse (so Midwestern)? Or just go along with it like everyone else? But how could I do that—I had three kids at home!

It never occurred to me that I might not be asked at all. And in the end… almost disappointingly, no one did. Meanwhile, all around me, girls were gathering beads like olympic medals  and parading with odd assortments of people: one man on a leash, others in their Sunday best, barely containing…well, everything. It was equal parts shocking and fascinating. And there I was, a freshly turned 40-year-old Midwesterner, trying to process it all. Birthday reality check: sometimes the wildest moments are the ones you’re not even in—and that’s a good thing. Whew. I could go back to clutching my pearls rather than Mardi Gras beads.

Settling In

So after a cocktail on the veranda overlooking Bourbon Street, it was time to hit the streets (with drinks in hand) and figure out dinner. This was pre-Internet, pre-OpenTable, pre-Yelp (which I still ignore, obviously). No research in advance, just wandering. Every place seemed to have specials, multi-course dinners, drinks included, some not, some had a bottle of wine—plus a lot of hawking to get you inside.

We picked—or more accurately, were ushered into—a traditional but upscale Cajun restaurant. In the end it was…mediocre. And expensive. Lesson learned: sometimes the specials advertised and what you order don’t line up. Incredibly disappointing for our first of three nights. We had to make up for it the next day.

Eating (and Drinking) Our Way Through the City

Breakfast: Café du Monde. Open-air chaos, southern charm, and chicory coffee that became my new love. The beignets? So sweet I could only manage one. Luckily, I’m not much for sweets, that helped me get through the three day whirlwind of food.

The day became a blur:

• Gumbo and a beer here
• Po’ boy and another beer there
• Pralines in between
• Hot sauce tasting at The French Market (as I recall, we may have tasted just one…)

I had to pace myself. JZ? He had zero self-restraint—except with the hot sauce. We managed a break from food to check out Jackson Square and a couple of Voodoo museums.

But Central Grocery’s bright red building called to us. I could smell the olive salad before I even saw the muffuletta. The iconic sandwich mocked my already overstuffed stomach. I wanted to cry. I couldn’t possibly eat it…yet. JZ insisted: “We must try one. Just a few bites. We are in New Orleans!” (Works every time, except with the beads.) Four bites later, I surrendered. JZ did not.

Walking off our indulgence, we stumbled upon The Palace Café—dinner perfection, surely. But first: Pat O’Brien’s for a Hurricane. A New Orleans must. A quick costume change for dinner (jk—still Midwestern attire). We stopped by a jazz club in the French Quarter. Not my cup of chicory, but glad I popped in. By the time we sat down for dinner, JZ was done. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sip water. He could only watch. I, of course, went full force: wine and a crabmeat cheesecake appetizer so decadent, so divine, I raved about it all the way back to the hotel. JZ only wanted Tums.

Brunch and More…

The next day beer, hurricanes and wine were reminding me I was joining the ranks of the Bourbon street tourists. Our plan was brunch at The Court of Three Sisters. Chicory coffee came to the rescue and I managed to eat brunch and geared up for more food adventures, .

We toured a few museums, marveled at the architecture, and had lunch at Brennan’s (turtle soup, something light, and of course Bananas Foster). But dinner was still on my mind. Correction: that crabmeat cheesecake was still on my mind.

Normally, we wouldn’t return to the same restaurant two nights in a row, but this time we did. And I would never order the same thing twice, but this time I did. JZ needed to try it. Somehow in the end I even got the recipe. We searched the next day for a few rogue ingredients and made our way back to the train to sleep and head home. Another perfect way to travel: 24 hours to get back into Midwest adult mode.

Back home, I revised the cheesecake with what Minnesota had to offer, switching out creole cream cheese for regular cream cheese. Once perfected, I took it to The Broadstreet Café to see if it was restaurant-worthy. It was. It was perfect for the dinner menu and even made its debut at the opening of The Rochester Art Center.

I haven’t thought about it for years—until now. On a whim, I just Googled around and found the original recipe. You’re welcome.

Sadly, The Palace Café (part of the Brennan family restaurants) has since closed. It was on Canal Street in a gorgeous old building. I’ve been back to NOLA and enjoyed fabulous meals at well researched up and coming restaurants. We sipped drinks at real upscale bars, and of course indulged in another muffuletta—this time, with the maturity to really commit to pacing myself. (Mostly.) We even managed a Hurricane just for old times’ sake. Honestly, most of it hit the garbage. Been there, done that. And these days, I’m not so sure chicory coffee could save me.

But that first wild, overindulgent birthday trip? Untouchable.

Here’s the original recipe! https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/palace-cafe-crabmeat-cheesecake-recipe-1945282