About four years ago, on a trip to New Orleans, I visited my friend Alec Adamick’s house in Mid-City. The cab dropped me in front, just off North Broad Street, and I could see Alec had encased all of his 6 foot plus, 200 pound frame into a thin hammock suspended from two eyebolts, one drilled into his house and the other into one of the stocky columns supporting the wide front porch. Kermit Ruffins poured from a small alarm clock radio, just barely audible over the hammering and sawing coming from the house next door still under renovation after Katrina. Alec rolled over as I came up the steps, spilling a little bit of his beer in the process, and careful not to dislodge himself from the hammock, raised his hand and said, “welcome back to the Caribbean.” While I’d never thought of it before, he was right: New Orleans is not America’s most European city, and any self-respecting European would quickly back-track from the comparison. Instead, think of New Orleans as the Northernmost outpost of the Caribbean. When you think about the city that way, the place makes a lot more sense.
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If you asked me where to go for Po’ Boys in New Orleans, I couldn’t, in good conscience, recommend just one place. Instead, I’d need to know what kind of Po’ Boy you wanted. You want fried shrimp? Go to Domilese’s. For roast beef, you can’t do better than Parasol’s. Catfish? I’ve never had better than the catfish Po’ Boy at Parkway Tavern and Bakery; I like mine with lettuce, a bit of ketchup, mayo, creole mustard, and Crystal hot sauce. Putting Tobasco on a Po’ Boy should cost you a night in Orleans Parish Lockup. I hope you aren’t craving an oyster Po’ Boy, because they aren’t widely available anymore (thanks BP).