A brief run-down of my first day in New York: I had my first NY-legit bagel (fortunately, it wasn’t my last, as I forgot to take photos then). Kimberly and I cleaned up. We hopped in the car with Robin, Kimberly’s mom, and Cassie, the Wachtlers’ adorable golden retriever. I took the backseat so I could snuggle with Cassie. Come to find out, she’s so terrified of cars that she literally draped herself across my lap for the entire duration of the car ride.

We finally got to Kimberly’s grandparents’ house, which is spectacular and comfortable (and filled with golden retriever paraphernalia), with a gorgeous view of… a body of water. I think it’s the Long Island Sound. Regrettably, I am not intimately familiar of Long Island geography and topography, so I cannot be too sure.

Another thing the property boasts is a generous garden that is host to all sorts of shrubs and flowers and, most importantly, vegetables. Lettuce bursts forth from the soil in giant green tufts, and zucchini the size of newborns litter another corner. Raspberries and blueberries grow in neat rows. Armed with gardening scissors, the three of us raided the garden and plucked our perfect produce. We then went home with our loot and prepared a lunch to nibble as we rested up for the 24-course dinner that laid ahead…

Soft, buttery leaves were the foundation of our salad. Kimberly roughly chopped a cucumber, some carrots, and a delightful orange bell pepper, as well as balsamic-roasted chicken that we’d picked up from Grace’s Marketplace. I was worried the chicken would be dry, as chicken often seems to be when you pick it up pre-cooked at the grocery, but each bite was tender and had the added bite of aged balsamic. Dressed with oil and more vinegar, then topped with sheets of parm, it was exactly how lunch salads should be: fully satisfying but light, colorful and well-rounded. Not at all a New York staple, but so much fun — from picking the greens to eating the last bite.

Phew.

Right as I was getting back into blogging, I was whisked away to New York for a week of what can only be described as reckless eating (as well as many, many Friends marathons). Among other things, I indulged in New York bagels, New York pizza, New York Chinese food, New York cookies, New York produce… Spoiler alert: one of my meals was 24(?) courses. Sigh. This tumultuous life of mine. Now, I’m back in NOLA and back from my hiatus, and I have enough photos (read: about a thousand gabillion) to fuel blog entry after blog entry. It was a dream of a week, and I can’t wait to tell all the stories that went along with it. This kind of documentation will border on Homeric. I’ll get on it ASAP, so keep checking in.

All of this should do something to explain my unbridled delight when, on my birthday this past March, my darling friend Harry presented me with a modest brown paper bag that belied the smorgasbord of cheeses inside, which he’d picked out for me at Farmstead. They were all excellent (no, but really) and Ewephoria was even part of the selection, but it was this Roaring Forties Blue that captured my heart. I’d wear it in a locket if I could.

Because it’s made with cow’s milk, this blue cheese has a mild taste compared to more pungent sheep’s milk blues like Roquefort. That said, it still has a very full-bodied flavor: sweet, almost brown-buttery, honeyed. It’s creamy and moist, and its aftertaste doesn’t at all conjure images of musty, moldy caves and injected penicillin (images that, call me crazy, don’t quite work up my appetite). Instead, it is sumptuous and just a tad fruity, with a lingering richness that’s more cheesy than blue-y. Its mellowness makes it an ideal (if decadent) match for picnics in stolen shade now that we’re in the throes of lazy summer, but I also want to spread it on toast, spotlight it in a pasta dish, eat it with fruit, take it everywhere… Yeah. About that locket.

And then things went terribly wrong.

Opinions differ as to how, exactly, this happened, but somehow, the simple syrup ended up being… not so simple. Something went awry, and much, much more sugar ended up in there than anybody could have intended. To make matters worse, the two-pound sack of lemons yielded a lot less juice than we anticipated. Turns out, very little lemon juice mixed into very much sugar water does not a good lemonade make. Reactions ranged from polite to outraged, and I nursed embarrassment over messing up the easiest thing in the book (right?). The irony? I prefer my lemonade bracing and almost too tart, a break from the overly sugared Barq’s and Icees I’ll imbibe elsewhere. This was all-around catastrophic.

But then – then! – I had an opportunity to redeem myself, sort of. Found with a heaping five-pound box of blueberries, I was scrambling to find various uses when it hit me: blueberry lemonade. Away from Brown, I couldn’t yet gain forgiveness from all those people whose palates I’d offended, but at the very least, I’d bolster my own confidence – and narrow in on the perfect juice/syrup ratio so that, come fall, I will be equipped to make pitcher upon pitcher of special citrusy ambrosia. How courteous, no?

I knew I would need privacy and ample time to accomplish my goal, having been traumatized by my legendary flub, so I stole away into the kitchen with my arsenal and set to work. I puréed the blueberries, juiced a whole lot (four pounds) of lemons, made some simple syrup (or a variation on it), and kept some regular water on hand in case the syrup tried to overshadow the actual fruit. With a notebook (no, really) to track my every move, I ladled each component into a tall pitcher and tasted until it seemed right.

Oh my god, did it seem right. I was in love. I got attached. I wanted to spend every waking minute with it, to pick its brain, to whisper sweet nothings to it. That first pitcher is long since gone, but I’ve been experimenting with other flavors. Most recently, I’ve landed on a mean glass of blackberry-mint lemonade, whose recipe (“recipe”) is also below.

A trite adage coaches us to learn from other people’s mistakes, because we won’t have enough time in our lives to make all those mistakes ourselves. I realize lemonade leaves little room for error, but as with many other simple dishes – mashed potatoes, grilled cheese, hamburgers, scrambled eggs – it’s also hard to get perfect. So while you may not be making mistakes (unless you’re just not making lemonade, in which case, c’mon, it’s July! WHAT IS THIS?), all I’m saying is that maybe, just maybe, there’s a little room for improvement.

This is a recipe for people who like their lemonade zingy and fresh. Don’t say I didn’t warn you about the zing, because it’s very, very prominent. The nice thing is that, with the addition of the berries, there are two different sweeteners, so there’s also a lot of wiggle room should you feel the urge to tweak to your liking. Blueberry juice in particular is more rounded and delicately sweet, whereas the simple syrup is (as I have learned) pointed and powerful.

Blueberry juice is purple and blackberry juice is crimson. I'm here to help you work through the confusion.

INGREDIENTS FOR TART BLUEBERRY LEMONADE:
4 pounds of lemons (two 2-pound bags will give you around 24 lemons total)
1 cup of sugar
4 cups of water
1 dry pint of blueberries

1. Combine the sugar and water in a saucepan over low heat so that the sugar can start melting as you prep everything else.
2. Purée the blueberries in a blender until they’re totally liquefied.
3. Pour this through a fine-mesh sieve to get rid of teeny pieces of skin and seeds. I did this twice; the first run-through didn’t quite get everything, and I wanted it to be smooth.
4. Juice all the lemons to end up with ~32 ounces (a lot) of lemon juice. Please see if you can procure a juicer for this step; it’ll make you happy you’re alive, and your hands will thank you.
5. In a large pitcher, combine the lemon juice and simple syrup. Stir in blueberry juice to taste; I think I used about 2/3 cup.
6. If this is too tart for you, add plain water or make a bit more simple syrup. Because lemons are actually pretty high in sugar, I used regular water; there’s so much lemon juice that it really doesn’t feel like “watering down.
7. Pour over ice and relish the sound of the ice crackling as the liquid hits it. Drink in a sunny room, on your front porch, over breakfast, late at night after you blow out a tire in a stupid pothole… the possibilities are endless.

BLACKBERRY-MINT LEMONADE

With the addition of mint leaves, I fooled around with this before I got it right. I knew I’d have to muddle the mint. On my first go-round, I tried muddling blackberries, too, figuring that it couldn’t hurt to see if there was a suitable shortcut. This was a big fail, but it’s kind of pretty. I got shy when I added the berries, which you can see were hardly touched and only contributed a tiny bit of flavor. The two on the rim were a kitschy touch, though, and I did enjoy the lemony burst of the blackberries from the cup.

I ended up taking the same route as I did with the blueberry lemonade, puréeing and double-straining the blackberries so they made a nice, workable juice that could easily be stirred in with the lemonade. This still left some flecks, but nothing that felt weird or pulpy. Pouring it over a few spearmint leaves (still, muddle those) is super-simple… and lemonade, no matter what flavor, is always best enjoyed in a polka-dotted glass.

If you’ve got any ideas or suggestions for twists on lemonade (rosemary? spiked?), leave ‘em in the comments. Let’s explore together!

Imagine my surprise, then, when I was trolling Magazine Street and saw a banner outside with the familiar colors and Papyrus typeface of SukhoThai, which has heretofore been housed in a bright yellow house on a Marigny street corner. Savvy Gourmet, after shutting its doors and leaving nothing but a dubious sign, had evacuated the premises and left its spacious location up for grabs. Now, the Marigny business has expanded closer to my neighborhood, so my friend Stella and I decided to convene there and investigate the new space.

A shallow ramp runs from the doors to a hostess station situated in the center of the dining room, whose floors are a smooth, blonde wood that brings a lot of light to the room. (It doesn’t hurt that they’ve kept those gigantic windows all along the front wall.) White globe lanterns hang from the high ceiling, and saffron-yellow booths line one wall. Because the room is so spacious, there are a lot of tables, which are scattered with plenty of room all around. Sound, I found, carries… so lower your voice a tad unless you want the whole room’s attention.

The regular dinner menu is offered during lunch hours, in addition to a page of lunch specials that are pleasantly marked down. I agonized for a bit (this past semester has been a bit of a Thai love affair for me, making it extremely difficult to settle on just one plate) and settled on the drunken noodles. The same wide egg noodles that I found a bit too sweet in the dirty noodles are much better when they’re stir-fried in spicy chili with slices of chicken. A hodgepodge of crisp veggies lends color and life to the heap of tan, and a tuft of shoestring carrots tops it off like a pom-pom, adorably. I’d heard warnings about SukhoThai’s tendency to over-spice, so when they asked me how hot I wanted my lunch, I reluctantly went with medium. I wish I’d gone for hot, because the medium didn’t give quite as much of a kick as I’d have liked.

Luckily, with an $8.95 price tag, the food and service wre good enough for me to go back — soon — and adjust accordingly. The only thing I’d add would be some salads and starters to the rest of the lunch specials; it would’ve felt strange to spend as much on a som-tum (green papaya) salad as featured on the dinner menu as on my main course. Has anybody had lunch at the Marigny SukhoThai? I’m wondering if the system’s the same there. As soon as that bit’s straightened out, SukhoThai will become a favorite spot to stop and eat with a friend when I’ve just had enough sushi and St. James.

The last time I was here, I wrote about coffee inebriation and an arguably glorious chunk of sundried tomato on a fairly tasty bagel. That was, by all accounts, NOT a great way to unwittingly enter what would turn out to be a 2+ month hiatus from blogging. Those of you who have clicked on over here to check for any updates have, for 73 days, been greeted by a close-up of gooey pink cream cheese. I could’ve at least deigned to post a photo of a charming lavender and honey-glazed cupcake or still-steaming curry puffs, and spared you the feeling of vague queasiness that, come to find out, can be a side effect of looking too closely at wads of dried tomato bathing in cream cheese.

All I can say to that is: thank you to those of you who’ve kept checking the site, who haven’t unsubscribed from my RSS feed, who still follow me on Twitter, who haven’t found a way to otherwise disown me from your Internet. I’ve been flaky this past year, abandoning my various outlets for social media and networking, opting instead to focus on what was right there in front of me… and there was a lot. I’ve finished my first year at Brown, during which I took unbelievable classes and got to know insanely intelligent, interesting, exciting people. I even ate some yucky cafeteria food. Then I came home, and that was crazy, too. But I’m back in New Orleans, back in the scheme of things, finally with my bearings straight. Before I tell you all my stories about dining out and eating in, I’ll outline some of the other ventures that have been occupying my time and keeping me away from writing, from the Internet, and from you.

-I made it through my first Spring Weekend at Brown… and my first finals period.

-I missed home so much that I jetted back down for Jazz Fest, ate more food than a 19-year-old girl’s body should be able to contain, and saw music that reaffirmed my love for this city.

-I only needed to spend $30 to ship things home. As soon as I dropped my bags off, I had my first dinner back at Taqueria Corona. One fish taco, one carne asada taco… oh yeah.

-I had my second dinner back on fresh gazpacho following a trip to the dog park. This is summer!

It's probably safe to say that every beautiful photo on this blog, like this one, was taken by Caroline Panini Malouse.

-I didn’t get to see my New Orleanian best friend nearly enough before she went across the country again to be her sunshiney, saving-the-world-one-prospective-student-at-a-time self. Come back, Jennalina Cakester. We shall feast on fluffy luv patties, Camellia Grill, and that chicken from Lilette.

-I scared my (seafood-phobic) Long Islandian best friend by sending her pictures of me sucking the heads of crawfish. There is a number of things about this photo that might be jarring to someone else.

-I started working full-time at Sucré. Fellas, THIS is really where I’ve been all summer. I used to consume desserts. Now they consume me. I have dreams in which I’m frantically organizing chocolates on their gleaming silver trays, as such…

Not that I wasn’t before, but if there was any doubt, I am now intimately familiar with each of the chocolates and macaroons, entremets and fancy-schmancy beverages, that Sucré proffers. A couple of my coworkers think that I talk to the chocolates when nobody’s around, so tender is our relationship.

-In desperate search of barbecue following the discovery that The Joint is closed on Sundays, Panini, Andy and I stumbled upon Bywater BBQ. They make passable food, including a passable pulled pork sandwich, and will even serve it to you in their breathtaking courtyard if you’re willing to brave the mosquitoes. Someone had a little trouble typing up the menu, which is rife with comical typos, including this one:

“Portable mushrooms.” As in portobello, which I would be overjoyed to port with me everywhere.

-Channeling Alton Brown, I hunkered down in the kitchen with ladles, myriad measuring cups, and a notebook, and finally settled on what I consider to be the perfect lemonade recipe, with optional add-ins. Stay tuned.

This summer, Sucré unveiled a line of sundaes that are on par with the other stunning, decadent, inspiring desserts at the shop. I happen to love piling those glass sundae bowls with caramel sauce and bread pudding, mixed berries and brownie croutons, but the Neapolitan Profiterole (pictured above) is my favorite to make. Scoops of chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry gelati are piped with fresh whipped cream and cocoa nibs, then finished with drizzled strawberry sauce and chocolate sauce, all between sliced choux pastry. For most, this is perfectly satisfying (to say the very least). However, there are a certain few others who want a little something extra…

One gentleman, insisting he needed to gain weight (God, I wish I had that problem), purchased two eclairs and plied us to use them in lieu of the normal pastry shell. That’s what you see here. It is…singular.

- I WENT BLUEBERRY PICKING. That needed to be in caps. It’s something I always, always wanted to do but never found the time. As it turns out, all it took to fix this was a morning spent poring over PickYourOwn.org and an hour and a half-long drive to Lumberton, Mississippi, where the folks at Pearl River Blues blueberry farm blew us away with their warmth, hospitality, passion, and know-how. Amy Phelps, who owns the farm with her husband, Alan, showed me around, answered all my questions about farming and living in the country and what the sky looks like at nighttime, and she even cut us a bunch of beautiful flowers to take home with us.

A gallon of blueberries costs only $9, and it honestly makes for the most incredible afternoon. Wear closed shoes, bug spray, and as little clothing as you can get away with. Nibble blueberries as you pick ‘em (just not the unripe ones – I got curious and learned that there’s a reason they don’t get picked!) and head over to Flint Creek afterward to cool off in the watering hole. It’s still blueberry season for another two solid weeks! Go forth and bring home your goodies so you can make pork chops in blueberry reduction, lemon-blueberry pie, blueberry muffins with walnuts, extra-special raspberry yogurt studded with berries and cocoa-roasted almonds, spinach salad with blueberries and goat cheese…

-That photo speaks for itself.

-I initiated an out-of-towner to the intense love and fervor in this city, complete with plenty of Hansen’s snowballs, a half-and-half Domilise’s po-boy while we’ve still got those plump oysters, anecdote-filled tours, and meandering walks through the French Quarter.

-A highlight of a trip to our lovely aquarium was the Gulf of Mexico exhibit, in which toothy sharks swim amongst giant Manta rays and metallic, kayak-sized fish. Thank you to our sponsors!

Not you, Shell. Certainly not ExxonMobil. Don’t think we haven’t forgotten about that Valdez scandal. The people of Alaska still aren’t the same.

-I served wine to partygoers at an art gallery. Also, I was not wearing pants. Just one of the shirts made by the artist. This was the first time I have been paid to walk around half-clothed.

-THE ROCHER GELATO AT SUCRÉ IS SO GOOD. In what I’m convinced was a stroke of genius, I put a half-scoop in a tiny espresso cup, to minimize waste and to maximize adorability. This is not on the menu.

-Sometimes, because I’m the baby on staff, I’m persuaded to wear pigtails.

Who is responsible for this delightful mess? Bagel Gourmet Olé, Thayer Street’s primary purveyor of breakfast burritos and pretty good bagels, all under the same roof. What is that slightly unappetizing photo above? The best breakfast ever: a spinach bagel with sundried tomato cream cheese. There is a blatantly obvious chunk of sundried tomato right in here. Does this make you nauseated or hungry? Discuss. I’m gonna go try and get my heart rate back to normal.

Finally it’s that time of year when Brown starts to actually feel collegiate again. The sun is out and so are we — masses of undergrads OD-ing on Vitamin D as we languish on our lawn of choice, impressing the tour groups with our proficient binge drinking and sociability. As we prepare for our picnics with blankets and PBR, we’ll need some treats that require minimal effort. Here’s a list of things that can be tossed into the nearest woven wicker basket with little to no prep work so that you, too, can partake in the vernal merriment.

Sandwiches: Popular legend has it that the Earl of Sandwich invented these ingenious parcels because he needed a lunch that was as hearty as it was portable. There are infinite permutations, so pick up whichever breads, spreads, and fillings suit your fancy: Black Forest ham with Brie and caramel mustard; a smattering of fancy cheeses, salumi, and a baguette; PB&J; turkey and cheddar; hummus, balsamic, and veggies; BLT. Get creative!

Produce: Need I say more? We all get visceral hankerings for the raw and vibrant this time of year. Dig into an avocado or a kiwi with a spoon or pick up some clementines, a picnictime staple; it’s easy to find them in bags of about 20. Eat berries alone or dip them into Greek yogurt and honey. Or, should you be so lucky as to obtain the perfect peach, bite into it and don’t look back. And then tell me where you got that thing of beauty.

Fanciful salads: Toss predispositions to Caesar and ranch to the wind, for this is neither the time nor place. Go classic by tossing sliced cherry tomatoes with bocconcini mozzarella, fresh basil, and a bit of balsamic + olive oil. Dress raw kale with lemon juice and olive oil, then mix in pine nuts and Parmesan. If you’re into hitting salty and sweet in one go, stir together watermelon, feta, and mint sprigs, then drizzle with olive oil and red wine vinegar.

Gazpacho: This chilled summer soup is as refreshing as you can imagine. Dice fresh veggies (tomatoes, cucumber, zucchini, red onion, celery, garlic) and toss half of this blend into a food processor (full disclosure: I once made this with a blender and my world did not skid to a halt). You can toss in some red wine vinegar, olive oil, salt, and Tabasco, but that’s about as complex as it needs to get. Once the vegetables are chopped but not pulverized, stir in the rest and chill. This is best when made ahead, but recruit people to help you chop and then bust out your finished product the next day.

Lemonade: Little-known fact: the word “lemonade” is actually just another word for “picnic,” kind of like Aphrodite is another way of saying Venus. There’s no reason not to go all out here. For plain fresh-squeezed lemonade, make a simple syrup with water and sugar, then add in lemon juice to taste. Fancify with any of the following: sprigs of rosemary; a wee bit of lavender; juice from smashed berries; spearmint tea; blood orange juice; vodka; gin. Go wild.

Sangria… does not equal Franzia. Pour a bottle of wine into a pitcher plus a heaping of whatever fruit you desire. Oranges, lemons, apples, limes, and peaches are all good bets, but there’s a lot of wiggle room here. The only other things you need are a bit of sweetener (sugar and honey both work) and ice to keep it chilly.

The next thing you have to decide, after buying groceries, is where to set up camp. Everybody has her favorite place to lie in the sun so I won’t dare prescribe yours, but if you’re getting a little antsy on your usual patch of grass, you can do something as simple as switching from Lincoln Field to the Quiet Green (different people, different sunlight, just a skip away) or you can take more drastic measures. There’s a quiet, bamboo-lined lawn behind Watson, or venture off the hill to Prospect or India Point Parks. You could also happen upon the verdant little pocket wonderland behind the MCM building (complete with a trellis!). I’ve heard fairies live there. No matter where you go, you’re in luck; you need little more than daylight and a nice wedge of Gouda to get your kicks. Just don’t forget the lemonade.

This salad from Café Degas was, in short, exactly that. Romaine is tossed with succulent, chewy sundried tomatoes, creamy feta, and briny hearts of palm. About a half-dozen flash-fried Louisiana oysters, fat enough that you get one crispy morsel per bite, are scattered happily atop the mix. All this is dressed in a creamy vinaigrette that tasted, strangely, vaguely redolent of the broth they serve with their mussels. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I think it may have been white wine and even a hint of fennel — if any of you happen to know, please feel free to step in and put my puzzled mind at ease.

The best part about eating at Café Degas, though, is the atmosphere. The restaurant itself is burrowed behind lush greenery in a tiny house whose kitchen churns out traditional French fare that occasionally slips and lets out a southern twang. The dining room is covered but open-air, and its perch right on Esplanade will unleash your inner voyeur. It’s charming and the definition of quaint. When the service is slow, you feel all the more that you’ve been elaborately tricked and have in truth ended up on a sidewalk bistro in Paris; for this lunch, though, the service was so quick as to border on “hello, we’ve read your mind and put your order in the kitchen before you were even seated.” Followed by a shared slice of lemon icebox pie, whose thick crust and potent strawberry coulis were as tasty as the canned whipped cream was mediocre, it was a perfect midday pick-me-up.

Antoine's oyster Foch po-boy. You'll have to go to confession after eating it, but it's worth it... oh my, is it worth it.

If I can give the festival planners one thing, though, it’s their impeccable timing. I had already booked my flight home for spring break, scheduled to land at MSY on the night of March 26, when I started making plans to head over to Royal Street in the French Quarter the next day, for better or for worse. I didn’t get to check out the offerings when the fest debuted last year, but I’d heard good things about the event and the people behind it, so I had high hopes.

Little white tents dot blocks 300-700 of Royal Street, offering a wide variety of snacks including Vaucresson’s sausage po-boys, duck cracklins from the famous purple Que Crawl truck, and strawberry shortcake from Café Reconcile. It’s worth checking out for the antique shops and heavenly architecture that permanently reside in this neighborhood, but also for the colorful array of visitors (demographic groups were represented from frat boys to the conservative middle-aged crowd to a few adventurous elderly folks) and the street performers (who, I always have to remind myself, are not fixtures in most other cities).

Alleyways to luscious little hidden courtyards will always be one of my absolute favorite things about visiting the Quarter.

Not exactly sure what this fellow was up to, but he stood stock still in that position, which is cause enough for stealthy snapshotting.

You may also have been lucky enough to get a glimpse of this fascinating pair, just a girl and her bike:

The girl’s outfit speaks for itself, but you may not be able to catch the detail on the unicorn’s head. Luckily, she was totally cool with me getting a little closer for a picture.

Rhinestones and glitter and heavy eyeliner, oh my!

But I digress. This was, after all, about the food. My point is simply that there’s a bit of sensory overload going on here, which is all the more reason to hightail it there next year.

Blue Dog Café, coming from Lafayette, LA, was serving chicken and andouille sauce piquante over roasted corn grits. The sauce was bright and celebratory, just fruity and sweet and tangy with a little kick at the end that was bolstered by morsels of andouille sausage and chicken. A bit more spice wouldn’t have hurt, but I’ll take it. The roasted corn grits imparted a thickness and richness to each bite that somehow didn’t feel overpowering on such a hot, sunny day. One trick? Share with someone. I still miss how festive and springy that sauce was.

Coming from the same booth were these crawfish enchiladas, which brought to mind issues we’ve been discussing in my Ethnic Eats class about authenticity and hybridization. Fat crawfish and diced jalapeño studded a thick creamy sauce, all of which was encased by a flour tortilla that was crispy in parts, soggy in others. Whereas the sauce piquante lightened and livened up the grits, this was a bit heavier — but I was yearning for my first bite of crawfish of the season. Eat it for the crawfish. Always do it for the crawfish.

Moving right along to Shrimp Uggie with new potatoes, propagated by none other than the now-closed Uglesich’s, which made a comeback for this weekend only. Perks: they cook it to order; the garlic and spices took root deep in my soul and reminded me, for the millionth time, why I’m glad to be from where I’m from. Downsides: the portion was comically small; the sauce was a bit greasy. Not sure how I felt about the potatoes since they seemed, if anything, to be compensating for the sparse allotment of shrimp, though they made for tasty bites.

New Orleans’ august institution, Antoine’s Restaurant, set up shop with this oyster Foch po-boy, a big ruckus of oysters fried in thick cornmeal batter, tossed onto French bread that’s been smeared with foie gras, finished with a heap of thick brown Colbert sauce. This felt a little bit like drinking in the daytime: naughty, decadent, exciting, excessive. Tasty.

The damage! Crikey, and sorry for bad lighting.

But the highlight of my day was the alligator burger from Creole Delicacies Catering. Okay, a good part of that was telling my friends at college that I ate an alligator burger. Imagine the shock of people from the likes of Long Island and Istanbul! But this is most assuredly what the Sterns must have meant by road food.

The sesame seed Bunny loaf was a bit of a buzzkill, an underwhelming accomplice to the hunk of gator meat, but really, try and see past it. I asked for my cole slaw on the side since slaw and I don’t often get along (it takes a special attention to cabbage:mayo ratio for me to get remotely interested), but a light sprinkling on the patty would have given a crispness to bites of what was otherwise a very dense, very piquant burger. I really like alligator, though it’s a little on the chewy side; it’s sweet and, if prepared right, juicy and spicy. Added bonus: jars of smoky Bone Suckin’ Sauce were available for our drizzling pleasure.

Still grappling with the Bunny bread. Otherwise, this was a paradise of a snack.

I wrapped up my day with my first snowball of the year, provided by Plum Street Snowballs. I can’t get nectar cream at any place other than Hansen’s Sno-Bliz, so I opted instead for cherry and coconut cream. I can’t really explain it; it was very out of character for me, but actually quite yummy eaten on the walk back to the car.

Hi there, beautiful. My heart pitter-patters for these deep, verdant balconies and painted shutters that seem so ubiquitous once springtime rolls around in New Orleans.