Sometimes I forget there is actually a world outside of New Orleans. Believe it or not, this other universe has festivals, too … but with one going on here (almost) every weekend, who needs to go anywhere else?
I did something I said I would never do.
I left town during one of our city’s biggest weekends. French Quarter Fest.
While the rest of you were listening to the smooth sounds of Irma Thomas and the Soul Rebels in Woldenberg Park eating cochon de lait po-boys, I was selling out in Miami Beach and Ft. Lauderdale for the first Tortuga Music Fest.
I didn’t realize this would conflict with French Quarter Fest when I committed to going, but I couldn’t possibly bail on my dad’s 60th birthday celebration (especially when he was paying). I was in desperate need of a vacay and why shouldn’t I see Kenny Chesney live for the 14th time, on the beach, nonetheless?
With my toes in the sand and a cold drink in my hand, grooving to the sounds of the Avett Brothers (when are they coming to NOLA?) and Ben Harper, I almost forgot all about New Orleans and what I was missing back home.
Then I tried the food.
Let’s just say it wasn’t bad, but it definitely wasn’t good. It was your average American fare, which could disappoint you in any food court in any mall in Anywhere, USA.
No crawfish Monica, no crawfish bread, no crawfish, period! I don’t even like crawfish (calm down) and I knew something was missing, but maybe it’s best the flavorful foods are missing when you have to live in a bathing suit for four days.
Luckily, when I returned I didn’t have long to wait until Jazz Fest. My toes might be in the mud, but that is a pig’s preferred location, after all.
Rachel Kostelec writes about New Orleans for NolaVie.