nectar and food
Although my main reason for being in New Orleans was to scope out the Association of Food Journalists convention (you can view my official version of events here), I also wanted to be seduced by the Sazerac, one of the city’s trademark drinks. Leave the tourists in the French Quarter sucking down Hurricanes at Pat O’Brien’s. Post-Katrina, doesn’t that just seem icky, no? I was in a rye mood. So upon settling into my cozy hotel room, I got on the Canal Street streetcar and rode off in search of the Roosevelt hotel and its Sazerac bar. The hotel just got a $148 million face lift and its interior is luxurious but subdued. Before I got there I overshot the mark on the streetcar and ended up at the corner of North Broad and Canal Street in an area known as Mid-City. This part of town is more likely to be featured on post-Katrina disaster tour rather than any list of must-sees for out-of-towners. The streetcar stop was populated with the usual array of hard-working people and some stragglers waddling over from a nearby Burger King. The convenience store across from the stop was selling po’boys, but the traffic at Burger King made me suspect this was not a good place to try one. While I was waiting for the return street car, I was treated to one young man who could have stepped out a Lil Wayne video, lighting up one of those flavored cigars that usually masks the presence of its marijuana filling. Another short young man with locks tried to sell a transfer to all assembled at the stop except me (wearing shades is an excellent way to avoid eye contact). He seemed intoxicated, but maybe his drug of choice was stupidity. He approached Latino man with his transfer offer and the man ignored him. Our hero let out a string of invective about the (terms of service) Mexicans taking over the (terms of service) city. The moment was sad and silly simultaneously, and it did whet my appetite for a drink. I found the Roosevelt on the return trip after a guy in a Goodwill T-shirt spotted me my missing 25 cents and a woman fainted. I eased into the dimly lit Sazerac bar and ordered the drink. It involves rye, Peychaud’s bitters, Herbsaint and a touch of sugar.
So how does it taste? Well, imagine someone you adore smokes menthols and has just taken a swig of rye. Then they kiss you and the smoke, menthol, and rye blend sends a shiver of delight all through your body. It’s something like that and I don’t even smoke. The taste lingered through a steak dinner and two glasses of nifty Spanish wine at Rambla. One was a 2006 Atalayas de Golban Tempranillo from Ribuera del Duero. The other was 2007 Altos de la Hoya Olwares, a Monastrell from Jumilla. The latter was more earthy than the former, but both were delightful.
However, my extensive research into the Sazerac wasn’t done. The next night after we played second liners in a street parade over to the Southern Museum of Food and Beverage, I encountered another Sazerac from the loving hands of bartender Michael Greenberg of the Swizzle Stick bar at the Loew’s Hotel. It also had all the notes of that mentholated, smoke rye kiss. I had three or four just make sure I was tasting what I was tasting. I was. Yes I was. Yes Yes Yes (apologies to Molly Bloom).
As in life and love, a nasty breakup ended my Sazerac relationship. My final night in New Orleans I met up with some of my fellow conference attendees at the Carousel Bar at the Hotel Monteleone in the French Quarter. This Sazerac was a travesty of a mockery of a sham. It was riven with Herbsaint , tasted like turpentine and smelled like spirit master fluid. The concoction was, happily, nasty, brutish and short. I did not order another and fled the premises to meet old friends for dinner.
