The Sazerac and milk punch at Commander's Palace had me reeling by noon. The gator po-boy at Guy's offered some necessary ballast, but chugging a hurricane at Pat O'Brien's knocked me back on my heels. The next stop was SoBou for Baltimore- and San Francisco-themed shots, where my producer told me I didn't have to actually shoot them if I didn't want to.
Not a chance: one ounce of Fernet Branca, one more of Guinness and red absinthe, and I accepted the taste of Abita Mardi Gras Bock to cleanse my palate. The bartender there said I needed to try a REAL hurricane -- made with passionfruit, hibiscus, and three kinds of rum -- and I said okay. She put it in a go cup, and I took it out onto Bourbon Street.
I went into a voodoo shop that was bullshit because they refused to hex Ray Lewis or anyone else, but the guy read some tarot cards. The Super Bowl will be close, he said, and a woman will make it hard for the Seahawks to eclipse the 49ers in the NFC West. Tarot cards are stupid yet convincing.
I went into the Gumbo Shop and ordered jambalaya, étouffée, shrimp creole, and gumbo. The four dishes tasted roughly the same, but that may have had something to do with the 15 or 20 ounces of liquor in my system. We went back to our rented house on Esplanade and I told everyone I was drunk.
I laid down and went to sleep. It was 7:30 p.m.
(For more details about the food and drink in this video, read the full text at my Gnawlins food blog.)