Tuesday February 24 2009

When I told people I was thinking of going to New Orleans the first thing they usually asked was “what’s left to visit?”

The thought had crossed my mind. It had only been three years since Hurricane Katrina slammed into town, submerging a whopping 80 percent of the city under floodwater. I’d seen the images of entire neighbourhoods underwater and heard the horrifying accounts of people trapped in the Superdome. According to some reports, New Orleans appeared all but finished.

So as I head into New Orleans from Louis Armstrong International Airport I’m not sure what to expect. But wandering around the French Quarter later that afternoon with clear skies overhead without a hint of a breeze, it’s entirely possible to forget that such a cataclysmic event ever happened here.

Of course strike up a conversation and it never takes long for the conversation to get around to Katrina. And yet I never get tired of hearing the locals confide their experiences and am surprised by how entertaining their stories can be, like the woman who recounted with horror being evacuated to Little Rock, Arkansas, only to discover she was in a dry county.

The French Quarter is the ideal base. This is where New Orleans was born some 300 years ago and since then a whole host of cultures have called it home. New Orleans has one of the most eclectic histories in America – founded by the French, ruled by the Spanish and then the French again before Napoleon sold Louisiana to the Americans in 1803. Every nationality has left their mark on the quarter and it continues to be a cultural mix of African, American and European heritage.

On my first night it seems only right to check out Bourbon Street. Although named after the French Royal Family, perhaps it would be more appropriate to attribute naming rights to the Kentucky whisky. With its block after block of neon-lit bars spilling out onto the cobbled street, takeaway daiquiri stands serving killer drinks, not to mention the constant throng of tourists and locals alike, it’s a cross between a Las Vegas show and a bus station. But for all that it’s a lot of fun with a vibe of anything goes, just don’t scare the horses.

The next morning I seek out more sedate surrounds and find them just one street over on Royal Street. With its potted ferns hanging from cast-iron balconies, this is New Orleans at its picture-perfect best. And whereas Bourbon is a street of bars, Royal is a street of shops. From end to end it is lined with antique stores, galleries and jewellers.

The locals have not completely abandoned the quarter to tourists and it still has a sizeable permanent population. From Royal Street I wander down narrow residential streets lined with stuccoed townhouses and Creole cottages painted with faded gelato hues.

Eventually I find myself in Jackson Square, a surprisingly ordered public space of manicured gardens overlooked by the spires of St Louis Cathedral. However, this order is contradicted by the chaos taking place within it – tarot card readers, musicians, shoeshines and kids with bottle tops stuck to their shoes tap dancing for change, all make for an ever-changing sideshow.

It’s quite a spectacle, but best observed from a distance - the last thing I want is to become some unwitting prop for a mime artist. When I’ve had enough I make my escape and head up Pirates Alley – a narrow walkway cutting through the shadow of St Louis Cathedral. I’m on the lookout for the Faulkner House Bookshop, so-called because William Faulkner lived here while writing his first novel, Soldier’s Pay. I find it in a converted townhouse and replenish my serenity levels by browsing its impressive collection of new and first-edition books.

Having made my selection (a Faulkner novel of course, no intention of reading it but it seemed the right thing to do), I cut a dash through crowded Jackson Square and retreat to the shady calm of Café du Monde. A New Orleans institution, it serves just coffee and beignets – little donuts sprinkled with icing sugar. Sipping my coffee while lounging under the shade of the awning, I contentedly observe the action of Jackson Square.

Walking out of the café I turn left and head up a flight of stairs built into a grassy bank. At the top I’m surprised to find myself standing on the banks of Old Man River himself. It’s easy to forget that the Mississippi River is here. With the majority of the city being below sea level, any view of the river from the street tends to be obscured by the levies. Fortunately, this one did its job during Katrina and there’s a sizeable walkway built along the top.

Docked nearby is an old-school steamboat, giant paddle wheel and all. The tourist in me wins out and I buy a ticket for a cruise upriver. It’s true that a lot of the romance of being onboard an old paddle steamer has gone, replaced instead by super-size Americans slumped on deck in plastic garden chairs whilst drinking their super-size sodas. But it’s fun, nonetheless. It also allows me to get up-close to where the floodwaters did their worst. Heading past the Lower Ninth Ward where the levies first breached, the damage is still painfully apparent.

The following morning I jump on a street car and head to the Garden District. It’s quite a contrast to the narrow streets and Creole cottages of the French Quarter. In their place are vast Southern-style mansions along broad boulevards shaded by oak trees. This contrast is quite deliberate. The Garden District was built by the wealthy “Americans” who moved to New Orleans after the Louisiana Purchase was signed. The Creoles were mistrustful of these newcomers from the North, thinking them ostentatious and money hungry, with a thoroughly unnecessary work ethic. With the French Quarter already overflowing, the Americans settled further upriver and built their elaborate mansions surrounded by lush manicured grounds. Walking the streets of the Garden District is one of the great delights of being in New Orleans and a peaceful antidote to the constant commotion of the Quarter.

Of course, it would be entirely plausible to plan my days around what I intend to eat. New Orleans is a food lover’s paradise. Eating my way through shrimp po-boys, jambalaya, gumbo, shrimp remoulade, grilled oysters and crème brulee; by my second day it’s apparent I’m going to have to up the visits to the gym when I get back home.

The two cooking styles most closely associated with New Orleans are Creole and Cajun cuisine. With its full-flavoured sauces, heavy on the cream and butter, Creole cuisine gains its pedigree from the original European settlers and is most closely associated with fine French dining styles.

Cajun, on the other hand, is the food of the country. It also harks back to the dining tables of the colonial era, but relies heavily on the harvest of the Louisiana bayous. These are the heavily spiced, long-simmering one-pot dishes such as gumbo and jambalaya.

I can tell that Mr B’s is a high class establishment because there are only two TV screens showing sports behind the bar. It seems that no matter how starched the tablecloths may be, there’s always space for at least one flatscreen at the bar, lest some tourist from Minnesota should miss Monday night football.

Usually I shy away from dining options that require me to wear a bib, but everyone I meet tells me that Mr B’s barbequed shrimp is the stuff of legends. And it really is divine – gulf shrimp drowned in a peppery butter sauce accompanied by stacks of French bread. Like the other diners, after a few mouthfuls I resign myself to the fact there is no ‘elegant’ way to enjoy this. Both my bib and the starched table cloth takes a beating, but this is Creole cuisine at its best.

It seems every meal is an opportunity to sample as many dishes as possible. On my last day I have breakfast at Brennans, a New Orleans dining institution that is famous for introducing the luxury breakfast to the city. Barely recovered from the Barbequed shrimp from the night before, I throw good sense to the wind and embark on the full three-course breakfast.

I start with the Creole Onion Soup. It’s a rich concoction, although the lightest of the appetizers. There is no way I could have faced the southern baked apple with double cream this early in the morning - and I just couldn’t bring myself to try turtle soup. I follow this up with Eggs Ellen, an enormous grilled fillet of salmon topped with poached eggs and hollandaise sauce. Feeling like I’ve eaten enough to last me until I get back home, the experience is not yet finished: what breakfast in New Orleans is complete without dessert? Given the choice between key-lime pie and Bananas Foster, I go with the pie. Eventually managing to rise from my chair, I take comfort in the fact that lunch is still two hours away.

When I get back home, all my friends who’d asked “what’s left?” were keen to ask “what was it like?” That’s easy: it was brilliant. But knowing I was visiting so soon after such a catastrophic event added so much to the experience. Not only is New Orleans getting back on its feet and letting the good times roll again, visiting in the aftermath of Katrina meant that I was both witness to the heartbreaking devastation that took place and a willing investor in its recovery

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