I went to New Orleans for a wedding last weekend. I used to go there pretty often, for work conventions and lots of Jazzfests, but hadn’t been back since Katrina. I was happy at how much the city, in this small three-day sampling, seemed like its old self. Among the many familiar things that enthralled me all over again: Cafe du Monde. I went twice. So great!
But then a certain someone—who, because I admire and respect and like her so much will only be identified in my story as “Defector editor Brandy Jensen”—told me I made a mistake. I should have instead gone to Loretta’s, which Defector editor Brandy Jensen wanted to make sure I knew “has better beignets.”
No, Defector editor Brandy Jensen, I shouldn’t’ve gone to Loretta’s. For all I know this Loretta’s place gets all the Michelin stars and sweeps all the James Beards every year for its beignets, and deserves ’em. Perhaps you should go to Loretta’s. But, by god, I still made a righteous choice both times I ended up at Cafe du Monde.
A dining experience can only be so great. My visits to Cafe du Monde were that great. There really is no way I could have enjoyed any meal at Loretta’s or any other place in the city or the world more than I loved my beignets during both trips to Cafe du Monde. The scene! The setting! The sweets! I loved the whole shebang. Had I been found on the Cafe du Monde floor with a powdered sugar outline of my dead carcass, I’d’ve left this earth happy as hell. I only regret not going to Cafe du Monde three times!
In fairness to Defector editor Brandy Jensen, she lives in New Orleans and is proud of her town and knows shit tons more about the place than I ever will and wanted to share her insider info. (New Orleans insider joke that I stole from another cagey veteran local during my stay: When someone tells you they went to Cafe du Monde, you quickly respond, ”What’d you get?” and break out laughing. It’s genius, I swear!)
And I should confess here that I’m the most easily pleased food person imaginable. I'd be the worst restaurant critic alive because I cherish just about every dish I’ve ever been served. I’d have to call my column “Portions,” because I would only judge a place by how much food they piled on my plate. And, since I’m also a when-in-Rome guy, I inevitably end up visiting and falling for whatever the cliched tourist spot is, then wanting to return. Whenever I’m in Philadelphia, for example, I hit Pat's and/or Geno’s. If I have to go to Atlantic City, I’m bringing home White House subs. In Pittsburgh, find me at the counter at Primanti Bros. And, again, if I’m in New Orleans for a wedding, by god, you can find me at Cafe du Monde at least once.
Whenever I tell a local from any of these towns about my cliched dining choice, as I learned yet again from Defector editor Brandy Jensen, I’ll hear about the place I actually should have gone, where the food is much better than whatever I ate from wherever I went. My favorite unwanted advice comes from Philly folks, all of whom know exactly where the best cheesesteak is, and it’s not where I go. More than once, I’ve been told that I’m an asshole for not going to Angelo's. Well, all you mofos, I’m not gonna argue that I’m not an asshole, but I actually did go to your precious Angelo’s once. It was about 7 o’clock on a Saturday, and I was in town for a fight and kind of in a hurry. There was a long line, and after several minutes of waiting in it, the staff behind the counter announced that they were out of bread and wouldn’t be selling any more cheesesteaks til tomorrow. Really! What kinda sandwich place runs outta bread at 7 pm on a Saturday night? You know who never runs out of bread? Pats! And Geno’s! I’ll never make that mistake again. Angelo’s is dead to me.
And just to make sure I preach what I practice, I would tell anybody who visits my hometown, Washington, DC, to make a trip to Ben's Chili Bowl. It’s been closed since last summer, allegedly for renovations, but if and when it reopens, put Ben’s on your itinerary. Sure, it’s the most famous eatery in the city, and if you show up at the wrong time there’s a decent chance you’ll encounter tour groups and long waits and no open tables. But, man, it’s such a fun scene. If you go home from Ben’s feeling bad about the choice, well, I don’t know what to tell you. You should have gone to fucking Loretta’s.
