By eleven I’m eating gumbo. It’s silky smooth, seasoned heavily with cayenne and paprika and delicious. I’m spending the morning at the New Orleans School of Cookery, listening to a NOLA native explain the fundamentals of making a brown roux (it requires at least 15 minutes of whisking: “if the mailman needs you, shout for him to come in and make himself at home, there’s no way you’re leavin that roux”. The jambalaya is incredible as well, as is a piña colada laced bread pudding. By the time we’ve rounded off the meal with pralines, I’m even more in love with Creole cooking.
It’s game day. Every other person is wearing a Saints jersey and the bars on Bourbon Street periodically choke out a rowdy cheer. We pass through Louis Armstrong Park into Treme. Apart from a group of kids kicking a football in the street, it’s almost silent. The houses are beautiful – pastel clapboard contrasts with vivid shutters, each one completely different to the next. A few are derelict, with boarded windows and eight years worth of weeds clambering up the front porch. Back in Jackson Square I stop to listen to the buskers for one last time. Tomorrow: Portland.
To The Table 