Of all the places in America that bear a legendary status, surely New Orleans is at once the most exciting, and also the most mysterious. Long known as a party capital of the world, it is also the spiritual home of blues and jazz, and also has a rich history and heritage to explore. I've wanted to check this city out for a very long time, so faced with some time off work, decided that the time had come to do just that.

So, I'd done the French quarter, I'd been on a swamp tour, I'd done blues, jazz, cajun and zydeco. What's not been done?

Well, I never quite made it to the Garden district; I never went across the Mississippi to Algiers and there's an aquarium in this town I haven't been to yet. Still, there's a day and a bit to go.

After my failed attempt to find the Garden District, I looked it up in the guidebook, and with the help of my now new and improved orientation, discovered that I had stopped and turned around about 5 blocks too soon. The reason it felt like I'd walked for miles is basically because I had. It's just that there was a mile or so more required.

So, comfortable walking shoes at the ready, guidebook in hand, I embarked on my second cross-town expedition to the Garden district. Clear across the CBD, and through one or two areas I was grateful had sunlight on them, I eventually arrived at the edge of the district after walking about 3 and a half miles.

It's worth it though. The buildings are really stunning - huge mansion houses with beautiful manicured gardens, picturesque churches and little corner coffee houses and book stores. Life is slow in most of New Orleans - here it seems to be in some kind of coma. Also here is the most famous of New Orleans many cemeteries - La Fayette cemetery - posthumous home, I think, to a number of well known historical names, but I elected not to explore it. The crypts above ground are a little un-nerving, and its a little like walking through a morgue with stone drawers. No ta.

So, morning expedition over, I turned and walked back to the French quarter. I briefly considered taking the streetcar (actually it's more like a bus really) but after refuelling in one of the aforementioned coffee houses, embarked on the long trek across town on foot.

Cafe Maspero and The Mighty Muffalletta

Right at the edge of the French Quarter is Cafe Maspero. I hadn't realised it, but we'd actually stopped in here at closing time on the first night for alcohol mopping scran. I don't want to say it's a local favourite, but apparently during a phase of New Orleans people getting miffed about the 'foreign' restaurants opening all over the quarter, one local was heard to point out that it wasn't a bad thing, as at least the lines at Cafe Maspero would be shorter.

Indeed, there was a quite substantially longer queue than we'd stood in for ice tea and french fries at 3am last Friday. This time though, after my major walk across town, I had the mighty muffalletta in my sights. The muffalletta is the king of sandwiches - it's a bun; nay, a LOAF, about 10 inches across, packed to the gunnels with Italian meats, cheese and topped with vinegary olive salad. Cafe Maspero makes a human sized muffalletta, in a round bun about 5 inches across. They then however, have the audacity to serve it with chips, and offer you dessert when you push the half full plate across the bar in gluttonous defeat.

It was on my list of things to try, and I'm glad I had one, but the olives and the vinegar in the dressing was a little too much for me. I found myself picking out the interesting bits quite quickly, and still tasting the olive salad for most of the afternoon.

Bourbon Street - One Last Time

They say New Orleans never sleeps. That's funny, because to survive it, you need a lot of sleep, and I hadn't been getting my quota. In short I was knackered. On my final night in a city it is my tradition to return to the best place I've eaten, and spend the evening in my favourite bar of the holiday. I didn't really need a meal after my mighty muffalletta for late lunch, and Donna's was closed for Thanksgiving. Which is probably just as well as I couldn't handle the walk.

Bourbon Street, however, is just a stumble away. My trusty Tricou House, or its neighbour the Funky Pirate would surely give me a good night out?

There is one other place on Bourbon Street I wanted to try though - Fritzel's. It's a small, unassuming place which seems to cater for the slightly more serious jazz crowd on Bourbon. Football shirts and Mardi-Gras beads are not welcome here.

There's a trio playing - a drummer, a bass player, and a man who alternated between various saxes, a trumpet and a clarinet. The music was nice enough, but it was pretty much everyone taking turns at doing solos, while the (mainly older) audience applauded politely at the appropriate moments. They may have been wearing smart suits and playing a classy club, but they didn't have half the passion and energy of the rag tag bunch I'd seen at Donna's on Sunday night.

They did however sell Beck's on tap (in a real glass no less!!) but at 7 bucks a pop, I wouldn't be drinking too many of them. A man who I took to be the owner was wandering around smiling a lot, shaking a lot of hands and generally beaming across the little den which was obviously his life long dream - a man passionate about what he was doing in any case. He'd eyed me suspiciously when I entered, but after I started tapping to the music at the bar and ordering his expensive import beer, he seemed to accept my presence.

Detracting slightly from the civilised up market atmosphere he'd worked so hard to create was the framed clipping from 'The Sun' depicting the Spice Girls getting down with some tight men in suits on the stage of this very establishment. One wonders if the bar owner fully understands the demographic that The Sun caters to at home.

I left Fritzel's in search of familiarity, relaxation and a generally gentle night to round off my trip to New Orleans, but in truth what I really needed to be doing was going to bed. In Tricou House a raucous band were playing Blues Brothers style tunes. Vince Vance was the main man - he pranced around the stage looking like a complete twit with a haircut straight out of an Austin Powers movie. He could easily have been one of Mike Myers creations. In front of the stage, three pretty girls sang in turn (actually reasonably well), although their main purpose was to walk around with a tip jar each competing for who could get the most dollar bills. I thought I'd timed my entry poorly when they hit me for a tip after that first track, but when they hit us all again two songs later I realised we were being fleeced. The next couple of tracks were quite possibly the most ridiculous and excruciating live music experience I've ever had. I was necking my beer as quickly as possible just to get out of there. I couldn't believe that the bar I'd come to believe was Bourbon's last haven for the Real Deal could become a horrific tourist hole on just another night.

When they broke into YMCA it was time for a sharp exit.

The Funky Pirate's resident Big Al Carson was playing next door, but the gargantuan man mountain was just belting out 'Stand By Me' to a bunch of tourists who didn't know any better. I gave it a miss. I was now totally jaded by the Bourbon Street experience, and had to just slink back to the hotel and sleep off the funk.

Leaving Louisiana

It was Wednesday, and I had a flight out to Florida, to join Bill and his family for Thanksgiving dinner. I had a long leisurely breakfast in the hotel courtyard (which had become a favourite hang out point for the week) before nipping out for souvenir and gift shopping. I rounded off the trip with a Crawfish Po'boy from Johnny's, hopped on the shuttle bus to the airport, and waved goodbye to New Orleans. It had been a mixed trip, but I had had a fabulous time. Bourbon Street had disappointed, but the city had not.

New Orleans, it seems, can be enjoyed on many levels - if you want Spring Break every weekend, it's easy to find. If you want what I'd always thought New Orleans was famous for though, its music and its heritage, you need to be prepared to put in a little effort and do some leg work. It took me a couple of days to realise that I needed to invest some effort to get the reward, but the reward had been worthwhile. Some of the music I will never forget, and the warmth of the genuine Louisiana people will stay with me forever.

Top New Orleans tips

I'll round off with a few quick top tips to any potential visitors:

1. Donna's Bar and Grill – on the corner of St Ann and Rampart. It's not in the best neighbourhood though, so either walk up St Ann street from the French Quarter carefully (as opposed to walking along Rampart) or take a cab – I promise it's worth it.
2. Tricou House - 711 Bourbon – be picky about when you go though – make sure Vince Vance or whatever his bl**dy name is isn't within 10 miles of the place. If St. Louis Slim is there, don't leave, and if he has a CD by then, buy two and send one to me.
3. Snug Harbor on Frenchmen Street – I didn't quite make it inside, but it looked really nice and everybody recommends it.
4. Cajun music – The Lost Bayou Ramblers play the Apple Barrel on Frenchmen regularly, though not always on the same night of the week. You could call to see when they're on.
5. Petunia's crepes. Pick any of them – they all looked wonderful.
6. Johnny's Po'Boys. Ditto.
7. The Garden District. It's a trek (or a streetcar ride) but it's beautiful.
8. Gumbo. You MUST have Gumbo.
9. The weissbier in the Crescent City Brewhouse. The best I've had outside of Germany.

Thanks...

I'd like to mention a few people who made this trip the fun it was. Firstly Kate, who took time out from her conference, and introduced me to the Friday night party brigade. Speaking of which, thanks and best wishes to Erin, Kelly, Seth, Dave, Laura, Kathy and Pearl. And anyone else I missed because I'm c**p with names and drank too much on Friday night.

Also thanks to the old couple outside the Jazz museum... just for stopping and being nice; and to St Louis Slim, for some top music, and top recommendations too.

For the Florida leg, thanks to Bill and the Clutter family for the best dadgum turkey dressing I ever did taste, and for making me feel part of the family for the whole thanksgiving thing.

Y'awll come back real soon now...

The Psycho Chicken

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