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.

I arrived in New Orleans late at night, having gone through a 17 hour ordeal to get there. I was in no mood for anything other than crashing in my hotel and possibly reading a bit, which I did (the result of which is the unusual amount of actual history stuff that's in this). The hotel was ideally placed on the edge of the French Quarter – two blocks from the legendary Bourbon Street, and a short walk from New Orleans' other main music and bar scene, the Faubourg Marigny. Some of that short walk might require a body guard, but it's an easy cab ride.

Firstly, a couple of things to know about New Orleans:

1. It's not called New Orleans. It's called anything ranging from Noolins, through Neworlans, to N'Awwlins, depending on who you speak to. Only tourists actually pronounce the whole name. Sometimes the locals even look at you funny, so get used to at least compromising on Neworlans, which is what I stuck to.
2. More than possibly any other place in the US, New Orleans commands respect. This is no mean city, and outside of the largely tourist-oriented French Quarter, you need to keep your valuables hidden, and your wits about you. Cabs are essential for getting places safely, and the driver will not complain if you ask him to take you a couple of blocks you don't fancy walking down – he's probably used to it.
3. It may seem like an olde worlde kind of place, but everything and everyone has a website.

New Orleans Fast Food

The hotel was also convenient for the first stop on my Neworlans tour – The famous Café Du Monde for café au lait and beignets. Café au lait is not in fact just fancy milky coffee in a tourist trap on the Champs Elysees, but in fact a New Orleans speciality of coffee spiced with all sorts including (bizarrely) chicory and nutmeg. Even more bizarrely it tastes wonderful. Beignets (start counting the pseudo-French from here) in turn are another New Orleans speciality – the b*****d child of an American doughnut and a French croissant, dusted in enough powdered sugar to give you palpitations for the rest of the day.

Beignets it seems are served in threes, which means you get the one you need because you're hungry, the one you eat because the first one was so good and the one you carry around all day in a little paper bag to eat later. New Orleans is full of people carrying a camera in one hand and a Café-du-monde paper bag in the other – no doubt containing a single beignet and two pounds of powdered sugar.

So that's point one on my culinary list ticked off. Point two? Po' Boys. Apparently so called because they were to keep a 'poor boy's' hunger at bay all day, these massive sandwiches come in all shapes and fillings, yet only one size, and it's blooming huge. This being the beginning of the trip, I'm still living off the guidebook, and it recommends that the best po' boys are to be found at Johnny's Po' Boys. Johnny puts everything and anything with salad in a massive French style roll, and boasts that 'even his failures are edible'.

Eager to indulge in some seafood, I opted for a Crawfish Po' Boy, which whether it was a failure or not, was most definitely edible. Up there with the best sandwiches I've ever eaten in fact. I wanted to go and have a little lie down afterwards, but that was kind of the idea. Besides – I needed the energy, as I was to hike across town this afternoon to check out the Garden District – a swish end of town with architecture to die for and generally a nice place to wander around.

Where is the Garden District? - part 1

Now to explain this whole 'French Quarter', 'Garden District' thing you need a bit more history I'm afraid, which is a lot more fun than I thought it'd be to be honest, but you can safely skip to the drinking bit if you like.

That history apparently starts around the 1680s, when a couple of French Canadians stumbled on the place. I say stumbled, because apparently one of them was later lynched by his own crew because his complete lack of leadership and navigation skills nearly killed the lot of them on more than one occasion. 20 years later, some bloke named Iberville (he now has a prominent street in his honour) arrived and declared New Orleans the capital of the then expanding French empire. Which was kind of unfortunate, as the whole of Louisiana had already been entrusted to the Mississippi Company, which was run by a Scots bloke called John Law. Law, however, won over the French government and convinced them (and his shareholders – some things never change) that New Orleans would make a fine location for a populated colony. He chose a bend in the river that would be easily defended from the British who were at the time also expanding their own interests in the 'New World'. It had the Mississippi river to the south, and a large lake (Lake Pontchatrain) to the North for water supplies. Ideal? Well, not really. The unfortunate thing about the Mississippi is that it floods a lot. After (I'm sure) a few disasters, the settlers erected a small levee to keep the river where it was, and, at least 8 feet below sea level, founded what is now the 'French Quarter'.

In the 1730's John Law's company gave up the region to French control once more (for reasons I don't know), and the whole area was used for plantations and estates, all in an attempt to establish French country-style living for the opulent in the New World. All in all, New Orleans must have been to the French what New York seemed to be to many West Europeans in the late 19th Century – a place where the streets were paved with gold, and the living was easy.

So in the latter half of the 18th Century, New Orleans was doing pretty well, all things considered. Until the people of this new colony discovered that a couple of years previously the French king had effectively gifted the lot of it to the Spanish. Charming. To top it off it took 2 years for the Spanish to actually send someone there.

This, understandably, p****d of the New Orlean-eans right royally, who demanded the deposition of the King, the removal of the guy in charge, and generally the right to run their own affairs. Basically all they were doing was shouting and complaining a bit, but when he heard of it, the King of Spain sent a whole bunch of heavies in to kick ass. This they did with all the subtlety of a Dodge Ram, and re-instated Spanish rule. The Spanish intermixed with the French dignitry and the 'Creoles' were born.

When, in the tail end of the 18th Century, fires devastated the city on more than one occasion, many of the original French style buildings were destroyed, and the Spanish replaced them with their own architecture – ornate plaster buildings, with balconies, courtyards, and (of course) slave quarters. But for the Spanish, New Orleans was not a going concern – despite trade restrictions and taxes, it just wasn't supporting itself, so France took the whole shooting match off their hands for peanuts in 1800, and promptly sold the lot to America three years later. Now if the Creoles weren't happy with the Spanish taking over New Orleans, then flogging it to the Americans was downright outrageous. Surely this wasn't the end of European lifestyle in the New World?

So, when the Americans showed up to live in New Orleans (and show up they did), they were told in no uncertain terms that they were not welcome. Or at least, not in the Vieux Carre (the French Quarter, or literally 'the old square'), where the original population maintained what must have seemed a horrid way of life to the newcomers. So they settled beyond Canal Street, and created a Central Business District (the generic American kind – it's much like Cleveland's incidentally) and further out, streets of vast Southern mansions in what is now known as 'The Garden District', and New Orleans became two parallel cities with little intermingling. The Americans however (as they are wont to do) brought prosperity and wealth to the city with their businesses. This, along with the Civil War brought the two societies together, but the city still remains divided in Architectural terms.

Phew. That was a mouthful. Anyway. The Garden District. It's here somewhere I know it is. I've been walking for blooming hours and it's all just American city centre. In fact it's starting to get a bit iffy frankly, and I'm meeting up with Kate and her friends very shortly. Sod it. Guide books lie. But the history was kind of fun.

The drinking bit starts here, just in case you skipped the history bit.

So I met up with Kate and her Anthropology colleagues at her hotel – a swish business type place in the centre of the CBD. By this point it looked amazingly like we had been transported to Chicago, although plainly not in late November as, although we were basically surrounded on three sides by sky scrapers, it was around 70F and there was no snow. The Midwest in Winter it may not have been, but it was still not exactly the sort of weather to be lounging around in an outdoor pool. This apparently didn't stop one person – we noticed him slumped against the side of the pool, and were forced to wait until he moved just in case he had actually expired or required an ambulance.

Hurricanes and Hand Grenades - Bourbon Street by Night

So – Friday night on Bourbon Street was promised and Friday night on Bourbon Street was delivered. Starting, as is touristy and traditional, with Pat O'Brien's – a courtyard restaurant on the main drag with all the New Orleans charm of the Horse Shoe Bar in Glasgow. It's basically TGI Friday's, Louisiana style. The same irritating service, the same pretty good but far from amazing food, and the same clientele of drunken loonies. Still, the scran was good, we all got to know one another and we got to try the World Famous Hurricane (point three on the New Orleans taste tour).

A hurricane is a rum based drink, which comes in a large glass filled with mainly ice and fruit juice, meaning it's not actually a lethal as they'd have you believe. It's not as nice as they'd have you believe either, but you have to do these things. What you DON'T have to do, however, is the huge one you can order in the bar which sits directly on the floor and comes with about eight 4 foot long straws allowing everyone to sample it. Now that's just plain silly. The little ones (which are still about a pint) are plenty enough, and as a neat gimmick you can buy the glass. Actually, you AUTOMATICALLY buy the glass – you essentially pay a $3 deposit on it which is redeemable at the bar on the way out. Crafty b*ggers.

Right – the annoying eating thing out of the way, let's get the party started.

The party starts in a place called Tropical Isle . Again, it's speciality drink time (although Kate and I elected to hit the beers). Tropical Isle's little niche is the 'Hand Grenade' – supposedly Bourbon Street's strongest tipple. It comes directly from a tap on a machine a little like a small tumble dryer filled with impossibly green goo into a plastic test-tube-like vessel with a hand grenade shape moulded into the bottom. It also comes with a straw, and a little squishy plastic hand grenade floating in it, which you can use to suck up the stuff and squirt it around, which is vastly preferable to actually drinking it.

There is here a man (I think) dressed as a hand grenade. He has a bulbous green body (appropriately rugged) and silly little legs sticking out the bottom. Bizarrely he is able to make his nose move in and out at great speed. He can also spin on his head – a trick he is very keen to demonstrate on passing punters. Maybe I'm too old, maybe I'm too British – maybe I'm just too SOBER, but... why?

Next stop – tourist tack central, and the first of many times this trip I will be forced to redefine the term. Bourbon Street, apart from bars and restaurants is home to a great number of tourist tack emporiums, selling obscene T-shirts (one read, much to my great amusement and temptation 'f**k you, you f**king f**k'), Mardi Gras style masks and in some cases pornography and sex toys. They also sell Mardi Gras beads, which is strange because it hasn't been Mardi Gras for some months now, but I can only assume the tradition carries on throughout the year. For those unfamiliar with the concept of Mardi Gras beads, allow me to enlighten you.

Gentlemen, or more likely, blokes, buy strings of said Mardi Gras beads (they're cheap plastic things on string, let's not get too elaborate a view of these now. Some have evolved to have pendants ranging from slogans to football helmets on the ends, but the principle's the same) which they carry around their necks as they progress down the street, and towards alcoholic oblivion. At some point during this spiritual journey they will encounter an attractive young lady. After determining which of the triplets in front of him is actually the real one, he presents her with a touching gift of a string of Mardi Gras beads, an act of such generosity, that the lady concerned is supposed to repay him with a display of her chest. In these enlightened times (or more likely, these colder months) the tradition would appear to be changing to the gentleman earning a kiss for his gift, but it's the thought that counts.

Moving swiftly onwards, and it's time for some of that live music that New Orleans is supposed to be famous for. Some of our party had encountered a band in a bar the previous evening which they were keen to see again. Actually, the female members of the party thought the frontman was kind of yummy, so that was that decided. We reached the La Strada with drinks in hand (you can carry your beer around in Bourbon Street, as long as it's in a plastic cup) and entered the bar.

Now most of the bars on Bourbon do not have a cover charge, however they do have prominent signs 'encouraging' you to make sure you buy at least one drink per music set. Given that a music set is around 40 minutes or so, and the beers are little and weak, that's not normally a problem, but some are persistent, nay, hostile, in enforcing this rule. La Strada was no exception, so immediately on entry we bought a round of beers to keep them happy and sat at the bar. This didn't stop one barmaid (a cross between Bet Lynch and a Doberman) stomping up after about three minutes and declaring 'If you wanna stay here, you gotta buy a drink RIGHT now'. She slammed her fist on the bar and glared down at me, and her nostrils flared. The fire in her eyes was frightening. I had no other choice...

'OK, I'll have a beer then.'

Bet Doberman snatched a plastic cup from beneath the bar and splashed American lager into it with all the panache of a Chieftain Tank tiptoeing through a daisy field and thrust it across the bar at me. I paid her for the beer, and she earned a whole nickel tip for her efforts. She flared her (ample) nostrils once again, before disappearing back into the black lagoon. Godzilla has no chance against this woman.

Then, as if summoned from the deep by Bet, Dwayne Dopsie and the Zydeco Hellraisers took the stage.

Zydeco music is basically Cajun on steroids. It can have electric guitars, but more often than not it's accordion and fiddle, played very quickly against a backdrop of primitive percussion and metal washboards. The rudimentary vocals are shouted rather than sung, and appear to be in pigeon French. Virtuoso jazz it isn't, but it is a whole lot of fun, and the beat is infectious. You will find yourself dancing, and whooping along with the singing before long. Having survived my encounter at the bar, I had a new found joie de vivre, and was ready to follow the advice of the message across the back of the bar and 'laissez le bon temps roullez' – or 'let the good times roll'.

Dwayne himself is the main man – sporting an unlikely combination of leopard skin print cowboy hat and cowhide print waistcoat, he struts around the stage providing percussion with his boot heels on the wooden stage, playing the accordion like he's punching the living daylights out of it. Closer inspection reveals that Dwayne is also wearing contact lenses which make his irises appear white, which given that he is black, lends him a very sinister gaze. To his right is a boy who appears to be around 12 years old (but is almost certainly much older) playing a piece of corrugated iron slung around his neck with two spoons. He does this for nearly an hour non-stop with all the passion and vigour of the late great Cozy Powell.

So we spent the rest of the evening drinking and dancing while Dwayne and the boys banged out the zydeco. It was difficult to tell when one tune stopped and another started, but that didn't really matter – what mattered was that we were out on Bourbon Street; the music was playing; the beer was flowing; and the good times were most definitely rolling...

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