Falling Bullets Do Kill

There is nothing I like more than getting to know new people, places, or things.  I love to drive or walk around New Orleans and study the architecture, people watch fools in the Quarter, and drool over the greasy smells permeating from the numerous kitchens on every block.  However, this is my first New Years Eve in this city and if I am to learn anything from my birthday it is that I will begin participating in celebrations I used to scoff at in the past.  And judging by the groggy hangover that has a hold on me right now I am not one to ever get up and preach on a soap box.  Except for right now.

Tonight, let's drink in celebration.

In a city where overindulgence is part of everyday life I understand that this statement is, well, confusing. Sure, you can celebrate the beginning of a new year with 10 Jameson shots with friends and a 12-pack of High Life, but when you wake up tomorrow on the first day of 2012 with a moral hangover are you really setting yourself up for success?  Did we not learn from 2011 that things are only meant to start picking up and making things better.  Too many years went by where I did not celebrate New Years because to me it stood for crying girlfriends yelling at inebriated boyfriends, overzealous drinking and a coma before the ball drop, and way too many ambient ambulance siren noises.  But even New Orleans has a way of stepping it up a notch, as I listened to on a local radio station:

"Hey everybody, the lineup for New Years bands is looking good, but let's remember that falling bullets do kill people.  So let's not have a re-do of last year and let's keep guns out of the celebration and violence off our streets."

Instead of a birthday cake, my parents graciously bestowed to me a shrink-wrapped filet and a bottle of Garnache wine.  With a side of green beans and roasted potatoes my night will certainly be beginning with a celebration.  A new city, a new neighborhood, a new home, a new family of friends, and a new outlook of optimism and prosperity for my new year is how I will be ringing in this year. 

So whether it is with a "salu", "chin-chin", "slainte", or "cheers", please think to what you are drinking to,  who you are drinking for, and how your celebration can become other people's morning newspaper news with one fatal shot.

Forgotten Fernet

I was born on December 27^th a little over two decades ago and no, my birthdays have never been quite the celebration.  Sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one all passed with about the same excitability as my eleventh.  Joint presents, friends out of town, and leftover Christmas cakes with candles are only the beginning of the clichés that surround my ill-placed “personal day of celebration”.  So, it was of total surprise that I found myself driving back to my new home in New Orleans to meet friends for a birthday that had been already planned out and put into place—by people other than myself. 

I was promised that this year would be different (read as fun).  So, in attempts to live up to the way of life in the Big Easy my birthday was planned around eating, imbibing and eating some more.  And after all I do live in the city of champions.  The Super Dome advertises it, the numerous restaurants represent it, and the people that this city is comprised of live it.  So today I would be a champion and visit two of the most talked about happy hours: Chef John Besh’s , Lüke and Domenica. 

Lüke was up first.  And I went.  And I saw.  But conquering might be open to opinion.  After a day of French Quarter ordered chaos I chose pâtÉ de campagne local pork, and almost two dozen 50 cent P&J oysters so talked about, as my “first course”.  I however severely overestimated my stomach’s capability to expand and keep up with the rate at which I devour my most coveted foods.  And needless to say I was knocked down but not out for the count.  It would be hard to admit that in all my naïve excitement I could have potentially ruined my own birthday with indigestion if it wasn’t for my determination to still head towards the Roosevelt hotel where Domenica is nestled.

I could not object my poor stomach to any more edible punishment, so my friend and I slid into two alligator-covered bar seats at the Sazerac Bar. And this is where I was introduced to the most underappreciated, manmade, god-given remedy.  Fernet branca and soda.

The sazerac (the drink) needs no introduction if one is even vaguely familiar with New Orleans, but fewer cocktail lovers know and understand the importance of bitters.  Now as “mixologists”, “cocktail chefs”, and whatever other pretentious terms have been invented, I would find it hard to believe if bitters did not skyrocket into stardom in the coming year.  Fernet is one of the most treasured of the herbaceous blends for chefs always tasting on the line and food lovers (like myself) who can’t seem to just put the fork down and close their mouths. 

         Fernet is a combination of numerous herbs and spices such as myrrh, aloe, saffron, and even wormwood and St. John’s wort, although those are just rumors.  Used mainly as a digestif (my preferred function that day) it can be mixed into other cocktails, soda, tea or coffee.  With the aforementioned ingredients it’s not hard to realize that sliding up to the bar and asking for a fernet and soda will not be the drink for a lazy afternoon, but trust me, if you love to eat as much and as often as I do just remember the forgotten bitter.