We be jammin’ - part deux

Forgive me, gentle readers, for regaling you for two consecutive weeks with stories about my trip to New Orleans. But as I said last week, the Big Easy is among my favorite places and I can never set foot in the French Quarter without coming away with more stories than you could shake a stick at, if that’s your idea of a good time.
We’ve talked about the music and the museums, which are the primary drawing cards as far as my wife and I are concerned, but there is lots more to make the eight hour drive worthwhile. Let us spend a few idle moments talking about the culinary attractions.
Creole cooking is an acquired taste and some folks never can get accustomed to all the spicy dishes. After all, not everybody keeps a bottle of tabasco sauce on the dining room table along with the salt and pepper. But for those whose tastes run to such things, the French Quarter offers more opportunities to indulge yourself than any place I know of.
Then there are the Bananas Foster at Brennan’s and the cafe’ au lait and bignets at the Cafe Du Monde. The list of delicacies is quite impressive.
The thing about the food, or most anything else in New Orleans, is that there always seems to be something unexpected awaiting each foray into the unfamiliar. Usually, these little surprises are quite pleasant, but not always.
There are other stories I could tell, but they all include my wife, Roxanne. She has made it clear to me that I would be wise to limit the number of tales I tell about her, so you’ll just have to make do with this one.
One night, the Rock and I had dinner at a little night spot that was new to us - the Tricou House. Like many of the quaint, smaller bistros along Bourbon Street, this establishment is a former private residence of considerable age, in the neighborhood of 250 years. The bar area featured a live band, and the restaurant seating was in an open courtyard, complete with large, decorative fountains.
It should be noted that every club, bar and bistro in the Quarter has its own “specialty” drink intended to compete with the Hurricane served at the famous Pat O’Brien’s Lounge. Of course, they all serve their own version of the Hurricane, too.
In case you’ve never experienced one, a Hurricane is a combination of sweet fruit punch and dark rum, garnished with a cherry and an orange slice. It is an insidious concoction that attacks without warning. The alcohol content is almost completely undetectable until you try to stand up and suddenly discover that some miscreant has absconded with your feet.
At the Tricou House, the specialty is called a Crusher. The name should have told me all I needed to know but, being stupid, I had to try one. This evil mixture includes rum and banana liquor. The blurb on the menu that describes this drink claims, “It ‘crushes’ the Hurricane.” Neighbors, I’m here to tell you that ain’t all it crushes.
Our meal consisted of jambalaya and sea food gumbo, both of which were excellent. Or, they were as far as I could tell. It is possible that my taste buds were not functioning at peak efficiency after subjecting them to the Crusher.
As we were getting up to leave, or attempting to do so, my wife felt something touch the top of her foot. She thought I had dropped something and asked if I was going to pick it up.
Having seen what had touched her foot, I had no intention of picking it up. It was an 18-inch-long rat that had just brushed Roxanne’s toes as it leapt over her sandal.
I decided I’d wait until we were out on the street to tell her what had happened, figuring she might need some extra room if she took it into her head to faint. But the Rock took the news like the trooper she is. With a cheerful smile on her face, she said, “I think I need another Hurricane.”