Frank had showered and I thought I’d finally make the effort to get up, but a Charlie horse from hell had me violently thrusting back n forth trying to control the intense pain from the spasms in my left calf. When it was finally over, I couldn’t bear to move. I laid in bed and Frank left for coffee.
He came back with a look of disgust and a tasty granita from PJ’s. He told me the tale of the business owners around Bourbon Street attempting to wash “the sin” away by hosing the filth out into the streets. He said his walk was completely nauseating. Who knew the Charlie horse from hell would be the win? I hobbled out of bed feeling aches and pains radiating from my ankle, and now, my calf. Lovely.
We were in search of food. I thought it was time we get our hands on a muffuletta, but when I checked the address for Central Grocery I learned it was closed Sundays and Mondays. Boo. A quick search revealed Johnny’s Po-Boys a tasty alternative. It was recently featured on “The Best Thing I Ever Ate.” Sold! We were off.
The restaurant was crowded, but a line was just starting to form. I secured a table, while Frank placed the order. He got Johnny’s special and biscuit sammie for him and a toasted muffuletta for me since that’s supposed to be “best.” We waited and waited, our number was called, and I asked Frank if he wanted a hand? “Nah.” Famous last words, he got nudged on his way back to the table. All the sandwiches splattered into a million pieces. I attempted a save, much too late and only protected a slab of hot meat from hitting the floor. We cleaned up the mess one napkin at a time. A sweet southern lady beside us gave us a sympathetic look combined with a “bless your heart.” Once the bulk of the mess was clean Frank went up to the counter explained what happened and they fired up a replacement, only Frank forgot to mention the biscuit. It might have just been the best thing ever, but we’ll never know. We dug into our sandwiches after we safely secured them at the table. Attempt two was far more successful.
The eats, however, were not. I ate a quarter of muffuletta so I could take Ibuprofen, but I didn’t like it. Not being a fan of olives I didn’t expect to love it, but I had to try. The meats failed to impress, my kindest words go out to the bread. Frank didn’t love his po-boy either. The roast beef was dry and bland despite the addition of gravy. We were raised on Chicago Italian beef – roast beef never measures up, we should know better.
We walked up towards the Riverfront and walked along the Mississippi. It was like seeing an old friend. We’ve camped along the river in Iowa and we’ve seen it up near St. Paul, MN.
We took the riverwalk which led us to Harrah’s. We went inside and had a look around. It was nice, nicer than casinos in East Chicago, Reno, Laughlin and Vegas. After a quick lap, we left; we didn’t come to waste away in a casino. We walked down Canal Street and popped in and out of souvenir stores in search of sunglasses. I forgot to pack two things, I bet you can guess one; the other was umbrellas which thankfully were never needed. We came up empty, but scored later at CVS.
It was getting close to game time so we wandered the quarter in search of the Bears game.
Finding any game besides the Saints was tough enough, the Bears seemed near impossible. We found it at Rick’s Saloon. Yes, that’d be a strip club. I looked over the beer list and saw that pints were $8.00. I thought it could get pricey so we moved on thinking we might find a bar on Decatur. We did find an Irish bar. It even had the Bears game, but it was packed there were no seats left. We stayed for a beer: Abita Amber, me and Abita Fall Harvest, him.
We wandered a full loop and ended up back at Rick’s. We met fellow Bear fans, we had a TV to ourselves and it turned out Abita Amber was on special during the games, 2 for $9. Boobs, beer and Bears! We were set, with comfy chairs, too. So, we didn’t come to waste away in a casino, but we did in a strip club. How I love the irony. We had a great afternoon! Bears won, Detroit even snagged a win. We shared a cigar. The women’s bathroom was clean and large. I was so impressed. More often than not, if I want to use the bathroom in a strip club, I use the one the strippers use. It’s never been pretty. All the games ended, Green Bay was up next beers had been flowing, I was in need of food. Frank was feeling pretty good, too. Our new friends recommended Muriel’s but it was upscale so we nixed it.
We ended up at Deanie’s Seafood. We had boiled potatoes to start – that was a first. Frank ordered the crab au gratin and I opted for BBQ Shrimp pasta.
Both were good, just not particularly noteworthy. We paid our tab and went back to the hotel. I wanted sleep and I chills I could not contain.
Frank looked for another place to grab a bite while I dozed off and on still unable to shake the chills. He dragged me from bed and we went to Desire on Bourbon St. It’s hard to take any white table cloth type place seriously when the Bourbon St madness is happening right outside. We start with Oysters Desire. I opt for Turtle Soup not being terribly hungry and I hoped it’d warm me up. Frank tried their version of Jambalaya.
The oysters were tasty, I think I prefer them baked to freshly shucked. I wasn’t a fan of the turtle soup. There was something about it that reminded me of Chili and I hate chili. The waiter brought over a shot of brandy and it helped it none. I did not like Frank’s Jambalaya either. He agreed he liked my Zatarain’s with LA Red Hots version better.
We went back to the hotel to watch the rest of the Sunday night game. I climbed under the covers, I still could not kick the chills. Frank asked if I wanted to head back out or sleep? I voted for sleep. I’d give you my list of excuses, except I know, I’m lame.
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