CHRIS THOMSON
For a French-founded city, central New Orleans has appalling coffee that is difficult to get in anything but a take-away cup – even when you’re dining in.
But New Orleans is not about the coffee. Grog – and plenty of it – is the beverage of choice.
We wander down to Bourbon Street at 2.30 on a Tuesday morning after a late-night flight from Los Angeles.
The lively strip is closed to cars so revellers can stagger at their leisure from kerb to kerb, brews in hand. The street stinks of urine and vomit.
New Orleans might arguably be the birthplace of jazz and the home of the blues but there is not a saxophone to be seen on its most famous street.
Inside the gaudy bars and strip clubs it’s getting hot in there and people are taking off all their clothes.
Think Aberdeen Street, Northbridge, at closing time – to the power of 10.
We bail and head back to the hotel and to bed.
Five hours later we awake and wander back to discover Bourbon Street has been hosed down – and last night’s clientele replaced by a gentile set of short-wearing tourists.
During the hullabaloo of the night before, the beauty of the street – and the French Quarter it punctuated – had been far from apparent.
The wrought-iron verandahs of the brick and timber shops remind me of pre-Bjelke Brisbane.
Autumn has arrived but the humidity hangs heavy.
Before heading here I’d heard the French Quarter lacked authenticity – and I was expecting an amped up version of Fremantle’s renovated but increasingly plastic West End.
Not true. Many of the buildings are rickety, and most are jaded – in a good way. There is no Botox here. The buildings’ wrinkles and warts are there for the world to see.
The French Quarter is extensive and well worth a long visit.
The further from Bourbon you go, the quainter the Quarter becomes.
Pet cats stretch out on stoops and voodoo shops carry a doll for every occasion.
Street musicians start infusing the air with acoustic Ragtime.
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Chew Guevara
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Lineup at Irvin Mayfield’s Jazz Playhouse.
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Hat shop not far from French Quarter.
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Bourbon Street rap robots.
Above a city devastated six years ago by hurricane, purple storm clouds roll in from the Gulf.
Half a dozen heavy rain drops land, then the deluge begins. Pedestrians seek refuge in bars or under verandahs.
Any muck still stuck from the night before is pelted from the pavement in seconds.
But the storm lasts just 10 minutes, freeing us to return to our hotel.
A lengthy snooze and some emails to home later, and it’s back to Bourbon – this time at a decent hour.
It’s about 7.30pm, and the dearth of live music from the early morning before has been rectified.
Street performers – good ones – emerge.
A healthy dose of blues, ragtime, zydeco and even country competes with Top 40 stuff from the less salubrious establishments.
One of the better establishments – Irvin Mayfield’s Jazz Playhouse – provides respite from the streetside ya-ya.
Accessed off Bourbon Street through the shiny lobby of an upmarket hotel, the club’s vibe is similar to The Ellington back in Perth – though plusher, with no cover charge or dress code, and no staff telling chatting customers to pipe down.
Tonight, a sax-slinging professor of jazz, Ed Petersen from the University of New Orleans, leads a be-bop quartet.
Between songs he recites extracts of Myrtle the Turtle in a tribute to Dr Seuss.
New Orleans is not as famed for modern jazz as it is for the ragtime once trailblazed by its most famous son Louis Armstrong.
But Petersen’s band is great and one senses that to play any kind of jazz gig in this city a musician must be good.
Petersen leads three younger lions – Paul Thibodeaux (drums), Barry Stephenson (bass) and Brian Coogan (piano) - in a sometime spicy, sometime sombre, but always swinging set.
The fried green tomatoes and Californian chardonnay served with style to our table are delicious.
The reputation of Bourbon Street has been restored.