Rum tour! The Erin Rose is the meeting place for our van. One of the many little bars that just feels good, not obnoxious. Martin and Denise arrive first, then the two of us, then Rita. The music that's been chosen on the jukebox is more BCB friendly. Iggy Pop's Nightclubbing gets me grinning.
Our tour guide collects us. Turns out the driver is also going to be our guide. He herds us in, picks up a few more people, then we're off. He tells us we will be given a cool drink when we arrive. Already a great start. The drink is iced sweet tea with spiced rum. This is a fantastic combination. The tour is entertaining. At one point when it's explained that the proof winds up getting all the way up to 185 during the process, I blurt out "And we're going to taste that, right?". As it turns out, later on we did. Just pure blinding, but palatable, hooch. After the tour we are led back to the entrance/gift shop/bar where we get to taste each of their current offerings. Which also happen to be available to purchase. The Gingeroo, one of their more recent ventures, makes everybody happy. Several of these are purchased by our crew. The Spiced Rum seems to be the other hit. Joe & I also have a few bottles shipped home. While we all got to satisfy ourselves about the 10 year old rum so rare that you can only purchase it at the distillery, the rum that survived Katrina, none of us felt that inclinded to own it. Nor did we like it a great deal.
Back in the French Quarter we wind up dispersing. I've ducked into an antiques store with Longlegs after sighting a gold ring with two dragons and a jade cabochon. Alas, prohibitively priced. And didn't fit the correct finger to be the significant ring it would be meant to be. Too big, and too ornate to be sized.
Our thoughts turn to food. We're standing on Iberville when I see Acme Oyster House. I don't know, it's just talking to me. And there's another oyster place on the other side of the street. Longlegs wishes jambalaya (no, that's not an euphemism), so I attack the Yelp app only to be given the place we're closest to anyway with a healthy star rating: Acme Oyster House. The fact that there's a small line outside during an off-peak hour seems daunting, but we're in soon enough. Seated at the shucking bar, which is the best place to be. We've ordered a few non-oyster things but then the couple seated to our left is delivered a dish reeking of savory garlic and cheese. What's
that? We'll have one of those too.
Damn. Everything was good. I mean really good. We go from rating it as a top ten experience shared to each agreeing that it might apply to our individual lifetime top ten meals.
The evening has the first bottle of Gingeroo consumed promptly at poolside.
Livet orders a pizza from the hotel bar, so we linger at our courtyard table for awhile.
We finish a second bottle of Gingeroo
We don't have a set plan for the night, so we wander in the direction of Frenchman Street.
One of the things I'm possibly thinking is that it would be a blast to get a six-pack and board one of the carriage tours. I'm imagining that the Friday Night French Quarter traffic might make it a slower process, getting us a little more ride for our money. We walk past to get to Frenchman, where there's a chunk of music venues. Nothing calls us in specifically. It's a weird time of evening where the bands that played the early evening set will be wrapping up and another act not due to come on for some time. We do notice the Stooges Brass Band is appearing, but we'd just seen them the night before. We hit a gourmet popsicle place Livet had enjoyed earlier in the day as well. And then we find ourselves back to the collection of carriages outside Jackson Square. It's toward the end of their day, but at least one guy has a little hustle, suggesting a carriage ride. "Got room for five?" Sure, get on board.
This is the action that gets me to badly injur a toe at a New Orleans jolly for the second time in a row. At least I'm consistent. And, having such a good time I don't realize how bad it is until much later.
Our guide is a riot. Fiesty fucker who is as much on about his mules as he is about explaining the sights. And it seems that he's just as inclined to give history regarding restaurants and which celeb bought which house as he is the actual history of the city. There's times I look at Livet and that megawatt smile of hers is even broader than usual. This is a piss. I fail to notice what Joe has, that our guide is also nipping from his hip flask.
After the ride we stay admiring the mules and talking more. We wind up calling it an early night. After all, the jolly proper is the next day. And the swamp tour.