Had to sign a photo release for boy’s new daycare. Does this mean he’ll be sharing Cheerios with the offspring of movie stars?
I repeat, we do not want any:

And fuck you, Gustav, for making us nervous when we’re all scared as shit. What kind of third anniversary will this be?
The same Louisiana musicians might be playing all the parties at the Democratic convention, but only a select few, according to a correction in the Times-Picayune, get to feast on the trademarked combo of cream and imported crawfish known as Crawfish Monica™:
Not the real Monica: A story Sunday about Louisiana musicians who performed at the official Democratic delegate welcoming party in Denver also described efforts by the Democratic Party to simulate Louisiana cuisine, including a dish of elbow macaroni labeled “crawfish Monica.” The genuine crawfish Monica dish of Jazzfest fame, made by Kajun Kettle, was not served at the official delegate party, and Kajun Kettle did not authorize the use of its name at that delegate party, according to company President Pierre Hilzim. Kajun Kettle’s trademarked dish was served later at a separate party, sponsored by the storm recovery organization Friends of New Orleans, that featured performances by the same Louisiana musicians.
I’ll never understand the appeal of this dish.
We’re on the parade route! And not just for Thoth. This year Muses and Krewe d’Etat, two of the top night parades, will roll down Magazine Street two blocks from our house. Angus Lind of the TP has the whole scoop.
Surely the value of our home doubled overnight.
Go away, Fay! We don’t want any:

Vodka is a silly drink. And vodka makers give out silly swag. At Tales of the Cocktail last month, Rain vodka gave me a nice, wide emery board. When I file my nails, it does make me feel a bit like a woman, which makes me think of Sex and the City, where the characters often drank cosmos. But it doesn’t make me want to drink a cosmo. Just the opposite. I it makes me want to belch and drink beer.
Lucky for me Pearl vodka gave me a nice bottle opener. Great for opening beer, useless for anything related to vodka. Unless the new trend is a beer and vodka cocktail.
To be fair, though, the Absolut rep gave me a Lewis ice bag at the Museum of the American Cocktail kick off. It even came with a mallet. That is some sweet swag.
If Detroit and New Orleans were the only two cities in America, C. Ray Nagin would be the best mayor in the country. It’s my understanding, though, that we have a few other cities.
GQ searched the country for cocktails and made a list of the 20 best. It’s good to see that the Sazerac at Cochon made the cut:
Cochon’s crushingly tasty version of the Sazerac blends French panache (Herbsaint) with American guts (bourbon or rye), then claims the drink for New Orleans (with local bitters).
What exactly, though, gives the drink “French panache.” In New Orleans, many indigenous places and things have French names.
Mayor Nagin’s shiny head almost explodes when he’s confronted by WWL reporter Lee Zurick in this video. If we can’t get the worthless man thrown in prison, then maybe the press will annoy him enough that he’ll stomp off to Dallas and never return. Either way, we’ll be better off. [Thanks Yellow Blog]
The Abita Brewery is actually in Covington? Am I the last person to know this?
An innocuous post on the Gambit’s blog about Chris DeBarr’s departure from the Delachaise leads to the most hilarious string of comments. I blame Poppy Z. Brite for the making the whole thing so damn funny.
Update: Fun’s over. Gambit pulled all the comments.
The Louisiana state Ag Commissioner wants everyone to eat only local food the first week of August. This is a bad idea.
We should eat more local food, but directing a first time shopper to Louisiana’s markets in the month when they’re nearly empty won’t encourage that.
And very few people manage to eat nothing but local food. Sarah Andert wrote a Gambit Weekly cover story last week on local food. Then she tried to eat nothing but local food for a week. From what I can tell, the poor woman survived on cucumbers and bottles of Abita root beer. She proved that people who can’t cook have a hard time surviving on fresh food. She also made it seem that supporting local farmers and fishermen leads to an eating disorder. Eating local food is not a sacrifice fit only for fanatics–it supports the local economy, connects us to where our food comes from and, most importantly, gives us delicious meals.
Michael Pollan, often consider the lead zealot of the locavore movement, takes a far more sensible approach in this NPR interview. Every purchase is a vote, he says. We can’t expect to be perfect, but we can try to make a few better votes each day.
Instead of asking the state to eat nothing but Louisiana food, the Agriculture Commissioner should have asked people to add one local item a day to their diets. That would have been possible. And instead of being intimidated or frustrated, people would see the possibilities of local products.
A barge spilled 400,000 gallons of oil into the Mississippi River. The whole town smells awful. Can’t Sideny Torres clean this up?
I missed it again. In April, Frolic turned five. Hard to believe that I started this site in 2003. I’ve neglected the poor thing recently, but I promise to provide more updates. Although it’s got nothing to do with Frolic or the blog or me, I give you a rare, 1975 performance of David Bowie playing Five Years on the Dinah Shore Show:
This week on his NYT blog, Frank Bruni ranks New York restaurants on their looks. He often gets readers’ requests for recs that are more about the feel of a place than its food. And it’s not always upscale they want:
But then sometimes they want scruffy. Not true scruffy, mind you, but artful scruffy. The kind of scruffy that makes them feel that they’ve discovered an out-of-the-way lair, not that they should hurry back out the door and shower.
We’ve got plenty of true scruffy in New Orleans. Our hipsters have as many tatoos as their New York counterparts, but they’re less likely to be propped up by a trust fund.
Last week I ventured into Nighthawk Dinner and Spirits for breakfast. I’ll admit its exterior is offputting. Another writer friend of mine had driven by and decided it wasn’t the place to take her teenage son. No doubt a good call.
At one booth, a guy was passed out next to his plate of eggs. I didn’t notice him wake up, but he was gone when we left. The back room bar was already starting to see interest at 9am. This was not art directed scruff. And we certainly felt like we’d discovered an out-of-the-way lair. I didn’t, however, rush home to shower. Then again, in New Orleans during the summer everyone is always a little rank. Maybe we’re just not as fastidious as they are up North.
Turns out my actions are newsworthy. At least in a very modest, completely minor way. Buried in the middle of Kevin Allman’s report for the Gambit blog on Tales of the Cocktail, he mentions my departure from OffBeat. Yes, for the first time since I started writing–leaving aside those months after Katrina when I really did nothing–I have no regular food column.
No big story behind the split. After writing 19 months worth of columns for OffBeat, I decided it was time to focus on bigger outlets.
When I left OffBeat, I worried that I wouldn’t have enough work. I imagined months going by when I would write nothing but pointless pitches to editors who never acknowledged the effort. It looks like that won’t be the case. Many things are in the works. Soon, I might even be able to talk about a few of them.