Classic is Beautiful

New Orleans. The epicenter of classic cocktail culture. It is a phoenix city, deep in the South but unconventional and unapologetic. You have to give NoLa props. And map your path, because when it comes to cocktails... You need a plan.

Day One
I arrived in town and went immediately to The French Quarter, wasn't looking for it, but took a wrong turn and found myself at Sylvain. The entry is through the garden and I chose a seat at the bar, where I ordered an amazing Last Word to start the whole weekend off. For food, I had the cheese plate and within minutes of arriving I was chatting with the bartender. Interior was comfy and clientele ranged from LA dancer girls, to older retired musicians, to young hip dudes from Milwaukee (shout out to At Random). Had a second drink, this time a Sazerac, on suggestion from my bartender. Truly, it was the first and possibly the best of the trip. Talked into another appetizer and the bartender tried to guess if I was a food blogger or a bartender (um, neither) and insisted I try the Fernet Blanca and house-made cola syrup. Amazing!! Then there was the music. It's not everyday someone lets you commandeer their iPod. I loved the place. Intensely. But, fate called... or texted?...and it was time to move on. Thank you Sylvain. I love you first and best.


My company asked me to propose a location and I figured Sazerac Bar would be a good place to hit up next. We walked over (I couldn't restrain myself from kissing two police horses on the way there!) and we found seats at this big, beautiful, classy, alluring bar. The bartenders wear these crisp white jackets and while you can't really see much as they make the house favorite (this is a bar where the bartenders are omnipresent but ghostly), your drink arrives in a Roosevelt Hotel Sazerac glass, made with Sazerac rye and the staff leaves you to your talk, or your flirtations, or your daydreams... And how could you not have daydreams in this warm wood, art deco, majestic bar? Of course you do. Wear heels, ladies.

And then the downpour. Because after all, this is New Orleans. And it is nothing if not wet. Water defines this whole place, so just get over your pretty frock, wring it out, and revel in it. It feels amazing. Running through the streets, not ready to go home, vaguely heading towards Bourbon Street. Beckoning, As it will. And then I heard my name called and I took shelter under an awning at the Old Absinthe Bar with a friend watching the storm. Randomly, happily, dripping rainwater and laughter, we watched the world go by outside. I headed home after one Manhattan and to my bed.