I’ve never been so I had to go. Cruise around a few cocktail blogs and within half a dozen clicks or so, you’re going to see Tales of the Cocktail referenced if not revered. Tales is a cocktail conference where the last elusive thing is uncovered, the next exclusive thing is revealed, and, unfortunately, some lousy thing will spooge into the world’s eye— straw hats may be that thing. I don’t know. Bartenders, brand reps and hangers-on with blogs from every corner with a watering-hole decided that New Orleans in the middle of the summer is the best possible place to spend four days/five nights in congress. It’s not. In fact, New Orleans may be the worst place to conduct a conference with so many high-quality sessions on everything from influential women in booze history to molecular breakdowns of how flavor works and generous servings of excellent liquors both old and new. Even with all of that, the pull of the city is powerful and not to be underestimated.
Take drinking tallboys wrapped in brown paper bags on the street, for instance.
[JT and his Bud]
Bagged Tall Boy
1 16-32oz Can of beer
1 brown paper bag
Place can in bag, step out onto the sidewalk, open and drink.
It’s New Orlean’s version of the first drink at a party of strangers: A name tag of sorts that says “Hello, I’m “All Right”.” All that subconscious wide-eyed, uncomfortable posturing slouches away as you drink NASCAR-swill among visiting sales reps that built in a 20-hour layover, frat boys excited to see titties in varying degrees of exposure and hard luck locals like Lucien.
Lucien
“How you doin’ today, huh? Where you from?”
It’s that obvious. I’m a mark standing alone outside the Holiday Inn on Royal, iPhone in one hand, bagged lager in the other. I tell Lucien I’m from Tacoma. He pulls his head back, looks me in the eye and says, “I never heard of Tacoma. They got brothers up there?”
“Me!” We laugh.
“All right, all right. Say…” and on that we step into Lucien’s private office constructed on eye contact and a hushed voice, “… you got 75 cent?”
I don’t. I don’t because one or two trips to San Francisco taught me that I’m a terrible liar in the face of aggressive panhandling. So I don’t keep change when I travel. Sad on some level, self-centered on others.
Lucien’s been homeless since Katrina. He doesn’t look a day over 45 but the last 10 of his 62 years have been rough: Divorce, unemployment, loss. The last two days he was in the hospital, admitted by a doctor after learning Lucien’s swollen legs were exacerbated by sleeping on “them hard benches.”
“That’s all right, man. I’m just glad to meet someone from another place. Where you say? Tatonka, Tonka-tonka? Tacoma! Haha!”
He raises his bagged tallboy. “Welcome to my city!”
We toast, he pauses again, “Hey! It’s your city too. It’s everyone’s city. Welcome, man. Have a good time! I be here all the time. Next time you see me say “hey Lucien!” and I’ll say “hey Albert!,” I’m good with names. I got dat and I ain’t hurt or on them drugs. Got dat.”
This is the first in a five-part story about my first trip to New Orleans for Tales of the Cocktail 2011.
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