Evening Clinton Cocktails
guest post by Riverdaughter
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Are there any Parrotheads out there? Come on, ‘fess up. I’ve heard that Jimmy
Buffet concerts are a blast. My cousins in Pittsburgh go whenever he’s in town.
There’s dancin’ and drinkin’ and more drinkin’. And lots of good food in the
parking lot tailgate parties. Plus, audience participation, singing along to
“Margaritaville” and “Why Don’t We Get Drunk And…”
Did I mention there was drinkin’?
And besides Margaritas, what else would you drink at a Jimmy Buffet concert
but a Hurricane? The home of the Hurricane is Pat
O’Brien’s Restaurant in New Orleans. Last time I was in New Orleans to attend
a professional conference, I took my Mom with me and we stepped out into the
French Quarter a couple of nights.
If you’ve never been to the French Quarter
and Bourbon Street, let’s just say that Mardi Gras in New Orleans is never completely
over come Ash Wednesday. There’s a lot of people meandering down Bourbon street
with their Hurricanes in their hands and stupid smiles on their faces.
We met up with some friends and new acquaintances at Pat’s and then went to
Preservation Hall not far away. Even before Katrina, the French Quarter was
premeated with the strong sense of decay and things falling away. It’s shabby
chic, peeling paint and drapey old trees. Contrary to what you may expect, Preservation
Hall is not like the Carnegie Hall of Dixieland jazz. It’s more like the living
room of some decrepit old southern shotgun mansion. The place is dark and dank
and you have to sit on small wooden benches and it smells a little like pee
and liquor. But the music is jumping and the musicians sit back in their wooden
chairs and play like “ain’t nobody’s business if I do”. Each one takes
a turn while the others take a break to wipe the sweat from their faces or sit
patiently with their trumpets on their knees. Then they all join together for
one last cacophony and musical jumbo. It’s divine.
That night, my Mom was accompanied everywhere by a nice looking man her own
age that my friends and I had met during the conference. He had his left arm
stuck in his pocket and I sometimes got a glimpse of the stump that was at the
end of it. We drank some Hurricanes and bar hopped to hear some Zeidico. On
the way, the man lured my mother into one of the ubiquitous adult toy stores
on Bourbon Street. I tried to warn her before she went in but she was paying
no attention to me. So, I waited outside for her. A few minutes later, she flew
out of the store clearly shocked by what she’d seen. I asked one of my boy scout
friends to take her back to my hotel and we partied without her.
The next morning, I asked her what had gone on in the store and she said the
man said he would buy her anything she wanted so she bolted. I laughed and said
something about I never expected that from such a shy guy with one hand. She
looked at me funny and said, “He only had one hand?”
Did I mention there was drinkin’?
Hey, here’s the recipe for the Pat O’Brien Hurricane. This is an easy one to
make virgin for those of you in recovery. It sounds like it would be just as
tasty with iced tea instead of dark rum.
Hurricane Recipe
1 ounce fresh lemon juice
4 ounces dark rum
4 ounces passion fruit syrup
Crushed ice
Orange slice
1 Maraschino
Cherry
In a cocktail shaker, add lemon juice, rum, passion fruit syrup, and crushed
ice; shake vigorously for 1 to 2 minutes and then strain into a tall glass
or hurricane glass.Garnish with an orange slice and a maraschino cherry.
Please drink responsibly and tip your wait staff generously. (Didja see Rico’s
flair?)
PS. If you feel so inclined, the good people of New Orleans have a project
you might like called, Make It Right.
Show Brad a little love.
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