Can I trust anything “red velvet” not made in the South, much less LA? I guess there’s only one way to find out! (at Cafe Collage)
I can’t let #NationalDogDay pass without a shoutout to the best dog in the world. He’s always looking out for me.
When dining at Little Jewel, the new New Orleans-style grocery in LA’s Chinatown neighborhood, I highly suggest the #22 poboy.
Order a simple mojito at @CaneAndTable and this sexy beast of a beverage is what you’ll get in return. (at Cane & Table)
End of the week grocery run.
The guys I share an office with keep this sign here, you know, just in case a parade rolls by unexpectedly. You just never know. (at 916 Lafayette St)
"I’m just going to stare at you until you stop working to play with me. Okay, that’s not working so now I’ll just lay here and look sad — that’ll get you to play with me. Oh fuck it, I’m going to sleep."
Cypress top table/desk has been delivered. New keeping-it-simple office setup complete. #flowers #stationary #laptop #framedphotoofSaz (at 916 Lafayette St)
Now there’s a Groupon I’ll gladly purchase.
I want a grilled cheese sandwich. Not one of those “artisan” grilled cheese sandwiches featuring five different kinds of imported cheese housed between slices of fancy-ass bread, mind you. No, I want a good, old-fashioned grilled cheese sandwich like the kind my mama used to make for me when I was a kid. One made with Bunny or Evangeline Maid bread — white bread, in other words — and butter and Kraft American cheese slices. Just slather butter across two slices of bread, put a slice of cheese (or two if you want to get CRAZY) in between them, toss it all in a hot skillet and VOI-FUCKING-LA, heaven on a goddamn paper plate. The problem is I have none of those things at home and it’s raining out. Won’t someone please make me a mama-style grilled cheese sandwich and bring it over? In exchange, I’ll reward you with delicious chocolates I made myself. I’ll be waiting…
Somebody got cheated on and they are NOT happy about it. #slashedtirestoo (at Emeril’s Delmonico)
Nothing cures a hot NOLA night that ends with dancing at @saintbarnola quite like a next day burger and Bloody Mary at Yo Mama’s. (at Yo Mama’s)
You’re welcome! #nola
One night in the summer of 2012 I was eating dinner alone at the bar at Besh Steak House. At some point an elderly lady came in and took a seat next to me. Over the next few minutes, seemingly every Besh Steak House employee came over to greet her. The bartender poured her drinks without her requesting them and the kitchen started sending dishes out to her without her having placed orders for them. It was something to behold — I felt like I was sitting next to local royalty, yet I had no idea who she was. Finally, I just asked, “Who *are* you?” She responded, “I’m Miss Pat, baby, but you can just call me Pat.” She went on to detail that she owned a bar in Metairie — Mugz’s, a bar she opened using money she’d earned during her years working as a Bourbon Street stripper — and that she was a regular at Besh, eating dinner at the bar almost every night since it opened. She also told me about her nine marriages, shared some filthy jokes and openly flirted with me, saying that she could teach me some things “them young girls don’t know about” before offering me her phone number.
A few weeks later, when my editor at the Times asked me to do a story on Saints fans going into the “Bountygate” season, I paid a visit to Miss Pat and the patrons of her bar and featured her in my piece, which you can read here.
All of that said, I got a message this morning from the daughter of a Mugz’s patron saying that Miss Pat died last night of “old age.” She was unlike few people I’ve ever met and she lived quite a life. I feel fortunate to have had the chance to get to know her. (Photo by @misterwidmer)