By Saturday morning, more than sated, it was a challenge to continue the debauch. Duty called, nonetheless, and making our way past the FQ (French Quarter), we walked past the locked gates of the Louis Armstrong Park and the closed and barricaded Mahalia Jackson Arts Center, and into the Treme.
Reminded me of my hometown and Detroit and D.C.: Shotgun cottages, empty streets, shuttered biznesses.
We made our way to Willie Mae’s Scotch House. Certainly the best fried chicken around. Lovely staff, too: “I’ve been to exotic places like Washington, D.C.,” said our waitress, in her twenties, “and I ate at Ben’s chili bowl, but there is no place like home.”
That night, mixing it up: Emeril’s. Salmon cheesecake, oven baked fish, and shared dessert. I had worried that the Fall River boy was all hype, but I am here to tell you that Emeril is the real thing. Wonderful food with deep flavors and great textures and photo-op presentations. Bam!