Wednesday our flight out of Burbank was delayed, which meant that we would be missing our connection in Dallas. After much furious typing on behalf of the counterperson, we were put on a different airline, and scored by getting bulkhead seats. In Dallas, it looked like the usual fast food stuff. We asked for BBQ and were directed to Dickey’s. It was like 20 gates away, but when it’s Texas BBQ vs. Wendy’s no distance is too far.
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The other meats on the sampler platter were alright, but the brisket was oustanding. For sure get the brisket. I also loved the potato salad, which was kind of a surprise – I don’t usually like potato salad made with mustard and vinegar.
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We got into New Orleans at 11pm, and it was midnight by the time we got into town. We checked into the Parc St Charles, which I booked for its low price of 69. a night and its proximity to Mothers. I could swear the desk clerk was on speed, or at least about 6 red Bulls. The room was decent, with a few touches of weird. At least it was quiet.
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Our usual late-night place is Jumani, where we go for ass-pork sandwiches. If I may digress for a moment, I will tell you the story of the ass-pork sandwich. Delicate ears need read no further. The first time I ate at Jumani, it was on the recommendation of a cab driver. It was very late at night, or very early in the morning, depending on your perspective. On that first visit, we ordered pulled pork sandwiches. While we waited, I asked a patron if I could sit on the empty barstool next to him. He looked at me as if I had just suddenly appeared out of thin air, and he could do nothing but blink uncomfortably at me.
I looked around and I noticed that I was the only woman in the bar. I looked up at the TV and I saw a screenful of BARE NAKED ASSES. It was some kind of home video shot outdoors in a large crowd, comprised of nothing but naked ass after naked ass. In retrospect, it was probably a “Girls Gone Wild Mardi Gras Ass Fest,” but I was still innocent of such things at the time. I’m not a prude, but those asses weren’t just playfully wiggling. Those asses were up to no good.
I asked for our sandwiches “to go”. The aggravated bartender groused, “Why didn’t you tell me they were ‘to go’ before I started making them?!” I replied, “ Because I just now decided that I prefer my pork without so much ass on the side.” Well, as it turned out, those were the best damn pulled pork sandwiches we have ever had outside of Tennessee. We have returned to Jumani time and time again, willing to brave homemade porn just to get to those sandwiches.
I asked the taxi driver to wait while I scoped it out since it is also inbetween two of the skeeviest strip joints off Bourbon street. Ass pork was no longer on the menu, and the place was full of strung-out strippers so followed the advice we got from the doorperson at the Hilton and hit “Yo Mama” for burgers.
