***This article first appeared in MarinaLife Magazine 

I don’t know why I followed the drunk down First Street and around the corner. It’s not something I would normally do, but the more I listened to the man slur and watched him stumble over loose bricks, the more I was certain he was leading me to the right spot.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Patrick asked.

“How could it not be?”

“It ain’t pretty, but it’s tasty.” These words ran through my head all weekend in New Orleans. They were spoken by our taxi driver.

“Howdy, folks. Welcome to New Orleans.” The wrinkles on the back of the man’s neck told a story of how long he had been greeting people. “What brings you to town?”

Patrick and I spoke simultaneously:

“Jazz fest.”

“The food.”