Port of Call

I wrote a chapter-shaped love poem about Port of Call (Sir Chapter 13) in New Orleans. I’ve been to a lot of restaurants in New Orleans, most of them simply outstanding, but push-comes-to-shove, Port of Call is at the top of my favorites list.


First, it’s a damned good hamburger. And this is coming from someone who doesn’t really like hamburgers.

Second, baked potatoes piled obscenely high with cheese, butter, and sour cream. Need I say more?

Third <drumroll please> the Monsoon. It’s a blend of rums and god-only-knows-what fruit juices in a big plastic cup, over ice, with orange slices and cherries at the bottom.  The bartenders free pour the rum, and it will put you on your ass. And I have had more than one amazing, deep, intimate (drunk) conversation with friends and loved ones over hamburgers and monsoons at Port of Call. It’s my favorite cocktail in the world. . . and I’m a bourbon drinker.

So, this little hole-in-the-wall pirate bar has a deep, abiding place in my heart. Oh. And you can get your Monsoon to go.




It’s on Esplanade at the edge of the Quarter if you ever think about stopping by. . .

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